Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

EPILOGUE

Reader, I returned to Haworth alone.

Slade and I did endeavor to make our brief time together happy. The memory of it would sustain us in the future. But we knew how thin those memories might have to stretch-over years, perhaps. The strain of our imminent parting infused every hour that passed, everything we said. Our last lovemaking had a feverish, desperate quality. Neither of us slept that night. In the morning, we dallied over breakfast so long that we were late to Euston Station. We had but a moment for last words on the platform before my train left.

“When will you return?” I had forbidden myself to cry.

“As soon as I can,” Slade said.

“Will you write to me?”

“If it’s possible.”

After a hasty kiss and embrace, I boarded the train. As it huffed out of the station, I put my head out the window and waved to Slade. He stood on the platform and waved back, his figure growing smaller with the distance until I could see him no more.

I wept all during that journey, and when I arrived at Keighley Station that evening, my eyes burned, my face was swollen, and my head ached. I hired a wagon to take my bag to Haworth, but I decided to walk the four miles. The evening was warm, mellowed by a golden sunset. The air vibrated with the songs of birds that winged from tree to tree as I plodded along the road. The moors exuded the fresh, sweet scents of grasses and flowers. At first the loveliness around me was a torment. Nature’s indifference to my pain seemed cruel. But soon my familiar, beloved landscape began to work its healing magic. By the time I reached the parsonage, I was calm enough to face Papa.

I found him at the dinner table with Mr. Nicholls. I was dismayed to see Mr. Nicholls, for I had wanted a quiet homecoming and no guests to complicate matters. At least Ellen wasn’t there, as I’d feared she would be. My father and his curate rose to greet me with exclamations of surprise and relief.

“Charlotte, where have you been?” Papa asked. “I was so worried about you.”

“So was I,” Mr. Nicholls seemed truly concerned about my welfare, not angry that I’d rudely left him in the Lake District. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” I was glad that Papa had apparently put aside his anger at Mr. Nicholls and they were united in their concern for me. But their solicitude dissolved my frail composure. Exhausted, I dropped into a chair, gave in to despair, and wept anew.

“What happened?” Papa asked as he and Mr. Nicholls hovered awkwardly near me.

“I can’t tell you.” I couldn’t break my silence and risk the Queen’s displeasure.

“I see.” Papa’s expression said he was envisioning a scenario as disastrous as the one in which we’d found ourselves three years ago. He summoned Martha Brown, who brought me tea, and waited until I had regained my self-control. Then he said, “Can you at least say whether matters have been resolved?”

I assured him that they had.

“What has become of John Slade?” Papa asked.

Mr. Nicholls frowned at the unfamiliar name. “Who is John Slade?”

Now was the time to announce that Slade and I were married, but I could not. Papa didn’t want me to marry at all, and he would be furious because I hadn’t notified him first or sought his permission, even though he liked and admired Slade. He would also be horrified by my makeshift nuptials, especially since Slade and I couldn’t legitimize them with a proper wedding in church. Mr. Nicholls would surely heap his disapproval on top of Papa’s, which was more than I could face. Furthermore, they would think ill of Slade for leaving me, and worse of me for entering into such a reckless union. They wouldn’t understand the circumstances or believe that love should outweigh propriety.

“Mr. Slade is just a friend,” I said, even though I hated to lie and deny my husband. “He’s gone abroad for the foreseeable future.”

Papa received this news with relief. “It’s for the best, Charlotte. I like the fellow, but he brings trouble whenever he comes around.”

Mr. Nicholls observed me closely, his heavy brow furrowing. I colored because I sensed that he had deduced something of my feelings for Slade. I feared a scene that would reveal my secrets. But all Mr. Nicholls said was, “If you ever need a friend, I’m here.” And I was comforted, even though he wasn’t Slade.

13 June 1852. I finish my tale on my first anniversary. When Slade and I wed on board the Gipsy, we didn’t realize that it was Friday the thirteenth. Those were such tumultuous times that I had lost track of the calendar and failed to notice that we’d chosen a most inauspicious day. Now a year has passed, and I still have not told anyone that Slade and I are married. Without Slade by my side, I cannot bear to face the questions, the censure, and the scandal that would surely arise if I did tell. Furthermore, there were no physical consequences of our marriage that would have necessitated making it public. I keep it as close a secret as the events involving Niall Kavanagh and Wilhelm Stieber.

In the meantime, I go about my business. Although plagued by low spirits, ill health, and loneliness, I have enjoyed visits with Ellen Nussey and other friends. I have made a pilgrimage to Anne’s grave in Scarborough. Papa had a stroke, which paralyzed him for a few days, but he has recovered. I correspond with Mr. Thackeray and George Smith, who have generously forgiven me for that night at the Crystal Palace. Indeed, George and I have resumed our friendly flirtation through the mail. On paper we can be as we were, if not in person. I am presently working on a new novel, entitled Villette. Arthur Nicholls has been a constant, sympathetic presence in my life.

I have not heard from Slade. I do not know where he is. I do not know whether he is alive or dead, whether I am his wife or his widow. When Slade returns, we shall announce our marriage. If he does not.. .

That is a possibility too awful to contemplate. I will not heed superstition and believe that because we wed on an unlucky day, our marriage is doomed. I have more faith in Slade than to think his enemies will defeat him or that he will forsake me. He will return. Of that I am certain.