Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

14

The warder led me out of the building. I was blinded by sunlight and assailed by noise in the yard where the prisoners took their daily exercise. The women strolled and chattered together. Although it had seemed that I’d spent an eternity in the dark cell, the sun was still high in the sky; the time was not long past noon. The warder led me to a long, narrow cage that spanned the yard. A man stood waiting inside. The cage was the place where people came to visit the inmates; the bars protected them and kept the prisoners from escaping. George Smith had finally come! I ran to him, then stopped short.

The man wasn’t my publisher. He was Lord Eastbourne.

His air of affluence and elegant suit bespoke the sane, comfortable, normal world outside the prison. His blunt, strong face looked even ruddier in the sunlight than it had at the Foreign Office. He seemed as at ease within the cage as he had in his own chamber.

“Good day, Miss Bronte,” he said.

I was so surprised that I forgot my manners. “What are you doing here?”

“I just heard you’d been arrested.” Lord Eastbourne’s shrewd brown eyes regarded me with concern and sympathy. “I came to help you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” I said, tearful with gratitude.

Lord Eastbourne nodded, then said, “You must tell me everything that happened.”

I told him how I’d gone to see Katerina and found her tied up, wounded, and dying. “I didn’t kill her!” I finished, desperate for him to believe me.

“Of course you didn’t,” he said, so adamant that I wept with relief. “But unfortunately the police think otherwise. I’ve spoken to them. They doubt that you just happened to arrive on the scene at the same moment that someone else was torturing Katerina.”

“But it’s the truth!”

“Perhaps the police would be more likely to believe your story if you could explain why you were there.” He clearly thought that a lady of my class, alone at that hour of the night in that neighborhood, must have looked extremely suspicious.

I knew he wouldn’t like the reason, and I had an instinct to keep my business to myself because I didn’t know whether to trust Lord Eastbourne; but if I held anything back from him, he might realize it and change his mind about helping me. “Katerina was with John Slade at the Royal Pavilion Theater the night before last. I saw them together. I went to her house to ask her where Mr. Slade is.”

Lord Eastbourne frowned. “I told you yesterday that John Slade is dead.”

“Yes, but I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t stop trying to find him. Katerina was my last hope.” Now my hunt for Slade had reached a dead end, and my liberty and life were at stake. I felt a spark of anger toward Slade. Although I still loved him, I realized that if not for him, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Lord Eastbourne didn’t move except to stroke his chin; but he seemed to withdraw from me. He contemplated the other visitors who’d entered the cage, and the prisoners who flocked to see their families and friends. Hands were pressed together and kisses were exchanged through the fence. I feared that my obstinacy had angered Lord Eastbourne and he’d turned against me. The warm day seemed suddenly chilly.

“Did you tell the police why you went to see Katerina?” Even though Lord Eastbourne met my gaze, the distance between us remained.

“Yes,” I said.

“That’s unfortunate. Most certainly they think you were in love with Slade, you found out that Katerina was his mistress, and you tortured her and killed her in a jealous rage.”

“That’s not how it was!” Had I found Slade making love to Katerina, I might have been angry enough to kill him, but I wouldn’t have hurt her. Or would I have lashed out at both of them? I was horrified to realize that I could have. I have always been sedate and disciplined in my physical actions, but I couldn’t deny the emotions that had assailed me while I was inside Katerina’s house. The impulse to violence exists in all of us, and it could very well have overpowered me, with fatal results.

Lord Eastbourne shook his head regretfully. “Appearances often count more than facts do. In a court of law, a prosecutor would cast you as a woman scorned and out for revenge. The jury might well find you guilty.”

My legs went weak at the thought of myself on the gibbet and crowds lining up to see Currer Bell hang. I grasped the bars of the cage for support. My future was looking bleaker by the moment.

Lord Eastbourne lapsed into another thoughtful silence; he watched arguments break out between prisoners and men who’d come to see them. Warders patrolled, keeping order. “Did you tell the police who John Slade was and how you knew him?”

“No,” I said, offended by the suggestion that I would talk about the events of 1848 after I’d been sworn to secrecy. “I’ve kept my promise.”

“Good,” Lord Eastbourne said. “If the police question you about Slade, say you never heard of him. Pretend you’ve forgotten you said anything about him. Say you went to see Katerina because you admired her acting.”

Consternation filled me. “I can’t lie. They’ll know.”

“You must. Changing your story will serve you better than sticking to the truth.”

I wondered whether changing my story would serve others better than it would myself. Lord Eastbourne and I had conflicting aims. I wanted to be exonerated; he wanted secret affairs of state kept secret. Even if he owed me a favor in exchange for my service to the government, how could I trust him? Alas, I could not.

“You could also help yourself by providing evidence that someone other than you killed Katerina,” Lord Eastbourne said. “Have you any?”

“I heard a man in her house. He was talking to Katerina.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. He ran down the back stairs and out the door.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Lord Eastbourne said. “The police questioned the neighbors, but no one else seems to have observed a man at Katerina’s house. There are, however, witnesses who saw you going in. You are the obvious culprit.”

My spirits sank deeper. “But I have Katerina’s own last statement, which says otherwise.”

Suddenly alert, Lord Eastbourne moved closer to the fence. “Did she say something before she died?”

This subject was dangerous territory; I knew even before my mind had time to articulate the reasons. I felt as though a field of traps and sinkholes had opened up before me. What should I tell Lord Eastbourne, and what must I not?

“She said it was a man named Wilhelm Stieber who tortured her and left her to die.” That was what I’d thought I understood Katerina to say, and it would now be my story. I needed to incriminate someone other than myself and didn’t want to point the finger at Slade, in spite of everything.

“Wilhelm Stieber.” Lord Eastbourne repeated the name as if he’d never heard it before and wanted to commit it to memory.

But I am adept at detecting faint signs of emotion, even in those well trained at masking them. I learned my skill while I was a charity pupil and later while a governess in the house of wealthy employers. It is the skill of the weak and downtrodden, whose survival depends on the ability to read their masters, the better to avoid punishment. When I’d said “Wilhelm Stieber,” I’d seen a brief but definite flare of recognition in Lord Eastbourne’s eyes.

“Did Katerina say who he is?” Lord Eastbourne asked.

He already knew; I could tell. That gave credence to Slade’s story and justified my tendency to believe Slade had been telling the truth. “She said Stieber is a spy for the Tsar of Russia.”

“Indeed,” Lord Eastbourne said, as if impressed and interested. “Did she also say what her relationship was with Stieber?”

“She worked for him as an informant.” Although I distrusted Lord Eastbourne more than ever, and I didn’t like to release the information, my hope of freedom hinged on him. I could not evade his questions and risk offending him. “She consorted with Russian immigrants. She learned about plots against the Tsar and reported them to Stieber.”

Skepticism crossed Lord Eastbourne’s face. “Then why did he torture her?”

“She said she had crossed him.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” I said, compelled by my instinct to conceal the details and protect Slade. If Lord Eastbourne learned that Katerina had named Slade as a party involved in her death, it might convince him that Slade was alive, even though my sightings of Slade had not. Lord Eastbourne already thought Slade was a traitor; he surely wouldn’t hesitate to deem him a murderer as well. I imagined Lord Eastbourne launching a manhunt for Slade, and myself forced to participate. I didn’t want Slade persecuted for yet another crime-at least not until I discovered whether he was guilty. “Katerina was dying, she was growing incoherent, babbling in Russian.” I decided to test Slade’s story. “But she did say that Stieber was looking for someone. A scientist named Kavanagh. She said he’d invented a device that the Tsar wants.”

Lord Eastbourne listened without visible emotion, but I sensed excitement rising in him. “What kind of device?”

“A new kind of gun. She indicated that the Tsar wants to use it against England.” Here I blended Katerina’s statement with Slade’s. “Stieber thought she knew where to find the scientist. That’s the other reason he tortured Katerina.”

“Well.” Lord Eastbourne pondered, then said in an offhand manner, “Anything that has to do with Russia is of interest to the Foreign Office. Did Katerina tell you Niall Kavanagh’s whereabouts?”

My heart beat faster. I hadn’t mentioned Kavanagh’s Christian name. Lord Eastbourne knew it, and he’d let the fact slip.

“No,” I said. “She died.”

Kavanagh existed, and so, presumably, did his invention. What Slade had said was true-but perhaps only in part. I didn’t yet know which side Slade was on-England’s or Russia’s-or whether he was guilty of murder. Perhaps he’d mixed truth with lies. Still, I was glad I hadn’t spilled everything to Lord Eastbourne. He’d deceived me by concealing the fact that he knew about Wilhelm Stieber, Niall Kavanagh, and the secret invention. Maybe he’d done so to protect state secrets, but maybe he had other, baser motives. If my experiences during the summer of 1848 had taught me anything, it was that men in positions of authority weren’t always honorable.

Another thought occurred to me. Slade had told me that the British government had Kavanagh hidden, but Lord Eastbourne had asked where Niall Kavanagh was. Did that mean the government didn’t know? If Stieber didn’t have him, then who did?

“Have you had any further contact with the man you thought was John Slade?” Lord Eastbourne asked.

I experienced a cold, sick sensation of dismay, for I could tell that Lord Eastbourne had revised his opinion concerning Slade: he was no longer certain Slade was dead. I had tried so hard to convince him that Slade was alive that I had gone too far toward succeeding. Probably he would send more agents to hunt down Slade, execute him, and make sure he was really dead this time. And I could not forsake my loyalty to Slade, even though he’d treated me badly.

“No,” I said, “I haven’t.”

Although I trembled with nerves, I looked Lord Eastbourne straight in the eye. I watched him try to discern whether I was lying. I saw that he was undecided, but I could tell he knew I’d withheld information.

“I must go now, Miss Bronte,” he said.

Panic struck. “Please don’t leave me here!” I thrust my hand through the bars of the cage to prevent him from going.

Lord Eastbourne patted my fingers, barely touching them, and smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll pull some strings and have you free in no time.”

“Are you ready to be good?” the warder asked me.

Eager to avoid another stint in the dark cell, I said I was. He took me to the dayroom where I’d had my altercation with Poll. The women pretended I wasn’t there, except for Maisie. She sidled up to me during dinner, which was greasy mutton stew.

“When Poll gets out of the dark cell, she’ll have your hide,” she whispered.

I prayed that I would be gone before then. In the evening, the warders marched us to our cells. These measured some thirteen feet by seven; each had iron bars and an iron gate across the front, a barred window, and a stone floor. Amenities consisted of a table and some stools, a copper basin with a water tap, shelves of bedding, and a water closet. A gas lamp with a tin shade burned dimly on the wall. My cellmates were three streetwalkers, two drunks who reeked of liquor, and two pickpockets. Our beds were mats that we spread on the floor. I wanted to lie down and drift into the blessed oblivion of sleep, but sleep proved to be impossible.

The other prisoners regaled one another with stories about the crimes for which they’d been arrested, the men who’d done them wrong, and their hard lives. The galleries rang with chatter and laughter. Even after the lights went out, the noise continued. My cellmates said to me, “It’s your turn. Tell us a story!”

Fearing what they would do to me if I refused, I began to recite an abridged version of Jane Eyre. None of them had heard of the book, let alone read it. They loved the tale of Jane’s suffering at the hands of the Reed family, her imprisonment in the Red Room, and her experiences at the dreadful Lowood School. They hung on every word. Women in nearby cells quieted down to listen. Those farther away shouted for me to speak up.

Everyone wept when Jane’s friend, Helen Burns, died.

I remembered my childhood, when the pupils at the Clergy Daughters’ School had thought me the best storyteller among them. Now my audience of criminals wouldn’t let me stop, even though my voice grew hoarse. I told my tale until what must have been midnight, when a warder appeared outside my cell and unlocked its gate. Two men were with her, dressed in white coats, their faces in shadow.

“Charlotte Bronte, get up,” she said. “You’re leaving.”

An outcry arose from the prisoners: “She can’t leave! We want to know what happens to Jane Eyre!”

Gladness filled me as I sprang up from my mat. I didn’t know that I was bound for somewhere much worse than Newgate Prison.