Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (21 page)

T
HE SECRET ADVENTURES OF JOHN SLADE

1850 July. A feverish orange sun set over Moscow. Smoke veiled the red gothic tower that rose above the Saviour Gate to the Kremlin. Inside the tower, John Slade and Prince Orlov mounted the stairs to the lookout post at the top, a small, octagonal space with open arches that provided views in all directions. Tsar Nicholas stood looking over the city toward the Presnya quarter, where radicals had incited violence among workers angered by bad conditions in the factories and peasants starved by high food prices. A riot was underway, and riots inevitably led to fires. The Tsar turned away from the distant orange glow of the flames. He faced Slade and Prince Orlov, who bowed.

“Your Highness,” Orlov said. “This is Ivan Zubov, the man I mentioned.”

“Ah. The informant who warned us about the riot,” the Tsar said.

As he and Slade studied each other, Slade saw an intelligent man burdened by responsibility yet determined to lead his kingdom to world supremacy. He knew that the Tsar saw in him a traitor to his own cause and a useful tool for the regime. That was exactly what Slade wanted the Tsar to see. This was a moment of professional triumph for Slade: at last he had breached the strict security around the Tsar.

“Mr. Zubov spied on the radicals who planned the riot,” Prince Orlov said, eager to curry the Tsar's favor. “Thanks to him, my men were able to contain it before it could spread to the rest of the city.”

“Very good,” the Tsar said.

“Perhaps Mr. Zubov is too good. Or perhaps not good enough.” The harsh voice belonged to a man who stood in a shadowed corner of the tower.

Slade was disturbed that he hadn't noticed the man. How could he, an expert spy, fail to detect someone who was only six feet away? The man emanated none of the signals by which people reveal their presence. His breathing was silent. His body had no odor, even on this hot night. He had stood perfectly still until now, when he shifted position. The lights from the city edged his face, whose skin was pitted, whose pale eyes gleamed like mercury.

“Comrade Wilhelm Stieber,” Prince Orlov said. “I didn't know you were there. What do you mean by your comment about Mr. Zubov?” He bristled at the criticism of Slade, his gift to the Tsar.

Slade recalled the information he'd read in Stieber's dossier. Stieber had been born in Prussian Saxony, had studied law at Friedrich Wilhelm University in Berlin, had worked for the Berlin police and risen to the rank of Inspector of the Criminal Division. After the revolutions of 1848, he'd been promoted to chief of police. He'd then ventured abroad and cropped up in courts all over Europe. According to his dossier, he was thirty-three years of age, but his gray hair, confident poise, and air of wisdom made him seem decades older, even though he had the vigor of youth. The dossier provided only the meager details that the Foreign Office had managed to compile. Stieber was an enigma.

Now Stieber addressed Prince Orlov but watched Slade. “Mr. Zubov has warned us about many problems. The riot in Presnya, the anti-government propaganda strewn around the city, and the secret societies recruiting members among the workers and peasants, for example.”

“That's to his credit,” Prince Orlov said.

“But he never warns us soon enough to prevent trouble,” Stieber said. “It always happens anyway.”

The Tsar frowned as he listened. He was not a rash leader who jumped into disputes and imposed his own opinion; he would rather hear all sides first. Slade hid his own consternation. Did Stieber suspect that he was deliberately delaying his reports? Instinct warned him not to speak. He'd heard that Stieber excelled at reading people. One tiny lapse in his Russian accent could give him away. If there was anyone who could discern that Slade wasn't whom he purported to be, it was Stieber.

Prince Orlov said, “Even the best informant can't always find things out as early as we would like. And if you're implying that the Third Section is at fault—well, my men react as best they can on short notice.” His bald head and fleshy face glistened with sweat.

“Those are good excuses,” Stieber said. “If excuses were horses, all men would ride.”

“We've arrested many political enemies since Mr. Zubov began working for us.” Prince Orlov glanced at the Tsar, whose frown deepened.

“Have you noticed that most of those ‘political enemies' are thieves, street brawlers, confidence men, murderers, and other common criminals? They're hardly the cream of the dissident intelligentsia, the people we want to crush,” Stieber said.

“The three who tried to assassinate me were,” Prince Orlov retorted.

“So it would seem. Have you also noticed that since Mr. Zubov began working for you, activity among the secret societies has increased, and so has civil unrest?”

“What are you saying?” demanded Prince Orlov.

Slade wondered if Stieber suspected the truth about him. Or perhaps Stieber automatically distrusted anyone new to the Tsar's inner circle; perhaps he was jealous because he viewed Slade as a rival for influence over the Tsar. Slade waited, outwardly calm, tense inside.

“Just that Mr. Zubov bears watching,” Stieber said evenly.

His gaze locked with Slade's. Antagonism sparked between the two men, hot and bright as the fires burning in the city. The figures of Prince Orlov and Tsar Nicholas seemed to waver, no more substantial than ghosts. For a moment Stieber and Slade were alone in the world. Slade realized that he'd met his match. Of the three powerful men, Stieber was the one from whom Slade—and the world—had the most to fear.

E
VERYTHING IN THE WAY OF FOOD, CLOTHING, SHELTER, AND SERVICE was provided for me at Osborne House, but I didn't like to impose on the Queen after the last, disastrous time I'd spent under her roof in 1848. I hardly slept. The next day I traveled to London and arrived in the evening. I trudged up the steps to 76 Gloucester Terrace and found the Smiths seated inside at dinner. They beheld me with surprise.

“Charlotte,” George said as he rose from his chair. “I didn't expect you back so soon.”

So soon?
I'd been gone for three days. I was surprised that he didn't seem worried. “I'm sorry I left without telling you.”

“Never mind,” George said. “You're always welcome here.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Smith said, but her smile was false. “Please join us.”

George pulled out a chair at the table for me and ordered the maid to set another place. “That's a pretty frock,” his sister Eliza said. “Is it new?”

“Yes.” The Queen's servants had obtained it for me. It was a blue-and-white striped summer frock, much more fashionable than the clothes I usually wore. They'd also provided me with new undergarments, shoes, stockings, coat, and parasol. I hardly felt like myself.

“I'm sorry you had to interrupt your visit because you'd been called home,” George said. “Is everything is all right with your family?”

I regarded him in confusion. “I wasn't called home. What gave you that idea?”

He looked to his mother. Avoiding my gaze, she said, “Why, I just assumed that was what had happened.” She added, “I packed your things and sent them to Haworth.”

“How kind of you.” I deduced that Mrs. Smith had been glad to have me gone and persuaded George to think I'd been called home. She hadn't cared what had really become of me.

“Then what did happen?” George asked. “Where did you go?”

“I was arrested and put in Newgate Prison,” I said.

Shocked gasps burst from everyone at the table. George said, “Whatever for?”

I explained that I had gone to call on Katerina and described the condition in which I'd found her. “I didn't kill her. I was wrongfully arrested.” I didn't tell the Smiths what had happened afterward. If I told them where I'd been last night, they would never believe me. Indeed, there was much about me that they would never believe. But my manner must have convinced them that I was telling the truth about my arrest.

“How terrible.” Mrs. Smith spoke with pity and distaste, but she couldn't hide her delight.

I suppose I should have been embarrassed about what had happened and fearful of what the Smiths would think of me; but I had other, bigger concerns.

George was aghast. “Why didn't you let me know?”

“I tried to send word.” I told him about the priest at the police station. “But it seems the priest didn't bother to deliver the message.”

“That's unfortunate,” George said. “Had I received it, I would have hurried to your rescue at once.”

Some impulse made me look at Mrs. Smith. Her expression was compounded of slyness and pleasure. George's gaze followed mine. Astonishment appeared on his face as he drew the same conclusion that I had. “The priest did come,” he said. “I wasn't at home. He delivered his message to you, didn't he, Mother?”

She stammered, then said, “Well, yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” George demanded.

Guilt flushed her cheeks. “When the priest said Miss Brontë had been arrested, I didn't believe him. I thought he was a prankster.” It was obvious to me that she was lying. I could tell by their expressions that it was obvious to George and her other children as well. They all looked appalled. “I didn't want to bother you,” she finished lamely.

I had turned the other cheek to her gibes, but this malicious act I could not tolerate. “You knew I was in trouble and you deliberately turned your back on me! Madam, you are a selfish, jealous, wicked woman!”

She reacted with the chagrin of someone who has been tormenting a cat and had it suddenly scratch her. I could have raged at her until Christmas, but as her family gaped in shock at both of us, I remembered that George was my publisher and refrained from telling off his mother as thoroughly as I would have liked.

“I won't inconvenience you any further,” I said, icily polite now, to Mrs. Smith. Then I walked out of the room.

I heard Mrs. Smith sputter and George say to her, “You and I will talk later.” He hurried after me. “Charlotte, wait!” He caught up with me outside the house. “I'm sorry. I don't know what's gotten into Mother. I thought she liked you.”

Men are so thickheaded, I thought. “It's quite all right.”

“No, it isn't,” George said. “That my mother would do such a thing to an author of mine! And I'd hoped you and she could be friends. Because . . .” He gazed into my eyes. I was dismayed to see tenderness in his. “I'd hoped that you and I—that perhaps we could be more than author and publisher.”

Once I would have thrilled to hear that. Now I had no time to let him down gently. I had only a few days of freedom, their definite number unknown. “George, I'm sorry, but what you suggest is impossible. I am not the sort of woman who could make you happy. Please say no more. Let us just continue to be friends.”

George was clearly disappointed, and surprised. “Well. If that's what you wish.” Few women he knew would have spurned him. Then I saw a gleam in his eyes: he was a man who relished a challenge. “Friends, then. For now.”

I was glad his feelings hadn't been hurt too much, but sorry that I'd not discouraged him. I saw a carriage coming up the road, hailed it down, and climbed inside. “Goodbye.”

“Are you going back to Haworth?” George called as the carriage rattled away.

“Yes.” I called to the driver, “Take me to Euston Station.”

Although time was short, I had to return home. There I could recover from my ordeal. Only there could I find enough peace of mind to figure out how to exonerate Slade and myself.

T
HE EXPERIENCE OF A JOURNEY BETWEEN HAWORTH AND ANYWHERE else depends on which direction I am traveling. A trip to London takes all night, requires a four-mile walk or wagon ride to Keighley Station and a change of trains in Leeds, and severely taxes my health and nerves. Yet no matter that the return trip involves the same exertions, I feel myself rejuvenating the closer I get to Haworth. It is as if home exerts a life-giving force that heals body and soul. Although I cannot bear the isolation of Haworth for long, and I repeatedly flee from it, I am always drawn back.