The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (31 page)

“The school was doomed despite all your effort,” said my host. “It is not your fault that you were unable to assure independent means for your sisters and yourself.”

This I believed; but there persisted a nagging suspicion that my dislike of teaching, and a secret wish to fail, had undone my best efforts. And though my host’s voice conveyed no criticism, I thought I deserved the blame. I felt like a pathetic wretch, despite my literary success, which he seemed unaware of; at the time, even I could almost believe it had never happened.

“A woman in your position can secure her future by marrying,” my host said. “Why did you not?”

He seemed to know my every sensitive spot, and now he had touched the sorest. “I didn’t want to marry either of the two men who wanted to marry me,” I answered, driven to justify myself. “They were as ill suited to me as I to them.”

“Perhaps your unique character has destined you for solitude.”

He spoke this as a compliment, yet with a ring of prophecy that discouraged my lingering hope that I would find love. That Mr. Slade did not come to my rescue seemed incontrovertible proof that he was not meant for me.

“But do not despair, Miss Brontë,” my host said. His voice breathed comfort through his screen towards me. “I appreciate you as other men cannot. You have in me a friend who values the rare qualities that everyone else overlooks. I shall reward you for your many hardships and failures.”

I felt so lost, hopeless, and alone that I could almost believe him to be the only person in the world who cared for me. I dimly realized that he had worked this same spell on Isabel White.
He seemed the one person in the world who knew me and accepted me with all my faults. Every piece of myself that I gave Him purchased His favor in some inexplicable way, and I desired His favor above all else.
He must have shown her the futility of her life, then drawn her to into his treacherous web.

“Now has come the time to discuss the proposal that I mentioned in my letter,” he said. “I offer you a position in my employ.”

How he worked his spell had been amply demonstrated to me; his motives concerning myself remained obscure. I said, “Why would you wish to employ me? Why go to such lengths to bring me here?”

With sly amusement he replied, “Perhaps you have heard the saying, ‘An intelligent enemy is preferable to a stupid friend.’ However, I believe that an intelligent friend is most desirable.”

He thought he could turn me into a confederate and use my cleverness to his advantage. Then he needn’t fear that I would report him to the authorities. He was clearly trying to master me by demolishing my self-pride.

“What is the position you are offering?” I asked.

“I can only tell you that should you accept it, you will be a rich woman,” he said. “Your every desire will be satisfied. You will live in luxury, assure yourself a better future than you could imagine, and fulfill your destiny.”

He had judged my character based on what his spies had learned about me and what he’d elicited from me tonight. He thought me a woman who was clever yet luckless, who was daring yet had failed at every venture she’d attempted heretofore, and who could thus be bought with a vague promise of financial security and a renewed sense of purpose in life. But he had misjudged me. He was unaware that I was the author of a famous novel, and that I was in league with a spy for the Crown. Mr. Slade had kept his identity as secret as I had mine; the villain had yet to detect that Mr. Slade was after him. He, like so many others, had underestimated me. Now, if I wanted to remain safe, I must play along with him.

“Your kindness is much appreciated,” I stammered, “but—”

Even in my addled condition, I perceived that here was the devil incarnate, offering to purchase my soul. If I accepted, he would force me into immoral acts as he had done Isabel. If ever I disobeyed him, I would meet a similar violent end. The price I would pay for wealth and gratification was my soul’s eternal damnation. Yet an impulse to leap at his offer vied with my distrust and natural caution, so alluring was he. He had shaken my self-confidence, and what better could I expect from life? And although I wanted never again to endure his company or his ruthless examination of me, I feared what he would do if I refused.

“But you need time to consider my proposal,” he said smoothly. “I do not expect you to decide in such haste. After you return to England, you will place an advertisement in the
Times
stating that Miss Brontë does or does not accept the position offered her in Belgium. Now the carriage will return you to your hotel. I bid you farewell, and thank you for a most delightful evening. Please put on your blindfold, Miss Brontë.”

When the carriage left me at the hotel, I fled inside—and collided so violently with Mr. Slade that he put his arms around me to steady us. I clung to him as shudders convulsed me.

“Thank God you’re all right,” he exclaimed in relief.

“I was so afraid,” I cried. “Why did you not come?”

“Your driver managed to elude us.”

This was exactly as I had feared. Now I quaked harder at the realization that I had been utterly alone and defenseless.

“I came back to wait for you,” Mr. Slade said. “The police are still out searching.”

Belatedly I realized that we held each other in too intimate an embrace. I stepped away from Mr. Slade. He seated me on a divan and summoned a maid to bring me tea. The cup and saucer were placed in my hands, which trembled so much that the china rattled, but the strong, bitter brew invigorated me.

Mr. Slade sat by my side. “Where did you go?”

“I don’t know,” I said, then explained why. “But it seemed to be a large house in the country.”

“What did the house look like?”

Alas, I had to tell him that the blindfold had prevented me from seeing anything except the dining room, which I described in detail.

“Tell me about the man you met,” Mr. Slade said.

“He would not tell me his name. And I never saw his face. He sat behind a screen. But I know he is a foreigner.” I tried to imitate his accent, but I am hopeless at mimicry. Mr. Slade could no more identify the villain’s land of origin than I could. When Mr. Slade asked what we had talked about, I related the proposal the man had made me.

“Is that all?” Mr. Slade said. “You were gone for quite some time. What else happened?”

“Nothing.” I averted my eyes, too ashamed to confess the man’s strange effect upon me.

“Perhaps the police can find the house,” Mr. Slade said.

The next afternoon, while riding along the country roads where my driver had shaken them off his tail, the police stumbled upon the house in the Forêt de Soignes, a tract of woods southeast of Brussels. They took Mr. Slade and me to the ancient, ruined brick chateau. Its walls were crumbling and mossy, the window-panes shattered, the gardens overgrown by weeds; the turrets and gables had collapsed in places. Mr. Slade and I walked through corridors hung with peeling wallpaper, and vacant chambers stripped of furniture, into the dining room.

“This is the place,” I said.

The candles had burned out. My meal lay cold on the table, and a rat nibbled the food. No one sat behind the screen, but the exotic perfume lingered on the air. As I shivered at disturbing memories, the police inspector joined us.

“This house is the ancestral estate of an impoverished noble family,” he said. “Last year they rented the house to a Mr. Smith from England. They communicate with him only by letter and have never met him. Neither have the local people, for he keeps to himself. We’ve searched the property, but found no trace of the tenants.”

“‘Mr. Smith’ is apparently gone and not to return,” Mr. Slade said, his expression grim.

“We cannot catch him if we don’t know who he is,” said the police inspector.

Mr. Slade met my gaze, and we shared a thought that caused me tremors of dread. “It seems that the only possible means of locating the criminal is for me to accept his offer,” I said.

A
LAS, MR. SLADE AND I WERE NOT THE ONLY ONES DISAPPOINTED by our misadventure in Brussels. We traveled posthaste to London and there presented ourselves to Mr. Slade’s superiors in the Foreign Office. Again we sat with Lord Unwin and his officials at the long table in the smoky chamber on Downing Street. After Mr. Slade described my rendezvous with the villain and his own thwarted pursuit, Lord Unwin regarded him with contempt.

“You had this man within your reach and allowed him to elude you.” Indignation elevated Lord Unwin’s reedy, affected voice. “Your ineptitude appalls me.”

Yet the sparkle in his pale eyes attested to how much he relished Mr. Slade’s failure. Mr. Slade endured the reprimand with clenched jaws. I knew he excoriated himself no less than did Lord Unwin. I sat silent and mournful to hear Mr. Slade abused.

“The trip was not a complete loss,” Mr. Slade said. “Communication was established between the villain and Miss Brontë. Should she place the advertisement in the
Times
and accept his offer of employment, he’ll contact her again. That will give me another chance at him.”

“Another chance, perhaps, but not for you,” Lord Unwin said. “We cannot afford the risk that you might blunder again. As of this moment, I am removing you from this inquiry.”

“You can’t!” Mr. Slade was outraged. “Not after I’ve handled the investigation this far, and it has produced what information we have about the villain. Not after one unfortunate mishap!”

“Indeed I can.” Lord Unwin’s cruel, haughty smile deepened. “And it’s not just one mistake you’ve made.” He lifted a paper that lay in front of him and passed it to Mr. Slade. “This letter came for you while you were in Belgium. I took the liberty of reading it.”

As Mr. Slade scanned the letter, a frown darkened his brow. He silently handed the paper to me. On it I read the words written in a hasty black scrawl: “No luck yet identifying the owner of the ship used by Isaiah Fearon to smuggle weapons out of Britain. No further contact with the person responsible.” There was no signature, but I deduced that the author must be the prime minister. My heart sank; our hopes of learning anything from him had been dashed.

“It seems that your other inquiries have also proved fruitless,” Lord Unwin said, clearly gratified at the second blow he’d delivered Mr. Slade. “You will go back to France and resume spying on the secret societies. Other agents will be dispatched to Belgium to trace the villain’s movements from there, and to Haworth to guard Miss Brontë. After she places the advertisement, they will report to me any communication she receives from the villain.”

Mr. Slade and I looked at each other in extreme dismay. I knew he didn’t want to return to the place where he had lost his wife. I also knew how loath he was to quit our mission after we had come this far.

“You’ll not disrupt the pursuit of a killer and traitor because of your personal grievances with me!” Mr. Slade rose so abruptly that his chair crashed to the floor.