Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

7

That evening, in my room at the Smiths’ house, I put on my best gown. My hands trembled as I smoothed the folds of gray satin that glowed with an emerald sheen. I supposed that other women all over London were preparing for a night out, but I felt none of the frivolous gaiety that they must have felt. I donned the gown as if it were armor for a battle.

I arranged my hair in a simple knot. The face in the mirror was as plain as ever. Once my plainness had caused me much grief, but these days I liked my visage better: it belonged to Currer Bell, the author who’d fulfilled my childhood dreams. And the dress brought back happy memories of the first time I’d worn it, three years ago, the first and only time John Slade and I had danced together. His admiration had made me feel beautiful. I saw my eyes shine with tears. Had I lost him forever? Or would I find him tonight?

I went downstairs and met Mr. Thackeray and two ladies, one buxom and willowy and fair, the other slight and dark, both dressed in silk gowns and glittering gems. “Good evening, Jane-er, Miss Bronte,” said Mr. Thackeray. “Please allow me to present two dear friends of mine.” He introduced the slight, dark lady. “This is Mrs. Crowe, your fellow authoress.”

Mrs. Crowe had huge, intense, unblinking eyes. She might have been pretty were she not so thin. “It’s a privilege to meet you,” she said in a hushed voice. “I so admire your work. Perhaps you’ve heard of mine?”

“Yes.” I understood that she wrote about mediums, seances, and the spirits on the Other Side. I thought it utter claptrap, but I said, “I look forward to reading your books.”

“And this is Mrs. Brookfield,” Mr. Thackeray said.

Smiling, conspiratorial glances passed between him and the fair woman, a rich society hostess. Although not young, she was beautiful. She was also Mr. Thackeray’s paramour. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance,” she said in a friendly fashion. I took an immediate dislike to her. Mr. Thackeray was himself a married man, and I could not condone adultery.

“You look splendid tonight,” Mr. Thackeray said to me with such sincere admiration that I forgave him his sins. “Are you ready for our expedition to the theater?”

Here I must describe other events that occurred outside my view. The details, based on facts I later learned, are as accurate as I can make them. Reader, you will see that when I went to the theater that night with Mr. Thackeray and his friends, I was in grave danger.

As our carriage rattled down the road, the street seemed deserted; the pools of light beneath the lamps were empty. A warm hush enveloped Hyde Park Gardens. I didn’t notice the figure standing in the shadow under a tree near the house I’d just left. It was the foreigner I had seen in Bedlam, the Tsar’s Prussian conspirator. He had followed George and me from the asylum to Whitechapel, and from Whitechapel to the Smith house. Now he watched the house until a maid stepped out the front door, on her way home for the night.

“Excuse me,” he said.

She gasped and paused. “Lord, you gave me a scare.”

“Who is the master of this house?”

“Mr. George Smith,” the maid blurted.

“Who was the lady that left in the carriage?”

“Which lady?” The maid stepped back from him, wary of strangers, sensing that he was more dangerous than most.

“The small, plain one.”

“None of your business, I’m sure.” Offended by his impertinence, she was haughty as well as frightened.

He took a sovereign from his pocket and offered it to her. Her eyes bulged with greed. She accepted the coin. “The lady’s Charlotte Bronte, also known as Currer Bell. The famous authoress.”

“Does she reside in the house?”

“No. She’s just visiting.”

“Where does she reside?”

“Haworth. In Yorkshire.” The maid slid a nervous glance toward the house. “I can’t talk anymore. The mistress doesn’t like us to gossip.” She hurried away.

The Prussian walked around the corner, to a waiting carriage. He climbed in and sat opposite the two men already inside. Their names were Friedrich and Wagner. They sat rigidly upright, foreign soldiers in British civilian garb. Friedrich was a fine specimen of strong manhood; Wagner his lanky, puffy-faced, distorted reflection.

“Did you find out what you wanted to know, sir?” Friedrich asked.

“Yes.” The Prussian relayed the intelligence gleaned from the maid.

Wagner said, “Sir, is this Charlotte Bronte a problem?”

“Obviously. She witnessed our operation in Bedlam. If she tells the police what she saw, they may investigate because she is a woman of position. And we do not want the police snooping in our business.”

Wagner frowned. “She could make trouble for us in Bedlam.”

“Also in more important spheres,” the Prussian said grimly. “She is acquainted with John Slade. Maybe they spoke before we got to him. Maybe he told her something.”

“What should we do, sir?” Friedrich asked.

“For now we’ll watch her,” the Prussian said. “If she appears to know too much-” He removed from his pocket a long, slender knife and slid it out of its leather sheath. The sharp blade reflected his pale eyes, which were devoid of mercy. “We follow standard procedure.”

As we rode through Hyde Park Gardens, Mr. Thackeray said, “Which play have you chosen for our enjoyment, Miss Bronte?”

“ The Wildwood Affair,” I said.

“I’ve not heard of that one,” Mrs. Brookfield said.

“At which theater is it playing?” Mrs. Crowe asked.

“The Royal Pavilion,” I said.

Mrs. Brookfield said, “Where, pray tell, is that?”

“In Whitechapel.” I could tell that neither Mrs. Brookfield nor Mrs. Crowe wanted to attend a play not endorsed by the critics, in a poor part of town. I confess that I was a little amused by their discomfiture. They turned entreatingly to Mr. Thackeray.

Mr. Thackeray said, “I told Miss Bronte that she could choose the play, and a man must keep his promises.”

The ladies conceded with good grace. They chatted politely with me until we reached Whitechapel. The bright Saturday afternoon bustle was gone. Harlots posed under the flickering gas lamps along the high street and called to passing men. Drunkards filled gin palaces, from which spilled rowdy laughter and discordant music. The crowds were still thick around the stalls, but new attractions had sprung up, like plants that only bloom at night. Curtained enclosures housed a freak show, whose signs advertised hairy men and hairless dogs, gorillas and giants, Aztecs and bearded women. Excitement and danger laced the foul, smoky air. The back streets were dark, fearsome tunnels.

It wasn’t hard to believe that a murderer had stabbed and mutilated his victims there.

Mrs. Brookfield murmured, “My heavens.” Mrs. Crowe’s huge eyes grew huger with fright. Even Mr. Thackeray looked uncertain. The carriage stopped outside the Royal Pavilion Theater. With its Grecian columns and dingy white plaster facade, it resembled a ruined classical temple. The people who poured in through the door hailed from the lower classes, the men in laborers’ clothes, the women in cheap finery. When we alit from the carriage, a crowd gathered to watch. We were ridiculously overdressed. Boys jeered and whistled at us. We walked toward the theater, surrounded by coarse, staring faces, jostled by the other patrons. Mr. Thackeray nodded, smiled, and bowed as if making an appearance at Buckingham Palace. Mrs. Brookfield and Mrs. Crowe cringed. I searched the crowd for Slade, but in vain.

At the ticket booth, Mr. Thackeray bought four seats in front boxes. Inside, the shabby auditorium was dimly lit by guttering lamps around the stage. Our shoes stuck to the floor as we walked down the aisle. Most of the seats were already filled. A roar of conversation and laughter resounded up to the galleries. The air smelled of gas, tobacco smoke, urine, and the crowd’s breath, which reeked of beer, onions, and bad teeth. People stared and pointed at us as we took our seats. We were the center of attention until the play started.

The first scene featured a miserly old man who owned a mill in a fictional town called Wildwood. Sporting a black mustache and hat, he cut the wages of his workers; he strutted, sneered, and counted piles of cash. He was a ludicrous caricature, whom the audience booed with great gusto. Mr. Thackeray chuckled tolerantly. Mrs. Brookfield and Mrs. Crowe looked bored.

When the mill owner called for his wife, an expectant hush settled over the audience. A young woman walked out onto the stage. She was as slim as a wraith, dressed in a white, diaphanous gown that clung to her full breasts. Black, curling hair streamed down her back. Her features were distinctly Slavic, her deep-set eyes aglow with passion. The portrait on the playbill had not done her beauty justice. All gazes were riveted on her. Whispers of “Katerina the Great” swept the audience. Someone murmured, “A Jewess from Russia.” I’d never seen her before, but I was so shocked by recognition that I uttered a cry I couldn’t stifle. For the second time since I’d arrived in London, the dead had been resurrected. Katerina the Great was my sister Emily.

She did not resemble Emily in physical appearance, but rather in spirit. She burned with the same inner fire. She looked as I imagine Emily would have, had she traveled to Heaven and Hell and returned.

Katerina spoke her first line: “Here I am, Husband.”

They were ordinary words, not the stuff of great playwriting, but Katerina imbued them with her vibrant spirit. Her deep voice, free of any foreign accent, filled the theater. Such power had Emily’s voice possessed. Emily rarely spoke, but when she did, one was compelled to listen. Now the audience listened, with all ears. We watched with fascination and horror as the mill owner made Katerina wait on him at dinner as if she were a slave. When she accidentally spilled the soup, he threw the bowl at her. Because the roast was overcooked, he slapped her face. Then he embraced her with cruel, wanton lust. Katerina endured her humiliation with the dignity of a saint. Alone at night, she sang a lament that would break the hardest heart. I could feel the audience’s sympathy toward her and its hatred of her husband. But my emotions were aroused for another reason.

Thus had Emily endured the trials of her life. She had been happy only at home, and the occasions she’d been compelled to leave Haworth had caused her much anguish. When she’d accompanied me to school in Belgium, when she’d ventured out into the world to assist me during the course of my adventures of 1848, she had displayed the same courage as Katerina did now. I could hardly bear to watch and remember.

The story took a dramatic turn when the mill owner’s son, a handsome young soldier named Richard, arrived home from the war against Napoleon. Richard and Katerina fell in love and wanted to marry; but they could not, as long as the mill owner was alive. Hence, they began plotting his murder. The story owed something to the Greek myth of Phaedra, and more to the tales in the newspapers that sold for a penny. The actor who played Richard was a rank amateur, but Katerina’s acting raised the cheap, sordid drama to the very level of Shakespeare. One moment she was as pure and selfless as a nun, resisting temptation; the next, a brazen seductress. She enchanted.

“Not bad at all,” was Mr. Thackeray’s muttered opinion.

Mrs. Brookfield sniffed. “I think her exceedingly vulgar.”

Mrs. Crowe beheld Katerina with terrified awe. “I can sense the spirit in her, and an evil spirit it is,” she whispered. “It’s the very Devil!”

I sat on the edge of my seat as Richard shot the mill owner. Having stolen the dead man’s money, the lovers fled. The police discovered them hiding at an inn. Richard was killed while attempting to escape. Katerina was arrested and tried for her husband’s murder. During the trial, the audience hissed at every witness who testified against Katerina. They booed the jury that found her guilty. When the judge sentenced Katerina to death, they hurled beer bottles. Standing on the gallows, Katerina said her final lines.

“I confess that I murdered my husband.” Her voice was tuned to a note of torment. “I am guilty in deed, but not in spirit. Evil must be repaid by evil, an eye exacted for an eye. So says the Bible.” Katerina’s face contorted into a demonic mask. “Vengeance is mine.”

Her words sent shivers through me: she was hate and madness incarnate. Katerina said, “God is my ultimate judge.” Her expression altered; she looked as holy as an angel. “I shall go to meet Him with the courage of the innocent.”

The hangman placed the noose around her neck. An awful thump echoed in the theater. By some magic of stagecraft, Katerina hung from the rope, her limp body supported by no means I could see. The curtain fell. The audience rose up from its seats in a frenzy of applause. I was on my feet, with tears running down my face, clapping so hard that my hands hurt. The spell Katerina had cast was shattered, and the effect was almost unbearably cathartic. The curtain rose. The actors marched out to take their bows. When Katerina appeared, the audience went wilder. Mr. Thackeray yelled, “Brava! Brava!”

Mrs. Crowe cried, “I feel the spirits!” and fainted in Mrs. Brookfield’s arms.

Mrs. Brookfield looked shaken in spite of herself. “Take us out of here, William,” she begged Mr. Thackeray.

The house lights came on; the audience headed for the exit. I swam against the tide, fighting my way toward the stage: I must speak to Katerina. I went through a door that led backstage and found myself in a dim passage. Light from a room near the end beckoned me. I walked to the threshold. Inside the room, Katerina sat at her dressing table. Her back was to me, but I could see her reflection in the mirror. She was wiping the makeup off her face. I realized that she was older than I’d thought-perhaps my own age.

Her deep, black eyes blazed as she saw me. “No one is allowed to disturb me after a performance. Get out.” I heard in her voice the Russian accent she’d suppressed while on stage. When I didn’t move, she demanded, “Who are you?”

I could still see a shade of Emily in her. “My name is Charlotte Bronte,” I stammered.

“What do you want?”

“I’m looking for someone,” I said. “A mutual friend, I believe.”

Katerina turned and regarded me with surprise, as if she thought the likes of me couldn’t possibly have any acquaintances in common with the likes of her. “Who is it?”

“His name is John Slade. But he may also call himself Josef Typinski.”

“I don’t know anyone by either of those names.” Katerina spoke indifferently, but I had seen what a talented actress she was. “What makes you think I know your friend?”

“He had a playbill with your picture on it in his room.”

“Those playbills are scattered all over London. Many men keep them because they admire me. It doesn’t mean I know them.”

“But you are from Russia,” I persisted. “John Slade went to Russia three years ago. Perhaps you met him there?”

Her eyes darkened at the mention of her native country. “I came to England ten years ago, to escape the persecution of the Jews,” she said coldly. “I sang on the streets for a living, until I was discovered by the director of the Royal Pavilion Theater. I have never been back to Russia. I have wiped its dirt off my feet. I don’t know John Slade. If you don’t leave this instant, I’ll have you thrown out.”

There seemed no point in staying. I apologized for bothering Katerina, then exited the theater by a back door. I trudged up an alley to the high street, where I found Mr. Thackeray and his friends.

“Ah, Miss Bronte,” he said. “I thought we’d lost you.”

Mrs. Brookfield supported the pale, quaking Mrs. Crowe. “If only we could get a carriage.”

That proved difficult. Carriages for hire were snapped up by other folk in the crowd. We waited for half an hour, my companions impatient and I depressed because my search for Slade was at a dead end. Then I heard someone shout, “Here comes Katerina the Great!”

Out of the alley emerged Katerina, with a man at her side. She wore a crimson, hooded cloak. She walked down a path lined by gawkers, as regally poised as if she were the Queen. But I hardly noticed her. The man captured all my attention.

It was Slade.

Dressed in an elegant black evening suit, brilliant white shirt, and black top hat, he appeared miraculously restored to sanity. His face was clean-shaven, his hair neatly trimmed and combed; his gray eyes were as clear as when I’d said goodbye to him three years ago. My breath came hard and fast and my heart clamored as I gazed upon my long-lost love. My emotions skyrocketed from misery to joy.

“John Slade!” I called.

He didn’t react. I hurried forward and stood before him and Katerina. They stopped. Both eyed me, she with annoyance, he with mild puzzlement.

“I beg your pardon, madam?” he said politely.

His accent was as Russian as Katerina’s. That didn’t surprise me; in order to spy in Russia, he would have had to learn the language. What surprised me was the lack of recognition he showed toward me.

“It’s Charlotte Bronte,” I said.

He flicked his gaze over my person. His eyes showed no recollection of me, or of the fact that three years ago he’d asked me to marry him. As I stood stunned, he said, “Madam, I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

He led Katerina to a carriage, helped her in, then sat beside her. As the carriage moved off, I caught a last glimpse of them through the window. Slade turned away from me, toward Katerina. He put his arm around her and kissed her passionately.

Then the carriage was gone, and I was left alone with my companions. Mr. Thackeray said, “What was that all about?”