The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (11 page)

“Please help us!” I called, turning to the ginger-haired man at the rear of the carriage.

He advanced up the aisle, gripping the seats to steady himself. Lightning blazed, and I glimpsed his face. His raw features wore an expression of sly malice: He was clearly no savior. Even as I recoiled from him, he snatched at me. I uttered a cry, dodged, and fell sideways into a seat. He grasped my collar. I realized that he and the dark man must be partners. He yanked me upright, and as my collar dug into my throat, I gagged. Anne’s screams continued. With a strength born of panic and the desire to save myself and my sister, I lunged towards the window. My collar tore. I beat my hands against the glass and fumbled open the window. Rain blasted into the coach.

“Help!” I shouted. “Someone, please help us!”

The noise of the locomotive and storm drowned my voice. The train sped on. My attacker scrambled into the seat after me. I sobbed in terror as he hauled me backwards into the aisle; I kicked and thrashed. I saw the dark man wrestling with Anne, whose cries and attempts to free herself weakened as he forced her to the floor.

“Anne!” I screamed. “No!”

My attacker clamped a rough cloth that reeked of chemicals over my nose and mouth. The cloth smothered me, and I felt a cold, burning sensation across my skin. Sickly sweet fumes invaded my lungs as I gasped and choked. My vision blurred, and a dizzying faintness quelled my struggles. Thunder boomed, then, darkness claimed me.

Distant voices and hurried footsteps merged in the darkness with a great rattling, rushing din. The smell of smoke accompanied the sound of water spattering as I gradually returned to consciousness. I lay on a firm surface; my head throbbed painfully, and my mouth was dry. Alarm, inspired by terrifying memory, jarred my groggy mental faculties alert.

My eyelids flew open. Light glared across my vision. I tried to sit up, but vertigo assailed me. Coarse, heavy fabric covered me up to my chin, and I thrashed under it, crying, “Anne!”

Her hazy image bent over me. “Dear Charlotte!” Her face was pale and drawn. “Thank God you’re all right!”

“Those men. Where are they?” Breathless with anxiety, I clutched my sister’s hands.

Anne said with a reassuring smile, “Don’t worry, Charlotte; we are safe now.”

I relaxed, though I remained bewildered. “Where are we?”

“At Leeds Station, in the stationmaster’s room.”

“My spectacles—”

Anne positioned the spectacles over my eyes, and my surroundings came into focus. On the walls were colorful railway maps of Britain. I was in a room furnished with a desk, bookcases, a sofa upon which I lay beneath a blanket, and several chairs.

“How did we get here?” Now I recognized the sounds of trains entering the station and people hurrying about. Rain was falling outside the window. “What happened to us?”

The door opened. Anne called over her shoulder, “Come in—my sister is awake at last.”

Gilbert White entered the room. What indescribable astonishment was mine!

“Hello again, Miss Brontë,” he said, gazing down at me with concern. His dark hair was wet; his black suit clung damply to him. “How do you feel?”

“Extremely unwell, but alive.” I pushed myself upright, fighting dizziness. “What are you doing here?”

“Mr. White saved us,” Anne said, giving him a thankful look.

“I don’t understand.” Overwhelmed by the events of the past moments, I shook my aching head. “What happened?”

Gilbert White perched on a nearby chair. Bruises discolored his cheeks, and his white collar was torn, but he appeared vigorously alive, his masculine looks enhanced by his injuries. “I was riding on the same train as you. When I got off at this station, I saw two men climb out of the carriage ahead of mine, supporting a woman who seemed unable to walk.”

“It was you, Charlotte,” Anne said. “The men who attacked us put you to sleep somehow.”

“It must have been the chemical on the cloth over my face.” My dry throat rasped, and Anne handed me a glass of water, which I gladly drank. “What could it have been?”

“Probably ether—the new drug used by surgeons to render patients unconscious during operations,” Gilbert White explained. “At first I didn’t know the woman was you, because I couldn’t see your face. Then I heard cries coming from the carriage that the two men had just left. I hurried over, looked inside, and found your sister lying on the floor, bound and gagged.”

“Oh, Anne,” I said, horrified. “Were you hurt?”

“Not at all; just frightened,” Anne assured me. “When Mr. White removed my gag, we recognized each other. I begged him to rescue you. He called the railway guards to assist me, then ran after the men.”

“I spotted them outside the station,” said Mr. White. “They were putting you into a hired carriage. One man got in after you. I grabbed the other as he was climbing up and knocked him to the ground. As the carriage sped away, I jumped in. The man inside fought me, but I threw him out onto the street. I then ordered the driver to return to the station.”

“He carried you inside,” Anne said, “and obtained the stationmaster’s permission for you to recover here.”

“Sir, I sincerely thank you,” I said, overwhelmed by gratitude. “Indeed, I believe I owe you my life. Where could those men have been taking me?”

“Unfortunately, I had no chance to ask them, for they fled with great haste.”

Anne said, “Mr. White’s first concern was your safety.” She smiled at him, and I noted that his actions had won her esteem. “He couldn’t abandon you to chase our attackers.”

That a man should behave so towards me! This was the stuff of fantasies that had preoccupied me during my youth, when I day-dreamed tales of being rescued by the Duke of Zamorna, my imaginary hero. I felt a profound thrill.

Gilbert White scrutinized me. “Your color improves.” A hint of mirth lightened his somber aspect.

Did he guess my thoughts? Ashamed that he should notice my blushing, I reminded myself that I was no longer a silly young girl, and tonight’s adventure was not a fantasy. Any one of us could have been seriously hurt. “What could those men have wanted with me?” I said to Anne. “Did they steal anything from us?”

“Before they left the carriage, they looked through our books and emptied our satchels, but everything is here.” Anne gestured towards our trunk, atop which lay our other possessions.

“They wanted only me,” I said, even more disturbed and puzzled. “But why?”

“I have heard that sometimes men abduct women for immoral reasons,” Anne murmured, lowering her eyes in aversion to the crimes at which she hinted.

“But I am inclined to think that my experience was another in a series of events stemming from the murder,” I said. “One of those men might have been the person who chased me at the opera, while the other ransacked our room at the Chapter Coffee House. Although I don’t possess whatever it is that they seek, perhaps they think I can lead them to it.”

“If so, then one of them must have killed my sister.” Gilbert White rose, his expression animated yet troubled; he paced the office restlessly. “Unless we discover the truth about these crimes and catch the criminals, these attacks on you will surely continue. The only way to obtain justice for Isabel and to protect you is to catch those men. I’ve reported the incident to the local police, but I didn’t get a good look at the men.” He faced me, his brilliant eyes eager. “Perhaps you could describe them?”

“I’m sorry to say that I paid them little attention until it was too late,” I said ruefully.

“As did I,” Anne said.

“But we must try to remember as much as possible about them,” I said.

Just then, the stationmaster entered the office. He was a florid-faced man dressed in a railway uniform. “Pardon me,” he said. “Just checking to see how the ladies are.”

Anne and I assured him that we both were well.

“It’s a pity that such a thing happened to you on this railway,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ve missed the last train to Keighley, but there’s another tomorrow morning. In the meantime, if you want lodging, I suggest the White Horse Inn.”

As I thanked him, my gaze alit on a framed picture on his desk. It was a miniature portrait of a woman and children who must be his family. Inspiration struck.

“Sir,” I said, “may I please have a pencil and paper?” To Mr. White I said, “I shall sketch the faces of the men who attacked us.”

Drawing is a favorite hobby of mine, although my talents are modest. As I sat at the desk and began to sketch, my hand was subject to a fearful trembling which had little to do with the events just past. My drawings—like my stories—are mirrors of my soul. When I draw for someone, or read aloud my writing, I hunger for praise and fear criticism. When my audience is a man, I feel most vulnerable. And when he is a man towards whom I have particular feelings, an intoxicating, shameful warmth spreads through my body, almost as if I were disrobing before him. I felt the warmth now as I drew the ginger-haired man. Anne offered suggestions, while Gilbert White stood beside me, watching.

“Such impressive talent you have,” he said.

“You are too generous, sir,” I said with an awkward laugh.

Yet his praise delighted me. Unexpected memories arose to increase my agitation. I saw myself in the parsonage nine years ago, sketching William Weightman. When he stepped over to view the portrait, he touched his lips to my cheek in a brief, daring kiss. How I burned for days afterward! I recalled a schoolroom in Belgium, where I read aloud a French essay I’d written. My professor—a man I once loved to distraction—hurled scathing criticisms at me until I wept. Then he was all sympathetic kindness. Such passions he roused in me! Never could I let him know how much I craved the touch of his hand.

Gilbert White’s hands now rested on the desk near me—those strong, clean hands which had wrested my life from the grip of peril. The thought of his carrying me to safety stirred me powerfully. I hazarded a glance up at him—and straight into the impenetrable depths of his eyes. Mightily embarrassed, I averted my gaze. I applied myself to drawing until the portraits were done.

“Very true and lifelike they are,” said Anne.

“I’m sure they will help locate the men,” Gilbert White said. “But for now, please let me take you and your sister to safe lodgings, Miss Brontë.”

I gladly agreed, for I welcomed his protection and company. He installed us in a carriage and rode with us to the White Horse Inn. As we disembarked, a sulfurous fog engulfed us. The chill penetrated my damp garments, yet I was warm as from a fire burning inside me.

“I apologize for disrupting your plans,” I said, in fear of the possibility that Mr. White was merely discharging what he saw as a duty.

“I’m glad to help you.” Mr. White paid the driver and lifted my trunk.

Heartened I was by his apparent sincerity; yet I thought to wonder how Gilbert White had happened to be on the same train as I. “May I ask what brought you to Leeds?” I asked.

“I’m on my way to Bradford, to inform my mother of Isabel’s death,” Gilbert White said as he opened the inn’s door.

I pitied him this sad task, and my distrust shamed me.

“I, too, have missed my train and must stop the night here,” he added.

Inside the inn, Anne and I engaged a room upstairs and Mr. White took one on the ground floor. He accompanied us to our room, to ensure that all was right. I heard him test the lock on the door—but avoided watching him; I pretended to study the white curtains and flowered wallpaper. His presence in the room where I would sleep caused me shameful thoughts.

“You should be safe tonight,” Mr. White said. “I’m a light sleeper, and if anyone approaches you, I’ll hear.”

His words, meant to reassure, divided my emotions. Glad though I was to have him near, might our inhabiting the same house violate propriety? I recalled my unease when he had asked me if Isabel had given me anything. What did I know about him other than what he himself had told me?

Hesitantly I followed him into the corridor, while Anne remained in the room. “Sir,” I began, seeking a way to dispel uncertainty without offending him.

I had only his word for what had happened between him and my attackers after he caught up with them. Could he be their accomplice? The ghastly notion stifled my voice as we stood facing each other. Mr. White waited for me to speak, his expression turning suddenly cautious. The narrow corridor confined us; a single lamp cast a fitful, smoky light. The inn’s staff and other guests had retired, and in the silence I heard my rapid breathing—and his. My back was pressed against the wall; my heart thumped with an uncomfortable fusion of fear and an awareness of the improper feelings that had arisen in me towards this man I couldn’t quite trust.

At last he spoke. “May I escort you to Keighley tomorrow?” His voice was soft, his gaze compelling. “After what happened tonight, you shouldn’t travel alone.”