The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (44 page)

Her words dashed my hopes. In my sad humiliation I realized that from the Queen’s perspective, the greatest good would necessarily always lie in what best served Britain. The Queen had no reason to take the part of distant foreigners over that of her own country.

“Furthermore, Miss Brontë,” the Queen said, “your presumption at questioning your Queen’s judgment about what is best for Britain borders on treason.” She waved an imperious hand at me. “Go. Vex me no more.”

I slunk away like a whipped animal. All around me was bright; all within me, black with misery. As I stumbled down a flight of stone stairs cut into the terraces, someone called my name. It was Mr. Slade. He was the last person I wanted to see. In my haste to elude him, I tripped on the rough stairs; he caught up with me and steadied me.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“Yes.”

“No, you’re as pale as death. You’re trembling. Something has happened. What is it?”

How I longed to blurt it out! Such a temptation I felt to share the burden of my knowledge with Mr. Slade in the hope that he could help me! But even as my tongue quivered on the brink of confession, I glimpsed a figure below us, on the terrace nearest the wide, sparkling river. It was Captain Innes. He waved cheerily at us and winked at me. My heart sank at his reminder that my family would die if I breathed a word of what he’d said to me last night. I looked at Mr. Slade, and although he stood close enough for me to touch, he seemed as remote as the other side of the world.

“Nothing has happened,” I mumbled, turning away from Mr. Slade. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go back to the children.”

I felt Mr. Slade—and Captain Innes—watching me as I hurried up the stairs. On an upper terrace I found Vicky, Bertie, and little Alfred rambling about with the Prince Consort and the Duchess of Norfolk. The Queen was absent, to my relief.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Brontë,” the Duchess said with a welcoming smile. “Come join us.”

I did, grateful for her friendliness. The rest of that morning, her blithe conversation enlivened the party. The children were fond of her; Bertie behaved with more decorum while in her presence; even the somber Prince Consort cheered up. That afternoon, when the Queen and Prince Consort went driving in a pony cart, the Duchess helped me tend the children. I was glad to have her company, for I noticed Mr. Slade and Captain Innes loitering nearby, and her presence kept them both away from me.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the vial of opium hidden in my room. I couldn’t deny that the next day I would have to deliver the children into Kuan’s hands or condemn my own family to a terrible death. As the hours passed, I became certain that I could do neither.

My apprehension increased during dinner and the musical entertainment afterward. By the time I retired to my chamber, my heart agitated within my ribs like a bird beating its wings against the bars of a cage. I paced the floor while the clock ticked a cadence of doom. At three in the morning, unable to sleep or sit still or bear the waiting any longer, I flung my cloak over my shoulders and raced out of the castle.

The freezing Highland wind gusted at me, stirring the dark forests. The moon and stars shone icy silver radiance upon the castle’s turrets and the snow-peaked mountains. The vast, dark landscape seemed haunted by ancient Scottish ghosts; wolves howled. I ran through the night, as if by running I could escape from Kuan. While I ran, I wept. I stumbled through woods, over rocks and fallen branches, caring naught that I didn’t know where I was going.

Suddenly I struck an obstacle that emerged from the shadows. It was neither tree nor stone, but flesh and blood. Strong hands seized me, arresting my flight. I cried out in terror and fought wildly until I heard Mr. Slade exclaim, “Miss Brontë! What are you doing?”

He released me. I sank to my knees, sobbing while I panted with exertion. I remembered how little Mr. Slade slept at night; he had probably come out of his lodgings for a walk in the fresh air. Some instinctive impulse must have guided me to him.

“Help me,” I cried. The words I’d held in all day burst from me like water through a dam weakened by its pressure. “Please—you must save them!”

“Who?” Mr. Slade said, perplexed.

“Papa. Anne. Emily. Branwell.” Gasps punctuated the names I spoke. “They’re in terrible danger!”

Mr. Slade crouched before me and peered into my face, trying to make sense of me. “What kind of danger?”

“They’ve been taken prisoner,” I said.

“How do you know this?”

“At the parsonage,” I babbled through my sobs. “He’ll kill them unless I—”

“Who? What?” Then enlightenment cleared the confusion from Mr. Slade’s eyes. “It’s Kuan, isn’t it? His accomplice has approached you. Kuan has taken your family hostage to force your cooperation in the kidnapping.” Mr. Slade grasped my shoulders. “Who is the accomplice? When and how is the kidnapping to take place?”

“I can’t tell you.” I rose, pulled free of Mr. Slade, and fled before he could press me for answers.

“Miss Brontë!” Mr. Slade called. “Wait!”

I rushed headlong into the forest. Branches leapt out of the darkness and raked my face. I crashed into trees, groped around them. The wind howled past me and the earth sloped steeply downward beneath my feet. I lost my balance and tumbled head over heels down a hill, screaming as rocks battered me all the way to the bottom. Dizzy and sore, I stood up but was too exhausted to run any farther. Mr. Slade barreled down the hill and skidded to a stop near me.

“Leave me alone,” I cried, raising my hand to forestall more questions.

His arms locked around me. “I want to help you, and I promise I will, but first you must tell me everything.”

We were in a clearing in the forest. Trees held the moon in their foliage. I could see Mr. Slade’s eyes intent on me, feel the rhythm of his breathing. My need to confide shattered my will to resist.

“Captain Innes is the accomplice,” I said in a small, forlorn voice. “The kidnapping is set for tomorrow night. Captain Innes has instructed me to drug the children with laudanum. Then we shall deliver them to Kuan. He’ll free my family afterward.” I felt relief at unburdening myself, but a terrible dread because I had disobeyed Kuan. “Unless I do as he wishes, he’ll kill them.”

“Good God,” Mr. Slade said. He clasped me to him; I wept unabashedly against his shoulder. “I should have known Kuan would do something like this. I should have known he would try to use your family against you. This is my fault.”

“No,” I said. “The fault is mine. I didn’t tell you everything that went on between Kuan and me in Cornwall. If I had, then perhaps we both would have foreseen what he would do and prevented it.” At the thought of my family captive, frightened, and helpless, a fresh spate of sobs erupted from me. “I can’t let them die. But I can’t hurt those children!”

“You won’t,” Mr. Slade assured me.

“But what is to be done?”

“I’ll send agents to Haworth at once to rescue your family. In the meantime . . .” He related a plan that seemed a good means of thwarting the kidnapping and capturing Kuan. “Can you do what is required of you?”

“Yes,” I said fervently. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

I wept tears of joy that there was some hope for our success and for my family’s salvation. I felt immense gratitude towards Mr. Slade, who had released me from terror and despair. But in the wake of those strong, departing emotions, other emotions rushed in. I became suddenly conscious of Mr. Slade holding me, the warmth from his chest against my cheek, his hard, muscular arms, his trousers touching my skirts, of the fact that we were far from anyone else. Suddenly there surged through me the torrent of desire that I had tried to suppress for so long. My breath caught. I heard Mr. Slade’s catch at the same moment. His arms tightened around me. Slowly I raised my face. Mr. Slade was gazing at me, his features lit by the moon yet dark with serious thoughts. He inhaled a deep breath, like a man preparing to dive into the ocean, then bent his head towards me.

Our lips met, his warm and firm upon mine, in the kiss that I had longed for all my life. My eyes closed as powerful sensations of pleasure and mortal fear spread through my entire self. I was falling through darkness. Images flashed through my mind—the curate William Weightman, Monsieur Heger. My feelings for them had been nothing compared to this hunger for Mr. Slade. My lips involuntarily parted. His tongue entered and found mine. Oh, the shocking, wet, intimate, thrilling contact! It seemed that our souls and thoughts fused. I saw the visage of a beautiful woman—his deceased wife. I felt in him the desire unsatisfied during seven years of mourning.

We kissed again and again, each kiss deeper and more fevered. Mr. Slade moved his hands up from my waist; he clasped my bosom. I allowed it, even though I knew I shouldn’t. So intoxicating were my sensations that they shattered all vestiges of self-control, all thoughts of propriety. Mr. Slade drew me to the ground—or I drew him; I know not which. We lay together on the soft bed of fallen leaves. The trees vaulted like a cathedral ceiling above us. The moonlight shone down on us, white and pure. As Mr. Slade kissed and caressed me, the heavy layers of my clothing seemed to vanish, and I felt each caress as though upon my bare skin. Need overcame inhibition. I dared to touch Mr. Slade in a place where I’d thought I would never touch a man. Through his trousers I felt, for the first time in my life, masculine arousal. A profound awe moved me. My desire quickened to an unbearable frenzy. I clutched at Mr. Slade, pulling him atop me.

“Please,” I cried.

Mr. Slade hesitated, gasping. On his face I saw lust reined in by apprehension: He knew the risk that an illicit carnal union posed for a woman, and although I was beyond caring about it, he was cautious on my behalf. Not one garment of mine or his did he remove or disarrange. He did not ravish me as I would gladly have allowed. Instead he lowered himself onto me, and we moved together. My body arched against his. As the rhythm of our movements accelerated, my pleasure rose towards heights I had never imagined possible. A terrifying, wonderful alchemy turned everything in me to molten fire. The most incredible rapture I had ever experienced pulsed through me. I exclaimed in joy and amazement.
This
was the ecstasy hinted at but never actually described in love stories I’d read.
This
was what I had unknowingly yearned for during lonely nights spent indulging in secret fantasies.

I clung to Mr. Slade. His breaths came faster as he thrust himself harder and more insistently at me. Suddenly he flung back his head; he uttered a groan. I felt him shudder with the pleasure of his release. Then a sigh eased the tension from him. My own ecstasy yielded to quiet bliss. We lay side by side, embracing. It seemed that we floated together in some private universe high above the world.

“Forgive me,” Mr. Slade said, his voice filled with guilt and regret. “I should not have let this happen.”

I kissed away his apology. “There’s nothing to forgive,” I said, for I was as much to blame as he, and I had no regrets. At that moment, my love for him justified all sins.

Slade caressed my hair. “I must confess that I’ve been wanting you ever since that day on the moors.”

Delighted I was to learn that my feelings had not been unrequited. Although the forest was cold, I wished we could stay there forever. But a lightening of the sky presaged dawn. We disengaged, rose, and walked, hand in hand, until we reached the edge of the forest and Balmoral Castle was in sight.

“I’ll see you soon. Don’t worry,” Mr. Slade said, “all will be well.”

We kissed one last time, then he headed back towards his lodgings, while I hurried into the castle. I was giddy with excitement and happiness. It was not until later that I began to think clearly on what had happened between Mr. Slade and me. It was not until morning that our plans foundered terribly.

T
OO OFTEN OUR PLANS FAIL NOT BECAUSE THEY LACK MERIT OR because we mishandle their execution. Sometimes they go awry due to the folly of another person whose motives run counter to ours. Alas, I experienced this hard lesson at the worst possible time.