Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

18

Whenever I embark upon a journey, i have mixed feelings.

Excitement about encountering fresh vistas and new people vies with anxiety about travel arrangements, the strain on my health, and uncertainty about what awaits me at my destination. Even in cases of journeys that I undertake reluctantly, I can look forward to getting them over with. But my journey from Bedlam was different. I felt unadulterated dread.

Day broke as the soldiers lifted me into a carriage outside the asylum. The rising sun shimmered dull orange behind a haze of smoke and heat. The effects of the drug and the magnetic forces had begun to weaken and my free will to revive.

“Let me go,” I said. But the lethargy still possessed me, and I slumped in the seat, as limp and heavy as a rag doll stuffed with sand. “Where are you taking me?”

The soldiers climbed into the carriage with me. The commanding officer said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Just relax.”

We rode through streets that came alive with people hurrying to work, shopkeepers opening their establishments, and peddlers wheeling carts. I realized the futility of calling for help. Who would take on the British army? We stopped at King’s Cross Station. An animating prickle spread through my muscles; I could flex them, but when I tried to jump from the carriage and run away, I was so weak that I fell on my knees. The soldiers supported me through the station, to a train. They laid me on a berth inside a sleeping compartment.

“If there’s anything you need, just ask,” said the commanding officer. “I’ll be right outside.”

It appeared that I would be a prisoner under guard for the duration of this trip to Heaven knew where.

The whistle blew. The train rolled out of the station. As I watched London stream past the window, I experienced the aftereffects of my ordeal in Bedlam. The glass bell that had separated me from my emotions dissolved. Shame, guilt, and horror rushed upon me like horsemen of the Apocalypse. They tormented me while I faced the full extent of what had happened. I had revealed secrets and betrayed Slade, my country, and myself; I had put us all in jeopardy. Now that Wilhelm Stieber knew that Slade knew about Niall Kavanagh and the weapon, he would hunt Slade to the ends of the earth. And he could not let me go free to tell the world what I knew. He would hunt me down, too. The British army couldn’t protect me forever. Furthermore, my confession had put sensitive information about Britain into the hands of a man who served its rival. What dangerous ideas might Stieber and the Tsar glean from my story? If there were a repeat of the events of 1848, I would be to blame.

I am a harsh judge of other people’s faults, but no less of my own. I have always denigrated myself for lacking the beauty, intellect, competence, and moral and physical strength that I crave. But never until today had I had as much reason to hate myself. I cursed my failure to stand up to Wilhelm Stieber. There seemed no chance of rectifying the evil I’d done.

Many hours and many miles passed. I was so absorbed in my misery that I didn’t know which direction I was traveling in; I didn’t care. If I was to be murdered when I reached my destination, I deserved it. Finally I grew so exhausted that I fell asleep. I awakened when the soldiers came to fetch me. Stiff and dazed, I emerged at a small station, in late afternoon sun so bright that it hurt my eyes. A sign above the platform read: Southampton.

Southampton is a pretty seaside town about a hundred miles from London. As we rode in a carriage through its streets, I was blind to its charms. Dirty and disheveled, still wearing my wrinkled jail uniform, guarded by troops, I felt like a prisoner of war being transported to the enemy stockade. My life as Currer Bell, the famous author, seemed part of a distant, glittering dream. We reached the port, where the captain on a steamboat called, “Last ferry to East Cowes! All aboard!”

The soldiers escorted me onto the ferry. We traveled down a broad watercourse, past fishing villages and piers, toward the blue, sparkling expanse of the English Channel. I love the sea, and usually the sight of it invigorates and uplifts me; but even it could not lighten my heart. I did not ask the soldiers why we were going to East Cowes. I sat mute with despair.

As we entered the Channel, the sun descended; the western sky turned a radiant pink that cast a rosy sheen upon the ocean. Ahead, some five miles distant, loomed the Isle of Wight, whose cliffs rose up out of the sea to wooded heights cloaked in dusk. We approached the shore through a flotilla of pleasure craft. Laughter, singing, and music drifted from parties aboard. The coppery sun melted into the ocean as the ferry docked at the tiny village of East Cowes. We disembarked, then climbed into a carriage that conveyed us uphill, through meadows and woods, past pretty summer houses. The cool evening breeze revived me somewhat, but I was weak from hunger; I’d not eaten all day. My head ached, and I felt dizzy and tremulous. My heart began to race because we must have been nearing the end of our journey and my reckoning with fate.

On a rise that overlooked the sea was a huge mansion that looked like a palace lifted out of the Italian Renaissance period. Its white walls, square towers, and tile roofs shone pink in the waning light of sunset. Recognition struck me. I’d seen this mansion before, in a newspaper illustration, several years ago. My lips moved in a silent exclamation: Dear God. I knew where I was. I knew who had summoned me here.

The carriage paused outside a gate, which two guards opened; they greeted my escorts and waved us inside. We drew up in a wide driveway. Gas lamps burned in the grand porch. As the soldiers handed me down from the carriage, the door of the mansion opened. Out stepped a small woman dressed in a pale summer frock. She was plumper than when I’d last seen her, in 1848; she’d given birth to her seventh child the previous year. Her face was rounder, her cheeks ruddier from the summer heat; but she was the same regal, imperious personage with whom I had the honor of claiming an acquaintance.

Queen Victoria glided to the head of the stairs and gazed down her long nose at me.

“Welcome to Osborne House, Miss Bronte.” Her voice was tart with displeasure. “What sort of trouble have you caused us this time?”