The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

43

My story should have ended there. it would have allowed you, Reader, to believe that I lived happily ever after, like a princess in a fairy tale. But reality intrudes on the best occasions in life, which are as fleeting as the worst.

That kiss was the last private moment I was to spend with Mr. Slade for quite some time. We were interrupted by a navy officer, who informed me that the children required my care. I hurried to Vicky and Bertie, took off their wet clothes, wrapped them in blankets, fed them hot broth, and tucked them in bed. They fell asleep while I dried my own waterlogged self and the navy searched for Kuan and survivors from his ship. Hitchman was taken prisoner. Nick, the crew, and T’ing-nan’s body had gone down with the wreck. No trace of Kuan was ever found.

I was summoned by Lord Unwin, who’d been aboard the navy ship all along, hiding during the battle. He commanded me to give him a full account of the kidnapping. Afraid that I would be blamed for it, I hastened to explain how the Duchess had threatened me at gunpoint. Lord Unwin replied that soon after the Queen had discovered the children missing, he had suspected that Kuan must have another accomplice besides Captain Innes. He’d searched Balmoral Castle and found a pistol and an empty laudanum vial in the Duchess’s room. When he confronted her, she admitted her deed and named the royal guards who had helped her. She also confessed that Kuan had kidnapped her beloved niece to force her to participate in his scheme. I took that to mean that Mr. Slade had suspected, searched, confronted, and obtained the confession. But in any case, I was exonerated; the Duchess and her confederates were to hang.

It was Lord Unwin who explained to me how the children and I had been located: Mr. Slade had received a telegram from Papa, which said that Kuan had taken us aboard a ship anchored off Aberdeen. How Papa had known this was, at that time, a mystery. The Foreign Office had then joined forces with the navy to find the ship. Lord Unwin swore me to secrecy in regards to the kidnapping and all related events. It was in the best interest of the kingdom that as few persons as possible should know how vulnerable the Crown was, he said, lest Kuan’s example inspire other such attacks. He ordered me to swear my family to secrecy as well. And until the time of this writing, as I relate these details in this document that shall perhaps go unread, I have kept my vow.

I watched over the children while the ship steamed back to port. Mr. Slade was recuperating from his wound, then occupied with business, and I didn’t see him for some time. At sunrise we reached Aberdeen, where the Queen and Prince Consort joyously greeted Vicky and Bertie and took them away. Me they ignored. Lord Unwin hurried after the royal procession, I assumed to take credit for the rescue and to curry favor. Mr. Slade, reinstated to his post, accompanied Lord Unwin. I was given over to the care of a kindly Scottish officer, whose wife lent me clean, dry clothes, fed me, and gave me a room in which to sleep that night. Longing to see my family, I traveled home by train on the morrow, and reached Haworth the day after that.

The village that I had once wished to escape now seemed like Paradise. Never had the September sun shone brighter from a bluer sky; never had the moors seemed more magnificent nor the parsonage more inviting. Anne, Emily, and Papa welcomed me with glad exclamations and tears. The company of my kin brought me much more joy than the brilliant society I’d hoped to find when I’d gone to London. We eagerly shared the tales of our experiences.

“But how were you able to tell Mr. Slade where to find me?” I asked. “And how did you happen to send the news by telegraph?”

“It was Branwell’s doing,” Emily said with grudging admiration.

When she explained, I could hardly believe that Branwell had outwitted the men who had imprisoned them in the cellar, obtained the vital information, and thought up the means to convey it. That my wretched brother had ultimately brought about Kuan’s downfall was amazing indeed. “Where is Branwell?” I said, eager to thank him.

My father’s and sisters’ expressions grew somber. Papa said, “We don’t know.”

Anne sighed. “Unfortunately, he has resumed his old ways.”

Six days after my return, Branwell fainted while walking to the Black Bull Inn. The next day he was unable to get up from his bed, and his condition rapidly declined. We sent for Dr. Wheelright, who examined Branwell and declared that he was close to death. What a profound shock! Branwell’s health had worsened so gradually that none of us had noticed; he’d been threatening to die for so long that we had failed to take him seriously. Not until now did I learn he was suffering from consumption, the same disease that had taken Maria and Elizabeth.

Branwell lay, his wasted frame shrunken to the size of a child’s, under the coverlet. His red, unkempt hair straggled around his gaunt face. His features were yellow and sunken, his thin, white lips shaking. While Anne, Emily, and I wept around his bed, Papa knelt beside Branwell and clasped his hand.

“Oh, Father, I am dying,” Branwell cried. “I have misspent my youth and utterly, miserably disgraced myself. In all my past life I have done none of the great things I intended.”

“But you have,” I said. “You saved all our lives and proved yourself a hero.”

Throughout that day and night, my sisters and I sat vigil with Branwell; Papa prayed for his soul. Gradually, Branwell came to repent of his vices. He appeared to forget the Robinson woman; indeed, he seemed unaware that he’d ever loved anyone but his family. Towards us he expressed a tender affection that gladdened, yet broke, our hearts. The next morning-Sunday, 24 September-we watched his life draw to an end. He grew calm and remained alert; to the last prayer which Papa offered up at his bedside, Branwell whispered, “Amen.” After a sudden, brief convulsion, he departed us in his thirty-first year.

I felt as I had never felt before that there would be peace and forgiveness for him in Heaven. Every wrong Branwell had done, every pain he’d caused, vanished. I regretted that none but a few could know how brilliantly he’d risen to the last challenge of his life. I sank into a terrible state of grief, compounded by a delayed reaction to my harrowing experiences. Headache, bilious fever, and weakness kept me abed while Papa, Emily, and Anne made preparations for Branwell’s funeral.

When it was done, our household regained harmony, even though a pall of sadness hung over it. Papa went about his business in the parish with his usual dedication. Anne seemed at peace while she did her chores. I believe her efforts in the investigation had satisfied her need for accomplishment. Emily scribbled industriously on what looked to be a new novel. It seemed that our adventures had helped her break through the mental barrier that prevented her from writing and inspired her creative force. I believe she is destined for greatness, for immortality.

Only I was discontented.

I received a letter from George Smith, in which he said he looked forward to publishing my next novel and hoped I would visit him again soon. But he seemed part of another life, and I could not settle down to writing. I could feel no sense of resolution until I saw Mr. Slade again.

He sent me a note, from the Foreign Office in London. It said that he had interrogated Hitchman, who had revealed names and locations of Kuan’s confederates in the kingdom and abroad, in exchange for a sentence of life in prison instead of death by firing squad. Mr. Slade and his associates were presently occupied with arresting those criminals and purging corrupt officials from the government. The Charity School had been closed, the Reverend and Mrs. Grimshaw arrested, and the pupils sent to better institutions. Mr. Slade said he would call on me as soon as he could, but there was no renewal of the declarations he had made before we parted; I could not discern his sentiments between the lines. Had he changed his mind? Had I dreamed the words he’d said to me? When I composed my reply, I withheld the questions I longed to ask; I invited Mr. Slade to visit, and I shared our sad news of Branwell’s passing.

I also wrote to Isabel White’s mother, informing her that the man responsible for the murder of her daughter had been delivered to justice. My vow of secrecy forbade me to give her the specifics, but I hoped she would feel some satisfaction.

Then I waited.

October came, bringing cold weather. Two weeks after Branwell’s funeral, I donned my cloak and bonnet, intending to walk the moors, but instead I found myself in the graveyard beside the church. The wind blew around the grey stone slabs that marked the graves. Misty drizzle fell from the dark afternoon sky. As I strolled upon sodden grass, a funeral party dressed in black gathered around a new grave. My heart was as melancholy as the scene, until I heard a horse’s hooves pounding and saw a man riding up the lane. My spirits rocketed into joy.

“Mr. Slade!” I called.

He dismounted outside the graveyard. As he approached me, the dreary day brightened. I ran to meet him, then faltered because his serious expression inhibited my inclination to fling myself into his arms. All during our acquaintance we had advanced towards, then retreated from, each other; now he was in a phase of retreat.

“I was sorry to hear about your brother,” Mr. Slade said, his manner coolly formal. “My condolences to you and your family.”

I murmured my thanks. We avoided each other’s gazes as we strolled together through the graveyard. My heart lapsed into a familiar state of painful, unrequited longing. Mr. Slade must have spoken insincerely on the ship, perhaps carried away by the excitement of the moment. Now he wished to forget what had passed between us. I could think of nothing to say except, “How is your wounded arm?”

“It’s healing,” Mr. Slade said.

“How are the Queen and the children?”

“They are well,” Mr. Slade said. “Her Majesty sends you her best regards. Vicky and Bertie told her how valiantly you fought to save them, and she says that if you should ever need her services in return, you have only to ask.”

“I am glad to be in Her Majesty’s good graces.”

“Regarding Lord Unwin,” said Mr. Slade, “he has received a promotion.”

“After the trouble he caused?” I said, dismayed.

A hint of a smile lifted Mr. Slade’s mouth. “Lord Palmerston has sent him to join the colonial administration in India. The climate and tropical fevers should make quick work of him.”

We had a stilted conversation about the ongoing effort to dismantle Kuan’s criminal empire. I then said, “What will you do next?”

“The Foreign Office is sending me on a new assignment, to Russia. I expect to leave very soon. I cannot be certain when I’ll return to England.”

I heard in his voice that he was happy to go. He had no regret that we should soon part. Anguish stabbed me, yet I felt an unexpected rage. Throughout my life I had fallen in love with men and meekly accepted their rejection of me, but this time was different. I would not suffer in silence. My experiences had given me the courage to speak my mind.

“I understand what you are about,” I said, turning upon Mr. Slade. “You’ve come to bid me a perfunctory goodbye. You dallied with me in Scotland, you played at romancing me on the ship, and now you think you can act as if it never happened and we can go back to being strangers.” Offended beyond courtesy, I smote him on the chest. “You, sir, are the worst kind of cad!”

Mr. Slade beheld me as if astounded. “That isn’t why I came. What are you talking about?”

“You said you were in love with me, but I should have known better.” I didn’t care that my voice rose loud and now the funeral party was watching us. “Especially since you told me that you require beauty and vivacity in a woman and could never form an attachment to one who lacks them.”

“What nonsense is this?” Mr. Slade demanded in confusion. “When did I say that?”

“On the train to London,” I said, “when we were discussing Jane Eyre. ”

Mr. Slade looked flabbergasted by recollection. “I was speaking of the characters in the book, not of you and myself.” He uttered a laugh. “Women be damned! They’re always taking personally the things men say, reading into them meanings that were never intended. They never forget the most casual passing remark that we might make. You fool, I meant every word I said to you on that ship.”

As I stared, blank and speechless, Mr. Slade grasped my shoulders. “And I’m not here to tell you goodbye.” His gaze was intense with passion. “I’m here to ask you to come to Russia with me-as my wife.”

It was my turn to be flabbergasted. He wasn’t brushing me off; he was proposing marriage! He, who had spurned romantic attachments since his wife’s death, now sought to attach himself to me! Our experiences together had swept away the past and turned him towards the future, which he wanted us to share.

“Well? Do you accept my offer?” The beginnings of disappointment contended with hope on Mr. Slade’s face. “Or am I to find out that you were playing at romance with me?”

I understood why he’d acted so coolly towards me at first: He’d been working himself up to this proposal and hiding his fear that I might refuse. Now my spirits soared on the sweet euphoria I’d felt when he’d kissed me. I thought back to the time when we first met, in the National Gallery, and the shock of recognition we’d felt. Our instincts must have sensed that we would one day be husband and wife.

“Good God, don’t keep me in suspense!” Mr. Slade said. “Is your answer yes or no?”

With all my heart I cried, “Yes!”

I thought I’d wept all my tears when Branwell died, but now they flowed anew, from the same radiant gladness that I saw on Mr. Slade’s face. He drew me close, but as he bent to kiss me and seal our pledge, I felt a misgiving so powerful that I stiffened in his embrace.

“What is it?” Mr. Slade said, drawing back from me in concern. “You’re not having doubts about marrying me?”

Amazingly, I was. Here I had gained what I’d thought all my life was the ultimate prize-a marriage proposal from a man I loved, and who loved me. But I felt as if I had opened a beautiful gift package only to discover that its contents, although exactly what I’d wished for, were somehow wrong.

“Not about marrying you,” I said, “but perhaps about what would happen afterward. We would live in Russia for the foreseeable future?”

“Yes.” Mr. Slade’s eyes shone with his relish of exploring new, foreign territory.

I had a vague notion of czars, Cossacks, and frozen steppes. Three months ago this would have stirred a pleasant thrill in me, but now. .. “Russia is so far away.”

“Well, yes,” Mr. Slade said, chastened by my hesitation. “But wouldn’t you like to see the world?” When I nodded, he said, “Here’s our chance to see it together.”

But I felt a strong resistance to leaving Papa, Emily, and Anne. My remaining kin were dearer to me than ever now. I also felt a strong attachment to Haworth, small and isolated though it be. This was the center of my universe, the haven to which I must always return, the thought of which had sustained me during my wanderings.

“I don’t know the Russian language,” I said.

“I’ll teach you,” said Mr. Slade.

Still I hesitated. “I don’t know anyone in Russia. I would be all alone while you’re busy working. What would I do?”

“You can write more books.”

But my books had deep roots in my own history. If I pulled up those roots, inspiration would vanish. My writing anchored me to Haworth as strongly as did my kin. My unfinished book, and other books yet to be written, had a claim on me stronger than Mr. Slade’s. Sorrowful wisdom filled my heart. I withdrew from Mr. Slade and leaned on a stone tomb.

“I cannot marry you,” I said, though tearful with regret and desolation.

“Why not?” Mr. Slade said. When I explained my reasons, he waved them away. “There are difficulties, to be sure, but together we can overcome them.”

I had once believed that love conquered all, but I knew the nature of his profession, and I knew we would be more apart than together if we married. I pictured myself alone and idle, waiting for him to come home, and affection turning to resentment because I’d given up everything for him. Once, everything I had in life had seemed so little, but now I recognized that it was too precious to lose-and that what I would lose upon sacrificing it was myself.

“No,” I said sadly. “We belong to different worlds. This is mine.” I gestured at the parsonage, the church, the village, and the moors. “Anywhere else, I would be lost.”

“Then I’ll quit the Foreign Office,” Mr. Slade said. “We’ll live here in Yorkshire.”

He renounced his profession with the rash impulse of a man in love. For only a moment was I tempted to allow it. I could see that his eyes were focused on distant horizons even as they watched me; I felt the restlessness in him that required the whole world to roam. His spirit, and his love for me, would die in the confines of my life here.

“I cannot accept such a sacrifice,” I said.

We argued long and fervently, he trying to sway me and I standing solid even while I ached with love for him. There was some talk of marrying even though I would remain at home while he went abroad, but a marriage in which we might never see each other seemed pointless to us both. At last Mr. Slade conceded.

“It seems I’ve come to say goodbye after all,” he said, his head bowed, his countenance shattered by despair.

I already regretted my decision, even though I knew it was right. My tears streamed as the funeral party filed past us. I thought Mr. Slade wept too, but I couldn’t be certain.

“If I should return to England,” he said in an unsteady voice, “may I call on you?”

“Yes,” I said, gladdened by the possibility, even as the thought of many years without him gave me pain.

“Then farewell,” Mr. Slade said.

He kissed me tenderly, and I clung to him. I memorized the taste and the warmth of him, the power of our desire; I didn’t care who saw. Then we released each other. After one last, longing look passed between us, Mr. Slade turned from me. Rain began to fall, and even as I watched him walk out of the graveyard, I sobbed. Mr. Slade paused at the gate. His gaze searched me. What an overwhelming urge I fought to call him back! Mr. Slade’s expression grew resigned. He mounted his horse. A desolate peace came over me: If I had to be alone, it was at least by my own choice.

Mr. Slade rode off. I watched until he disappeared from sight.

Reader, I let him go.