The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte tsaocb-1

by Laura Joh Rowland

Only I was discontented.

  I received a letter from George Smith, in which he said he looked forward to publishing my next novel and hoped I would visit him again soon. But he seemed part of another life, and I could not settle down to writing. I could feel no sense of resolution until I saw Mr. Slade again.

  He sent me a note, from the Foreign Office in London. It said that he had interrogated Hitchman, who had revealed names and locations of Kuan’s confederates in the kingdom and abroad, in exchange for a sentence of life in prison instead of death by firing squad. Mr. Slade and his associates were presently occupied with arresting those criminals and purging corrupt officials from the government. The Charity School had been closed, the Reverend and Mrs. Grimshaw arrested, and the pupils sent to better institutions. Mr. Slade said he would call on me as soon as he could, but there was no renewal of the declarations he had made before we parted; I could not discern his sentiments between the lines. Had he changed his mind? Had I dreamed the words he’d said to me? When I composed my reply, I withheld the questions I longed to ask; I invited Mr. Slade to visit, and I shared our sad news of Branwell’s passing.

  I also wrote to Isabel White’s mother, informing her that the man responsible for the murder of her daughter had been delivered to justice. My vow of secrecy forbade me to give her the specifics, but I hoped she would feel some satisfaction.

  Then I waited.

  October came, bringing cold weather. Two weeks after Branwell’s funeral, I donned my cloak and bonnet, intending to walk the moors, but instead I found myself in the graveyard beside the church. The wind blew around the grey stone slabs that marked the graves. Misty drizzle fell from the dark afternoon sky. As I strolled upon sodden grass, a funeral party dressed in black gathered around a new grave. My heart was as melancholy as the scene, until I heard a horse’s hooves pounding and saw a man riding up the lane. My spirits rocketed into joy.

  “Mr. Slade!” I called.

  He dismounted outside the graveyard. As he approached me, the dreary day brightened. I ran to meet him, then faltered because his serious expression inhibited my inclination to fling myself into his arms. All during our acquaintance we had advanced towards, then retreated from, each other; now he was in a phase of retreat.

  “I was sorry to hear about your brother,” Mr. Slade said, his manner coolly formal. “My condolences to you and your family.”

  I murmured my thanks. We avoided each other’s gazes as we strolled together through the graveyard. My heart lapsed into a familiar state of painful, unrequited longing. Mr. Slade must have spoken insincerely on the ship, perhaps carried away by the excitement of the moment. Now he wished to forget what had passed between us. I could think of nothing to say except, “How is your wounded arm?”

  “It’s healing,” Mr. Slade said.

  “How are the Queen and the children?”

  “They are well,” Mr. Slade said. “Her Majesty sends you her best regards. Vicky and Bertie told her how valiantly you fought to save them, and she says that if you should ever need her services in return, you have only to ask.”

  “I am glad to be in Her Majesty’s good graces.”

  “Regarding Lord Unwin,” said Mr. Slade, “he has received a promotion.”

  “After the trouble he caused?” I said, dismayed.

  A hint of a smile lifted Mr. Slade’s mouth. “Lord Palmerston has sent him to join the colonial administration in India. The climate and tropical fevers should make quick work of him.”

  We had a stilted conversation about the ongoing effort to dismantle Kuan’s criminal empire. I then said, “What will you do next?”

  “The Foreign Office is sending me on a new assignment, to Russia. I expect to leave very soon. I cannot be certain when I’ll return to England.”

  I heard in his voice that he was happy to go. He had no regret that we should soon part. Anguish stabbed me, yet I felt an unexpected rage. Throughout my life I had fallen in love with men and meekly accepted their rejection of me, but this time was different. I would not suffer in silence. My experiences had given me the courage to speak my mind.

  “I understand what you are about,” I said, turning upon Mr. Slade. “You’ve come to bid me a perfunctory goodbye. You dallied with me in Scotland, you played at romancing me on the ship, and now you think you can act as if it never happened and we can go back to being strangers.” Offended beyond courtesy, I smote him on the chest. “You, sir, are the worst kind of cad!”

  Mr. Slade beheld me as if astounded. “That isn’t why I came. What are you talking about?”

  “You said you were in love with me, but I should have known better.” I didn’t care that my voice rose loud and now the funeral party was watching us. “Especially since you told me that you require beauty and vivacity in a woman and could never form an attachment to one who lacks them.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Mr. Slade demanded in confusion. “When did I say that?”

  “On the train to London,” I said, “when we were discussing Jane Eyre. ”

  Mr. Slade looked flabbergasted by recollection. “I was speaking of the characters in the book, not of you and myself.” He uttered a laugh. “Women be damned! They’re always taking personally the things men say, reading into them meanings that were never intended. They never forget the most casual passing remark that we might make. You fool, I meant every word I said to you on that ship.”

  As I stared, blank and speechless, Mr. Slade grasped my shoulders. “And I’m not here to tell you goodbye.” His gaze was intense with passion. “I’m here to ask you to come to Russia with me-as my wife.”

  It was my turn to be flabbergasted. He wasn’t brushing me off; he was proposing marriage! He, who had spurned romantic attachments since his wife’s death, now sought to attach himself to me! Our experiences together had swept away the past and turned him towards the future, which he wanted us to share.

  “Well? Do you accept my offer?” The beginnings of disappointment contended with hope on Mr. Slade’s face. “Or am I to find out that you were playing at romance with me?”

  I understood why he’d acted so coolly towards me at first: He’d been working himself up to this proposal and hiding his fear that I might refuse. Now my spirits soared on the sweet euphoria I’d felt when he’d kissed me. I thought back to the time when we first met, in the National Gallery, and the shock of recognition we’d felt. Our instincts must have sensed that we would one day be husband and wife.

  “Good God, don’t keep me in suspense!” Mr. Slade said. “Is your answer yes or no?”

  With all my heart I cried, “Yes!”

  I thought I’d wept all my tears when Branwell died, but now they flowed anew, from the same radiant gladness that I saw on Mr. Slade’s face. He drew me close, but as he bent to kiss me and seal our pledge, I felt a misgiving so powerful that I stiffened in his embrace.

  “What is it?” Mr. Slade said, drawing back from me in concern. “You’re not having doubts about marrying me?”

  Amazingly, I was. Here I had gained what I’d thought all my life was the ultimate prize-a marriage proposal from a man I loved, and who loved me. But I felt as if I had opened a beautiful gift package only to discover that its contents, although exactly what I’d wished for, were somehow wrong.

  “Not about marrying you,” I said, “but perhaps about what would happen afterward. We would live in Russia for the foreseeable future?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Slade’s eyes shone with his relish of exploring new, foreign territory.

  I had a vague notion of czars, Cossacks, and frozen steppes. Three months ago this would have stirred a pleasant thrill in me, but now. .. “Russia is so far away.”

  “Well, yes,” Mr. Slade said, chastened by my hesitation. “But wouldn’t you like to see the world?” When I nodded, he said, “Here’s our chance to see it together.”

  But I felt a strong resistance to leaving Papa, Emily, and Anne. My remaining kin were dearer to me than ever now. I also felt a strong
attachment to Haworth, small and isolated though it be. This was the center of my universe, the haven to which I must always return, the thought of which had sustained me during my wanderings.

  “I don’t know the Russian language,” I said.

  “I’ll teach you,” said Mr. Slade.

  Still I hesitated. “I don’t know anyone in Russia. I would be all alone while you’re busy working. What would I do?”

  “You can write more books.”

  But my books had deep roots in my own history. If I pulled up those roots, inspiration would vanish. My writing anchored me to Haworth as strongly as did my kin. My unfinished book, and other books yet to be written, had a claim on me stronger than Mr. Slade’s. Sorrowful wisdom filled my heart. I withdrew from Mr. Slade and leaned on a stone tomb.

  “I cannot marry you,” I said, though tearful with regret and desolation.

  “Why not?” Mr. Slade said. When I explained my reasons, he waved them away. “There are difficulties, to be sure, but together we can overcome them.”

  I had once believed that love conquered all, but I knew the nature of his profession, and I knew we would be more apart than together if we married. I pictured myself alone and idle, waiting for him to come home, and affection turning to resentment because I’d given up everything for him. Once, everything I had in life had seemed so little, but now I recognized that it was too precious to lose-and that what I would lose upon sacrificing it was myself.

  “No,” I said sadly. “We belong to different worlds. This is mine.” I gestured at the parsonage, the church, the village, and the moors. “Anywhere else, I would be lost.”

  “Then I’ll quit the Foreign Office,” Mr. Slade said. “We’ll live here in Yorkshire.”

  He renounced his profession with the rash impulse of a man in love. For only a moment was I tempted to allow it. I could see that his eyes were focused on distant horizons even as they watched me; I felt the restlessness in him that required the whole world to roam. His spirit, and his love for me, would die in the confines of my life here.

  “I cannot accept such a sacrifice,” I said.

  We argued long and fervently, he trying to sway me and I standing solid even while I ached with love for him. There was some talk of marrying even though I would remain at home while he went abroad, but a marriage in which we might never see each other seemed pointless to us both. At last Mr. Slade conceded.

  “It seems I’ve come to say goodbye after all,” he said, his head bowed, his countenance shattered by despair.

  I already regretted my decision, even though I knew it was right. My tears streamed as the funeral party filed past us. I thought Mr. Slade wept too, but I couldn’t be certain.

  “If I should return to England,” he said in an unsteady voice, “may I call on you?”

  “Yes,” I said, gladdened by the possibility, even as the thought of many years without him gave me pain.

  “Then farewell,” Mr. Slade said.

  He kissed me tenderly, and I clung to him. I memorized the taste and the warmth of him, the power of our desire; I didn’t care who saw. Then we released each other. After one last, longing look passed between us, Mr. Slade turned from me. Rain began to fall, and even as I watched him walk out of the graveyard, I sobbed. Mr. Slade paused at the gate. His gaze searched me. What an overwhelming urge I fought to call him back! Mr. Slade’s expression grew resigned. He mounted his horse. A desolate peace came over me: If I had to be alone, it was at least by my own choice.

  Mr. Slade rode off. I watched until he disappeared from sight.

  Reader, I let him go.

  EPILOGUE

  A year has passed since the day I received the letter that sent me to London and launched me into the adventures described herein. I have finished writing my account of them, and all that remains to be told is their aftermath.

  The black chariot of death soon visited my family again following Branwell’s demise. Consumption took Emily on 19 December 1848, and Anne followed her shortly afterward, on 28 May 1849. Their suffering, and mine, do not bear description. Let my tears that fall on this page suffice. Now Papa and I are the sole survivors of the family Bronte. Light shines from his study where he sits working on a sermon. I am writing alone at the table where Emily, Anne, and I once read and discussed our manuscripts. The house is silent but for the crackling of the fire in the grate; outside, the wind gusts and rain lashes the windows. Tonight, as on many other nights, my mind reflects upon the happier past and ponders questions unresolved.

  Was the joy of knowing Mr. Slade worth the sorrow I felt at his absence? Had I been able to predict that this terrible, empty solitude would be my lot, would I have married him and gone with him to Russia? Would my misgivings have been overcome had I known that I would soon lose my beloved companions and long for a husband to love in their place?

  Reason tells me that I would have stayed. That I did allowed me to spend Anne’s and Emily’s final hours with them; I was able to comfort Papa. I would not have willingly given up those privileges.

  Yet I cannot help imagining how much richer and happier my life would have been as Mr. Slade’s wife. Nor can I dismiss the superstitious notion that if one thing in the past had turned out differently, so might everything else. If I had married Mr. Slade, would Anne and Emily be alive now? My imagination fills the room with voices, laughter, and warmth. Anne and Emily sit across the table, Mr. Slade beside me-he and I are home on a respite from our world-wandering. I add Branwell to the picture; miraculously restored to life and health, he entertains us with poems. The firelight glows on our happy faces.

  But reality cannot be altered. The apparitions of my dear departed fade away; the room is again quiet. The pages of this manuscript are my testament to the valor of Emily, Anne, and Branwell. Someday may it be read and their heroics known. In the meantime, blank pages wait ready for me to fill with other tales. My writing is my comfort, as it has been in the past. And although I have had neither sight nor word of Mr. Slade, and my yearning for him pains me yet, I would not have forgone that which we shared. Somewhere in the world, he walks and breathes, and I feel in my heart that fortune will someday bring us together again.

  God speed him to me.

  Farewell.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: fbd-7400ef-2487-e24e-9a8a-13e8-fafe-2a1869

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 05.01.2012

  Created using: Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software

  Document authors :

  About

  This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.

  (This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)

  Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.

  (Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)

  http://www.fb2epub.net

  https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/