The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

2

Once, during a trip to the continent, I saw a medieval tapestry that depicted an everyday scene in an ancient town. Lords and ladies promenaded around the castle; merchants plied their trade in the street; peasants worked the fields while mounted hunters galloped through the forest and pilgrims entered a cathedral. Each tiny creature pursued his own business as if unaware of the folk in distant sections of the tapestry-yet all were joined by the underlying warp. I am struck by the resemblance of that tapestry to my story. On the morning I received George Smith’s letter, I had no knowledge of events occurring a hundred miles away or of persons whose lives would soon be interwoven with mine.

Birmingham is a large industrial city south of Haworth; for my description of it and the happenings there, I elaborate upon an account given me by my sister Anne, who became closely acquainted with certain characters and environs. In a district known as the gun quarter is a courtyard surrounded by the brick buildings of Lock Gunworks. The noise of saws, hammers, and metal on grindstones emanated from neighboring businesses. Smoke from forges blackened the sky. Across the city resounded the Birmingham Roar: continuous gunshots from the test-firing of weapons. On this day the craftsmen of Lock Gunworks gathered in the courtyard around Joseph Lock, proprietor.

“I have interrupted your work to make an important announcement,” Lock said. “As you are aware, Lock Gunworks has a long, illustrious history. My ancestors armed King William’s troops against Louis the Fourteenth of France.”

A portrait that hangs in the parlor of his house depicts Joseph Lock as a robust man with bold features and shrewd blue eyes. He appears quite the successful merchant and town leader. As to the thoughts in his mind at the time of this announcement, I must enter the realm of conjecture. I imagine him feeling an eerie sensation of being two selves divided-one the physical manifestation of Joseph Lock; the other, an ugly wretch cowering inside him, ridden by guilt.

“My father-may he rest in peace-manufactured guns for the Napoleonic Wars and the African trade,” Lock continued. “It has been my birthright and my privilege to manage the firm and carry on the family tradition of loyal service to the Crown.” Lock’s voice cracked; tears of shame welled in his eyes, for he had dishonored his privilege and broken tradition through a secret, abominable crime.

He gathered himself. “However, I summoned you here not to speak of the past, but of present concerns. It is with great regret that I am today retiring from my post as head of Lock Gunworks and ceasing all involvement in the firm’s operation.”

An uneasy stir rippled his audience; Lock noted surprise on many faces, curiosity on others. He reviled himself for making his men accomplices to his crime. He looked upon the grimy, calloused hands that crafted the guns that bore his name, and he hated himself for lying.

“I do not make this decision lightly,” Lock said. Indeed, he had agonized over what to do. But the chain of events that had begun with one small mistake brought his frantic search for alternatives to a single unavoidable conclusion.

“However, my advancing age and poor health leave me no choice but to retire.” Another lie, that: he was only fifty, and in enviable health. “Therefore, I appoint my brother Henry as head of the firm.” Lock gestured, and the young man stepped forward. He was twenty-nine years old, pale, handsome, and nervous.

“I ask you to work as loyally for Henry as you have for me,” Lock told the workers, although he had no right to speak of loyalty after breaking all its bonds himself. “As a farewell token from me, you shall each receive an extra day’s pay.”

He hurried out of the courtyard, followed by the workers’ murmurs of “Thank you, sir,” and “God bless you.” He strode through the gun quarter, past the workshops and public houses, to his home in the suburb of Edgbaston. Here lived Birmingham’s important, wealthy citizens. The air was fresh, the smoke from the foundries a distant black smudge on the horizon, and the Birmingham Roar a muted echo. Birds sang in the trees that shaded the wide, sunny streets; mansions graced expansive lawns. The Lock residence was an elegant stone Italianate house. When Lock entered, his wife greeted him.

“You’re home early,” said she. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all.” Lock regarded her, blonde and rosy and innocent. Guilt and despair tainted his love for her. His betrayal of her was as grievous as his betrayal of his father and country. He said, “There’s just something I need to do.”

His two young sons raced into the hall, shouting and laughing. When they saw Lock, they halted, fell quiet, and stared at him. Lock mounted the stairs, consoling himself with the thought that his sons’ heritage and livelihood would remain intact, and they would never learn the worst about him. He went into his study and locked the door.

Cabinets lining the walls displayed firearms produced by Lock Gunworks. He removed a pistol. The sinner in him directed his trembling hands to place powder and ball inside its chamber; he welcomed punishment, craved release from suffering. But the vestiges of Joseph Lock, pillar of the church and community, resisted compounding his previous sins. His breath rasped; nausea roiled his stomach as he cocked the pistol. He deplored the agony and shame awaiting his family.

Did he perceive the true nature of the villain responsible for all he suffered? Perhaps he thought about her, and the terrible heat of longing again enflamed him. He sat clutching the gun, torn by warring impulses, until his sinful, guilt-ridden self persuaded him that there was no other escape from the hell that he’d made of his life, and certain disaster lay ahead if he did not act. By yielding to temptation and cowardice, he had abetted forces powerful enough to ravage the whole kingdom, and this offered the only possible means by which to stop them. “God have mercy on my soul,” he whispered, putting the pistol to his temple. He pulled the trigger.

The echo of that fatal shot quickly dissipated, but the inaudible reverberations traveled far beyond Birmingham, across time, and soon reached me.