The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Page 8

  “It must have been the chemical on the cloth over my face.” My dry throat rasped, and Anne handed me a glass of water, which I gladly drank. “What could it have been?”

  “Probably ether—the new drug used by surgeons to render patients unconscious during operations,” Gilbert White explained. “At first I didn’t know the woman was you, because I couldn’t see your face. Then I heard cries coming from the carriage that the two men had just left. I hurried over, looked inside, and found your sister lying on the floor, bound and gagged.”

  “Oh, Anne,” I said, horrified. “Were you hurt?”

  “Not at all; just frightened,” Anne assured me. “When Mr. White removed my gag, we recognized each other. I begged him to rescue you. He called the railway guards to assist me, then ran after the men.”

  “I spotted them outside the station,” said Mr. White. “They were putting you into a hired carriage. One man got in after you. I grabbed the other as he was climbing up and knocked him to the ground. As the carriage sped away, I jumped in. The man inside fought me, but I threw him out onto the street. I then ordered the driver to return to the station.”

  “He carried you inside,” Anne said, “and obtained the stationmaster’s permission for you to recover here.”

  “Sir, I sincerely thank you,” I said, overwhelmed by gratitude. “Indeed, I believe I owe you my life. Where could those men have been taking me?”

  “Unfortunately, I had no chance to ask them, for they fled with great haste.”

  Anne said, “Mr. White’s first concern was your safety.” She smiled at him, and I noted that his actions had won her esteem. “He couldn’t abandon you to chase our attackers.”

  That a man should behave so towards me! This was the stuff of fantasies that had preoccupied me during my youth, when I day-dreamed tales of being rescued by the Duke of Zamorna, my imaginary hero. I felt a profound thrill.

  Gilbert White scrutinized me. “Your color improves.” A hint of mirth lightened his somber aspect.

  Did he guess my thoughts? Ashamed that he should notice my blushing, I reminded myself that I was no longer a silly young girl, and tonight’s adventure was not a fantasy. Any one of us could have been seriously hurt. “What could those men have wanted with me?” I said to Anne. “Did they steal anything from us?”

  “Before they left the carriage, they looked through our books and emptied our satchels, but everything is here.” Anne gestured towards our trunk, atop which lay our other possessions.

  “They wanted only me,” I said, even more disturbed and puzzled. “But why?”

  “I have heard that sometimes men abduct women for immoral reasons,” Anne murmured, lowering her eyes in aversion to the crimes at which she hinted.

  “But I am inclined to think that my experience was another in a series of events stemming from the murder,” I said. “One of those men might have been the person who chased me at the opera, while the other ransacked our room at the Chapter Coffee House. Although I don’t possess whatever it is that they seek, perhaps they think I can lead them to it.”

  “If so, then one of them must have killed my sister.” Gilbert White rose, his expression animated yet troubled; he paced the office restlessly. “Unless we discover the truth about these crimes and catch the criminals, these attacks on you will surely continue. The only way to obtain justice for Isabel and to protect you is to catch those men. I’ve reported the incident to the local police, but I didn’t get a good look at the men.” He faced me, his brilliant eyes eager. “Perhaps you could describe them?”

  “I’m sorry to say that I paid them little attention until it was too late,” I said ruefully.

  “As did I,” Anne said.

  “But we must try to remember as much as possible about them,” I said.

  Just then, the stationmaster entered the office. He was a florid-faced man dressed in a railway uniform. “Pardon me,” he said. “Just checking to see how the ladies are.”

  Anne and I assured him that we both were well.

  “It’s a pity that such a thing happened to you on this railway,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ve missed the last train to Keighley, but there’s another tomorrow morning. In the meantime, if you want lodging, I suggest the White Horse Inn.”

  As I thanked him, my gaze alit on a framed picture on his desk. It was a miniature portrait of a woman and children who must be his family. Inspiration struck.

  “Sir,” I said, “may I please have a pencil and paper?” To Mr. White I said, “I shall sketch the faces of the men who attacked us.”

  Drawing is a favorite hobby of mine, although my talents are modest. As I sat at the desk and began to sketch, my hand was subject to a fearful trembling which had little to do with the events just past. My drawings—like my stories—are mirrors of my soul. When I draw for someone, or read aloud my writing, I hunger for praise and fear criticism. When my audience is a man, I feel most vulnerable. And when he is a man towards whom I have particular feelings, an intoxicating, shameful warmth spreads through my body, almost as if I were disrobing before him. I felt the warmth now as I drew the ginger-haired man. Anne offered suggestions, while Gilbert White stood beside me, watching.

  “Such impressive talent you have,” he said.

  “You are too generous, sir,” I said with an awkward laugh.

  Yet his praise delighted me. Unexpected memories arose to increase my agitation. I saw myself in the parsonage nine years ago, sketching William Weightman. When he stepped over to view the portrait, he touched his lips to my cheek in a brief, daring kiss. How I burned for days afterward! I recalled a schoolroom in Belgium, where I read aloud a French essay I’d written. My professor—a man I once loved to distraction—hurled scathing criticisms at me until I wept. Then he was all sympathetic kindness. Such passions he roused in me! Never could I let him know how much I craved the touch of his hand.

  Gilbert White’s hands now rested on the desk near me—those strong, clean hands which had wrested my life from the grip of peril. The thought of his carrying me to safety stirred me powerfully. I hazarded a glance up at him—and straight into the impenetrable depths of his eyes. Mightily embarrassed, I averted my gaze. I applied myself to drawing until the portraits were done.

  “Very true and lifelike they are,” said Anne.

  “I’m sure they will help locate the men,” Gilbert White said. “But for now, please let me take you and your sister to safe lodgings, Miss Brontë.”

  I gladly agreed, for I welcomed his protection and company. He installed us in a carriage and rode with us to the White Horse Inn. As we disembarked, a sulfurous fog engulfed us. The chill penetrated my damp garments, yet I was warm as from a fire burning inside me.

  “I apologize for disrupting your plans,” I said, in fear of the possibility that Mr. White was merely discharging what he saw as a duty.

  “I’m glad to help you.” Mr. White paid the driver and lifted my trunk.

  Heartened I was by his apparent sincerity; yet I thought to wonder how Gilbert White had happened to be on the same train as I. “May I ask what brought you to Leeds?” I asked.

  “I’m on my way to Bradford, to inform my mother of Isabel’s death,” Gilbert White said as he opened the inn’s door.

  I pitied him this sad task, and my distrust shamed me.

  “I, too, have missed my train and must stop the night here,” he added.

  Inside the inn, Anne and I engaged a room upstairs and Mr. White took one on the ground floor. He accompanied us to our room, to ensure that all was right. I heard him test the lock on the door—but avoided watching him; I pretended to study the white curtains and flowered wallpaper. His presence in the room where I would sleep caused me shameful thoughts.

  “You should be safe tonight,” Mr. White said. “I’m a light sleeper, and if anyone approaches you, I’ll hear.”

  His words, meant to reassure, divided my emotions. Glad though I was to have him near, might our inhabiting the same house violate
propriety? I recalled my unease when he had asked me if Isabel had given me anything. What did I know about him other than what he himself had told me?

  Hesitantly I followed him into the corridor, while Anne remained in the room. “Sir,” I began, seeking a way to dispel uncertainty without offending him.

  I had only his word for what had happened between him and my attackers after he caught up with them. Could he be their accomplice? The ghastly notion stifled my voice as we stood facing each other. Mr. White waited for me to speak, his expression turning suddenly cautious. The narrow corridor confined us; a single lamp cast a fitful, smoky light. The inn’s staff and other guests had retired, and in the silence I heard my rapid breathing—and his. My back was pressed against the wall; my heart thumped with an uncomfortable fusion of fear and an awareness of the improper feelings that had arisen in me towards this man I couldn’t quite trust.

  At last he spoke. “May I escort you to Keighley tomorrow?” His voice was soft, his gaze compelling. “After what happened tonight, you shouldn’t travel alone.”

  That moment reminded me how fear can enhance attraction. I felt an almost irresistible urge to touch his bruised cheek. “But it would inconvenience you,” I stammered.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said with somber emphasis.

  I was quaking inside, every particle of my being alert to the implication that Gilbert White felt the same attraction as I. Alive with hope that rivaled fear, I nodded wordlessly.

  His rare smile flashed. “Then good night until tomorrow, Miss Brontë,” he said, and descended the stairs.

  Breathless and weak, I stood in the corridor, endeavoring to collect my thoughts. Likely, my recent mishaps had rendered me too leery of my fellow humans. If Gilbert White did have evil intentions regarding me, then he would not have saved me. We shared a mission as well as the potent alchemy that draws together a man and woman.

  Thus I justified my good opinion of Mr. White; but later, while I lay in bed, I wondered more about him. Was I truly safe in the protection of my rescuer and possible suitor? Or was he a villain biding his time while scheming against me? Just before I finally slept, I recalled the premonition evoked during my first encounter with Gilbert White. What could it mean?

  9

  AS I PREPARE TO DESCRIBE THE EVENTS THAT OCCURRED AFTER my return to Haworth, I realize that my version of them comprises but one portion of the story. Another belongs to my sister Emily. I then had no idea of her state of mind, for we were on such poor terms that we hardly spoke; and later, misfortune silenced Emily forever. I now face a difficult choice: Shall I allow her to remain as unknown to the world as she wished, or shall I reveal her nature in all its tragic, human beauty? The truth requires that I defy her wishes. It is my only hope of uncovering the complete facts of my story.

  The table before me is covered with journals that Emily left. What she endured in the weeks following Isabel White’s murder lie in the words I have culled from these journals. May God forgive me if I have defiled her memory for the sake of veracity. With great foreboding I open the volume for that year and copy her account herewith.

  The Journal of Emily Brontë

  Wednesday, 12 July 1848.

  A sullen, unsettling day after a night of rain. More storms threaten—I sense their approach rumbling in my bones. The earth, the sighing wind, and the stone walls of the parsonage breathe a fetid moisture. Oh, how this weather darkens my spirits, which are already in grievous state! Shall the very heavens weep for the troubled souls inside our house?

  This morning, when I went upstairs to clean Branwell’s room, I found him still abed, a ghastly, emaciated wraith.

  “Emily, please give me some money,” he moaned.

  As I pulled the soiled coverlet off him, he clutched my hands. I twisted out from his clammy, revolting grasp, crying, “I won’t. Let me go!”

  “Just a sixpence,” Branwell pleaded. “If I cannot buy laudanum, I shall die!”

  Once I would have tried to coax him into resisting self-destruction, but I have no more patience nor compassion for the wretch. What are his afflictions compared to mine?

  Branwell began sobbing. “Oh, heartless sister! Oh, cruel world! I’m dying, and nobody cares! Oh, my dear, lost Lydia!”

  “Be quiet!” I shouted, incensed, because I have suffered a far greater loss.

  Our commotion brought Papa hurrying to us. Branwell launched himself from the bed and fell on his knees in front of Papa. “Father, I need money. Please, you must help me!”

  Papa shook his head in sorrow. “I’ve already spent a fortune paying your debts. I’ll not indulge you anymore.”

  Desperate cunning shone in Branwell’s eyes. “If you won’t help me, I’ll kill myself!”

  He snatched a razor from the dresser; I grabbed his wrist. We struggled together in a mad dance, Branwell trying to slash his throat, I trying to prevent him. “Let me end my miserable life!” he screamed.

  Perhaps I should, thought I. Perhaps I should afterward turn the weapon on myself—then neither of us need suffer more. But Papa wrested the razor away from Branwell. We locked him inside the room. He pounded on the door, ranting in maniacal fury. I went to the kitchen and began kneading bread dough, trying to distract myself from Branwell’s uproar and my own worries.

  Where are Anne and Charlotte? Come back, come back! my heart silently calls to them. But still I burn with my fury at their betrayal. Perhaps I should not mind so much if only I could write! But I cannot. Many are the stories begun since I wrote Wuthering Heights—all abandoned incomplete. Whenever I now try to write, I hear the damning words of the critics. They trumpet that my novel “shows the brutalizing influence of unchecked passion.” They revile my characters as “most revolting to our feelings.” What misery is mine! I can only pretend to work, covering pages with ramblings like these, while inspiration hides behind a locked door inside me. Fortunate Charlotte, who enjoys travel and is writing a new book! Fortunate Anne, who has published a second novel! Oh, my heart shall break!

  Such bewilderment and consternation did Emily’s words cause me! How could she consider the mortal sin of taking her own life? Had I but known of her pain, I would have been more sensitive towards her. But she never gave me a clue. She always appeared supremely confident of her talent, as well she should have been: Her poems and stories were things of splendor that never failed to move me. In literary expertise she was the leader, my idol, even though I was her elder. And I never suspected that she cared what the critics said; she seemed so indifferent to public opinion, even during her youth. When Emily was seventeen, she came with me to Roe Head School where I taught. As eccentric in appearance as ever, she was the target of bullies, from whom I could not always protect her. But she never flinched at their tormenting. She held her head high, a soldier in an enemy prison camp. How I admired her! My weakness is that I always want people to like me—and my work—even when I care not for them. How I wished I could follow Emily’s example!

  But now I understand that her attitude sheltered a tender soul. Emily pretended to scorn the critics while she bled inside from their harsh comments about Wuthering Heights. She hid her wounds from me.

  When Anne and I at last returned to Haworth, we hurried into the kitchen, where Emily was kneading bread dough.

  “Emily!” Anne cried. “How I’ve missed you!”

  Emily glared. She showed no sign that she’d missed us or worried about us. Anne’s smile faded.

  “Has all been well here while we were gone?” I asked anxiously. Emily behaved as though she had not heard me.

  Anne offered our sister the book she had purchased in London. “We’ve brought you a present—it’s Tennyson’s poems.”

  When Emily made no move to take the gift, Anne sighed and laid it on the table. Anne and I could only exchange worried glances and silently agree that we had best leave her alone until her mood passed. We crept out of the kitchen.

  Two days after that unhappy homecoming, a spell of
wet, chill weather descended upon Haworth. I donned my bonnet and cloak, armed myself with an umbrella, and headed down Church Road to post a letter to Ellen Nussey, my dearest friend. Ellen was something of a busybody, so avid was she to know everything I did or thought. I had lately neglected my correspondence with her, and I’d written a letter of vague explanation.

  Moreover, I could no longer tolerate confinement in the parsonage, where acrimony reigned. Emily continued sulking. Branwell had gone into the village and returned home uproariously drunk. Anne had received a review from the Spectator that read, “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, like its predecessor, suggests the idea of considerable abilities ill applied . . .”

  Although the wind now blew rain against me and tugged at my umbrella, I welcomed solitude. But solitude was not to be mine. As I neared the bottom of the lane, I was accosted by the Reverend Arthur Bell Nicholls.

  “Good day, Miss Brontë,” he said in his thick Irish brogue. “May I walk with you?”

  Mr. Nicholls had come from Dublin to be Papa’s curate. A man of twenty-nine years, he had heavy dark brown hair and eyebrows, heavy features, heavy legs, and a stolid, serious nature. I found him annoying, for he often sought me out although I could not imagine why. I reluctantly let him share my umbrella and accepted his company.

  We walked down Main Street, through the village. The rows of stone cottages were grimy with peat smoke and dripping with rain. Mr. Nicholls and I skirted gutters overflowing with malodorous drainage from cesspits. Haworth is a poor, unhealthful place riddled with poverty born of slumps in the textile industry. Damp, tiny cellar dwellings house large families, fevers rage, and funerals comprise a large part of Papa’s duties. That day the village seemed even smaller and poorer than usual, after my recent adventures in London.