The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (40 page)

“We must tell the Queen everything,” Mr. Slade said.

Lord Russell looked anxious. “Not everything, surely.”

“We’ll keep your connection with Mr. Kuan a secret,” Mr. Slade assured him. “We’ll persuade the Queen to let Miss Brontë stay in her employ long enough for us to find out who Kuan’s agents are and apprehend them and him.”

“How do you propose to persuade Her Majesty?” Lord Russell said, clearly deeming this a futile plan.

“That’s what we must determine before you take Miss Brontë to the palace,” said Slade. “She would probably like some luncheon first. Take her to the Warwick Club. I’ll meet you there.”

Lord Russell shook his head as though in disbelief that any good could come of whatever we did, but he said, “Very well.”

The traffic cleared; the carriage began moving faster. Mr. Slade opened the door. “Where are you going?” I said, loath to lose him.

“To gather our forces,” Mr. Slade said, then jumped from the carriage.

Lord Russell and I dined in a private room, at a table laid with heavy silver, fine linen, and china. Velvet draperies covered the window; with candles burning, it felt like night. We had finished and were sitting in grim silence when Mr. Slade arrived with Lord Unwin and a man I didn’t know. This man was in his sixties and handsome with an elegant figure, wavy grey hair, and a jaunty step. Lord Russell and I both rose.

“Lord Palmerston,” the prime minister said, speaking and bowing stiffly. He barely acknowledged Lord Unwin, whose haughty countenance showed resentment at the snub.

Lord Palmerston returned the greeting with cool civility. Mr. Slade said, “Miss Brontë, may I present the foreign secretary?”

I had recognized his name. This was the man charged with managing England’s relations with foreign kingdoms and protecting the interests of the crown. The newspapers extolled his skill at diplomacy as loudly as they criticized his policies. “It is an honor, sir,” I said, awestruck.

He took my hand and gracefully raised it to his lips. “The honor is all mine.” His smile was shaped like a Cupid’s bow; his eyes sparkled with intelligence and zest. His voice was suave, and I felt the power of his charm. “I had the pleasure of knowing your father long ago. Pat Brontë and I were at Cambridge together.”

“Yes, I know.” I recalled Papa talking about how, in 1804, when Britain was bracing for an invasion by Napoleon’s army, volunteer militias were formed. Papa and other university men had drilled under the command of Henry Temple, the officer in charge. Papa took pride in this connection between himself and the man who was now foreign secretary, but I never expected Lord Palmerston to remember Papa.

“When you see your father, please give him my best regards,” Lord Palmerston said.

“I will, sir.” I could see that his prodigious memory, coupled with his skill at pleasing people, had contributed to his political success.

“If you’ll excuse my haste, time is short,” Lord Palmerston said, and I glimpsed the man of purpose beneath the charm. We all sat at the table. “Mr. Slade has briefed me on the situation, and we are in agreement on what must be done.” He ignored Lord Unwin, who compressed his lips, disgruntled. “Now I shall tell you how I propose to handle Her Majesty.”

His self-confidence was supreme. I envisioned Papa as a university student, marching at a young Lord Palmerston’s orders. Now I was under the same command.

The unpredictability of life astounds me. My adventure had already taken me beyond the limits of where I had ever envisioned going. I had traversed England and crossed the sea; I had found myself among the dregs of society and then among the rich and powerful; I had journeyed into my past. Caught between two men who represented the poles of good and evil, I had done things of which I had never thought myself capable, and enacted dramas more intense than any in my dreams. But even with all that, I would never have imagined meeting Victoria Regina, Queen of England.

We arrived at Buckingham Palace, whose vast grey bulk of Classical architecture dominates the Mall that encompasses Trafalgar Square and Westminster. Red-coated guards armed with rifles stood sentry outside. A flag bearing the royal standard fluttered over the roof, indicating that the Queen was in residence. Mr. Slade, Lord Palmerston, Lord Russell, and Lord Unwin escorted me so quickly through the palace that I had only a blurred impression of marble pillars, wide hallways, grand staircases, hordes of servants, abundant mirrors, ornate furniture, and gilding everywhere. I found it to be as vulgar as it was magnificent. All I remember clearly is the stench of bad drains and stagnant cesspools.

My presentation to the Queen took place in her sitting room. She and her Prince Consort were seated on a brocade-covered divan amidst many figurines, gold-framed portraits, and brass cages of pet birds. Dolls and other toys lay strewn about the floral carpet. Through open windows hung with gold draperies came the noise of children at play outside. The informality of the situation surprised me, although I remembered that I was here as a servant, unworthy of a lavish, ceremonial presentation at court. Trembling and awkward, I didn’t dare look up from the floor until curiosity triumphed over timidity.

This was not the first time I had seen Queen Victoria. While I was at school in Belgium, she had visited Brussels. I’d stood amidst the crowds to watch her procession. When she flashed by in a carriage, I had thought her not beautiful, and I found my impression still valid now, five years later. She was prettily dressed in a summer gown, but even more stout than before, having borne six children, one of them that past spring. She wore her brown hair in a simple knot. She had a florid, heavy-featured face with a pointed nose and receding chin. The Prince Consort, Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, was tall, rather stiff, and clad in an elaborate coat, breeches, and boots. He wore a mustache and whiskers in foreign style, and looked far less handsome than his portraits.

Formal greetings were exchanged. The Queen extended her hand to Lord Palmerston, who politely kissed it. She said, “The Queen is delighted that her foreign secretary chooses to grace her with his presence.” Her voice was well bred yet girlish; she was only twenty-nine, very young for a ruler of the Empire. I detected sarcasm in her courteous tone. “His behavior has led her to believe that he preferred to avoid communication with her.”

Later Mr. Slade explained to me that the Queen and Palmerston were at odds because she wanted to approve all official correspondence from the Crown before it was disseminated, but that he had repeatedly taken action on her behalf and informed her only after the fact.

“Not at all, Your Majesty,” said Lord Palmerston. “Were it not for the demands of my office, wild horses could not keep me from seeking your delightful company.” He spoke with such gallantry that the Queen visibly softened.

Lords Russell and Unwin made their obeisance to the royal pair. The Prince Consort was uniformly cordial to everyone. He spoke with a heavy Germanic accent. Although the same age as the Queen, he appeared much older due to his ponderous manner. The Queen was cool towards Lord Russell. I later learned from Mr. Slade that she thought the cross, unhandsome, and brusque little man failed to measure up to his predecessors, of whom she’d been quite fond. She paid Lord Unwin scant attention. When Lord Palmerston introduced Mr. Slade, she studied him with interest as he kissed her hand. Her cheeks flushed brighter; she smiled. Then came my turn. Shaking in my shoes, miserably aware of my plain looks and travel-worn clothes, I tiptoed up to the Queen. I felt like a criminal, approaching my sovereign under false pretenses. Keeping my gaze downward, I watched the hem of my frock move nearer hers. I made an awkward curtsy, murmuring my respects in a scarcely audible voice.

“This is Miss Charlotte Brontë, Your Majesty’s new governess,” said Lord Russell.

“Welcome, Miss Brontë,” said the Queen.

Her voice compelled me to raise my head that she might inspect me. My heart pounded as I stood face to face with the Queen, close enough to touch her. She had round, protuberant, luminous eyes whose intelligence rendered her better than plain. A regal aura surrounded her despite her youth. Her expression indicated that she didn’t think much of me.

“That the prime minister has recommended you satisfies me that you are qualified to be governess to my children, Miss Brontë,” she said. Mr. Slade later told me that her high officials had a say regarding who worked in her household, and she must often acquiesce, given that handing out political favors was essential to maintaining good relations with them. “But I should like to know something about you.” I saw that she was a mother concerned about the character of the person charged with tending her children. “Who is your family? Where is your home?”

When I told her, she seemed satisfied, albeit unimpressed. I sensed Mr. Slade and Lords Palmerston, Russell, and Unwin marking time until they could attend to their real business.

“Where were you educated?” the Prince Consort asked me.

After I replied, he questioned me in detail regarding the subjects studied and the posts I’d previously held. He was more interested in the education of his children than were many fathers I had encountered while a teacher. I began to understand that he was at least half the brains at the helm of the nation. He conversed with me in French and studied me with earnest, somber attention. When he expressed his opinion that I would do very well, his wife concurred. He had a strong influence over the Queen.

“You should meet the children now, Miss Brontë,” she said.

Lord Palmerston cleared his throat. “In a moment, please, Your Majesty.” She raised her eyebrows, surprised that he should contradict her. “My apologies, but there’s an important matter we must discuss.”

“Very well,” she said, her interest piqued in spite of herself. “What is it?”

“Miss Brontë has been approached by a man who has offered her a bribe in exchange for helping him kidnap Your Majesty’s children,” said Lord Palmerston. This was the story that he and Mr. Slade had invented in order to shield the prime minister.

“Kidnap my children!” Breathless with horror, the Queen clapped a hand to her bosom. Her gaze flew to the window, through which we heard the children laughing in the garden. She glared at me, as if I were at fault, then at Palmerston. “But this is outrageous!”

The Prince Consort’s expression was troubled, but he remained calm. “Who is it that means to engage Miss Brontë in such an evil conspiracy?”

“Mr. Slade has identified the man as a criminal he’s been hunting for some time,” said Lord Palmerston. “His name is Kuan. He hails from Canton, China. He’s a pirate and renegade whose purpose is to upend order in our hemisphere.” He gave a brief, edited history of how Kuan had abetted revolutionaries in Britain and abroad. He spoke rapidly, with an authority that discouraged questions. The Queen and Prince Consort looked too shocked to ask any. Lord Palmerston omitted my role, thinking they might disapprove of my sleuthing. “He has murdered many people in his quest for power. He must be stopped.”

“Well, then stop him!” the Queen cried with a grand, sweeping gesture, as if to send the entire British army in pursuit of Kuan. “Don’t let him come near my children!”

“We shall ensure that he won’t,” said Lord Palmerston. “However, we need Your Majesty’s cooperation.”

“You shall have it,” the Prince Consort said as he laid a soothing hand on his wife’s arm. “But first, we must reconsider Miss Brontë’s employment. In view of her connection with this criminal, we cannot allow her to join our household, even if she is innocent of any wrongdoing.”

“My dear Albert is right,” the Queen promptly agreed. She gave me an icy look. “I regret to inform you that you must seek another post elsewhere.” She then addressed Lord Unwin: “Would you be so good as to escort Miss Brontë out?”

I felt like a leper banished from society, tainted by my unwilling association with Kuan. I would have meekly gone, but Lord Palmerston lifted his hand, stopping me.