Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (2 page)

All of this I learned about much later. By then I was already embroiled in the adventure, and it was too late to turn back. By then I had learned a lesson.

Lightning does strike twice.

Reader, I am proof.

Herein is my story.

W
HEN I WAS YOUNG, I WISHED FOR ADVENTURE AND ROMANCE, for travel to exciting locales far from Haworth, the tiny village where I have lived most of my life. I wished for success as an author, to be famous and sought after, to leave my mark on the world. Outrageous ambitions these were for the daughter of a Yorkshire parson! Little did I realize that when I achieved my ambitions, the reality would bear scant resemblance to the dream. Nor did I realize that I should have been careful what I wished for because I might get it.

These thoughts were much on my mind on the Thursday evening of 29 May 1851.

Arm in arm with my publisher, George Smith, I strolled into Almack's Assembly Rooms in London. We entered the salon, where a chattering crowd of society folk occupied rows of damask-covered benches. Light from gas chandeliers gleamed on the women's silk gowns, upswept hair, white bosoms, and glittering jewelry. The scene dazzled my nearsighted eyes as I peered through my spectacles. Miserably destitute of self-possession, I hesitated.

“Have courage, my dear Charlotte,” George Smith said. Tall and youthful, he had brown eyes and smooth brown hair; he looked elegant in formal evening dress. He was as perceptive as he was handsome, and he knew about my shyness. “Everyone is positively dying to meet you.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.” This was my fourth trip to London, but my dread of appearing in public had never diminished. Before leaving home I'd been so plagued by nerves that I had suffered one of my bilious attacks. I was still weak, my stomach still queasy.

George Smith laughed and patted my hand. “Fear not. I'll protect you.”

Four years ago, I'd sent the manuscript of my novel to him. Smith, Elder and Company had published
Jane Eyre
, and it had become a famous bestseller. When we had first met in 1848, I had become briefly infatuated with George. We had since become friends—indeed, very intimate friends. Flirtation pervaded our letters and our talk. Three years ago I could not have anticipated such a turn of events. Nor would I have believed that if one of us fell in love with the other, it would not be me.

As we walked through the salon, faces turned in my direction. I felt dowdy in my black silk frock. Having a bestselling novel to my name did not quell my lifelong fear of what other people thought of how I looked. When I'd dared to imagine myself famous, I'd always imagined myself transformed into a beauty. Would that all dreams could come true! Yet, even though I remained as small and plain as ever, excited murmurs arose. Before the publication of
Jane Eyre
, no one had ever heard of Charlotte Brontë. Now, it seemed everybody had. Once I could have walked as if invisible among these folk, but no more: I was an object of curiosity and speculation. That I had never expected.

George's mother, walking on my other side, said, “Miss Brontë, if you're uncomfortable, we'll be glad to send you home.”

Mrs. Smith was a portly, dark-haired woman, still attractive despite her age, and she did not like me any more than I liked her. Despite her solicitous tone, I knew she wished I would go back to the Smith family house, where I was staying, so she could enjoy the evening with her son. That was something else about fame that I hadn't expected—that I would make enemies.

When George had first introduced her to me three years ago, he had not told her that I was the author of
Jane Eyre
; for reasons I will not detail here, it had been published under my pseudonym, Currer Bell, and I had wanted my true identity kept confidential. When my identity was finally revealed, Mrs. Smith was furious at the deception. She was also mortified that I—whom she'd treated as a poor, dull nobody—was responsible for earning a fortune for her son's publishing company. And she feared that I had designs of a matrimonial nature on George.

Mrs. Smith didn't know that my heart belonged to another man, whom I would most probably never see again this side of Heaven.

“Thank you, but I don't want to go home,” I said, hiding my antipathy behind politeness. “I would not want to miss hearing Mr. Thackeray.”

The great author William Makepeace Thackeray had lately embarked upon a series of lectures, The English Humorists of the 18th Century, which were all the rage with the fashionable literary set. This was the kind of event I had once dreamed of attending.

“Be careful not to steal his thunder,” George said playfully.

“I could never,” I said, aghast at the idea.

At the front of the room, surrounded by fawning ladies and gentlemen, stood the author of the famous novel,
Vanity Fair
. He was above six feet tall, with a mane of gray hair, and quite ugly, his expression at once stern and satirical. His sharp gaze homed in on me through the spectacles perched on his nose. He smiled, and I smiled back. I was proud to count him among the friends I'd made since the publication of
Jane Eyre
. I was glad he had noticed me, but the glint in his eyes should have warned me to expect mischief.

He left his admirers, drawing one of the women with him, a fine old lady with snow-white hair. They approached me, and Mr. Thackeray said loudly to her, “Mother, allow me to introduce you to Jane Eyre.”

The room fell silent. Everyone stared at me. Mr. Thackeray smiled as if he'd done me a favor by identifying me as the heroine of my novel and making me the center of attention. But I was mortified. Blushing furiously, I wished a hole would open in the floor and swallow me. Mr. Thackeray was waiting for my reply, but I was so upset, and so angry at him, that I could think of none.

Mrs. Smith said, “Come, Miss Brontë.” She drew me away to a vacant bench near the wall. I knew she resented any attention paid to me, but I was thankful that she'd separated me from Mr. Thackeray before I did something regrettable. As she and George sat on either side of me, I heard murmurs in the crowd.

“Miss Brontë dedicated the second edition of
Jane Eyre
to Mr. Thackeray, didn't she?”

“Do you know that his wife is mad and she had to be put in an insane asylum?”

“They say that his wife was the model for the madwoman in
Jane Eyre
.”

“Yes, and I heard that Miss Brontë was once a governess in Mr. Thackeray's house. I wouldn't be surprised if they'd had inappropriate intimacies. Remember, Becky Sharp and Jane Eyre were both governesses who married their employers.”

What a scandal had my innocent gesture of admiration caused! Alas, no one had told me about Mr. Thackeray's insane wife until too late. Many readers now thought my novel was auto-biographical and Mr. Thackeray and I were the hero and heroine, even though it was patently untrue: Although I had been a governess, I had never worked for Mr. Thackeray. We had not met until after I became a published authoress. Mr. Thackeray had been kind about my blunder, and if his prank were his only retribution, I should be glad.

More whispers reached my ears: “Miss Brontë and her publisher seem on very intimate terms.” “Yes, even though she is his elder.” George Smith was twenty-nine years of age, a most eligible bachelor, and I thirty-five, a spinster long past my prime. “I wonder if we'll soon hear wedding bells.”

George smiled and pretended nothing had happened. His mother fumed. By this time I should have gotten accustomed to being the subject of rumors, but I had not.

At long last, the audience was seated. The room quieted as Mr. Thackeray took his place behind the lectern. He spoke with simplicity and ease. Humor and force enlivened everything he said. The audience responded with laughter and approval. I would have enjoyed it completely, had I not felt the glances upon me, as intrusive as the unwanted touch of hands. The evening had just begun, and there was worse to come.

When the lecture ended, the people in the audience arranged themselves in two lines along the aisle. Mr. Thackeray walked down the aisle, shaking hands, accepting compliments, exchanging quips. When he reached the door, the people did not follow him out; they remained.

“They're waiting for you,” George gently informed me.

Shrinking between him and his mother, I walked the gauntlet. It was an endless tunnel of faces that smiled too close to me, warm, moist hands that pressed mine, and cultured voices making enthusiastic remarks. I smiled, murmured polite replies, and tried not to faint from embarrassment. When we entered another room, in which refreshments were served, I became separated from the Smiths and cornered by a formidable group of my admirers.

“I simply loved
Jane Eyre
,” exclaimed the Duchess of Sutherland. “When will your next book be published?”

“I'm afraid I can't say,” I replied unhappily.

It had been nearly four years since the publication of
Jane Eyre
, and going on two since my second novel,
Shirley
, had appeared. The second had not been received as well as the first. Hence, I felt considerable pressure to produce a new work that would live up to
Jane Eyre
.

“At least tell us what the book is about,” came the outcry.

I only wished I knew. I had been unable to settle upon a subject for my next book. Thus far my publisher had been understanding and patient, but I couldn't expect him—or the public—to wait forever. “I'm sorry,” was all I could think to say.

I escaped, only to be accosted by other folk asking the same questions. Once I would have given my life for such avid interest in my literary works. Now I only wanted to hide. Once I could have comforted myself with the knowledge that when I went home I would describe this evening to those I loved most. But they were gone.

My brother Branwell had died first, in 1848 September, of consumption. Too soon afterward, in December, did my sister Emily die of the same disease. I prayed to God that He would spare my youngest sister, Anne, but in the New Year she became ill with consumption. By 1849 May, she, too, was dead.

In our youth my siblings and I had encouraged one another in our artistic pursuits, and I'd believed that we would share a brilliant future together. My prediction came partially true when Emily and Anne and I all published novels. But Emily's
Wuthering Heights
and Anne's
Agnes Grey
and
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
were not favored by the critics or the public. And never did I suspect that I would be the only one of us to achieve any fame and financial success, or that I would be left to experience it alone. Their deaths still haunt me; my grief is still raw. I am thankful that I still have my father, but the one other person who could have alleviated my sorrow is far away.

That person is, of course, John Slade, the spy with whom I fell in love during my adventures in 1848. He asked me to marry him, but I refused because he was due to leave for an assignment in Russia, and we could not count on seeing each other again. I love him yet, even though I have not heard from him in all these years and do not know whether he still loves me—or even if he is still alive.

The matter of what to call John Slade, in my mind as well as in this narrative, has required some thought. “Mr. Slade” would be most proper, but in view of our relations it seems too formal. “John” seems too familiar because we didn't know each other long enough to progress to first names. Therefore, I think of him as “Slade,” a compromise. But no matter how I refer to him, he is always in my heart. I miss him daily, keenly.

My longing for my lost loved ones still overcomes me at unpredictable, inconvenient times. Now, in the midst of gay society, I felt tears sting my eyes. Groping toward the door, I bumped smack into a gentleman.