The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (9 page)

Sunday afternoon lay like a golden mantle upon London. The Thames sparkled beneath a sky miraculously cleared by a freshening breeze; the city’s spires, domes, and towers glittered. Church bells tolled across the rooftops of Bayswater, a respectable suburb. Its terraced Regency-era houses basked in the sunshine, their white stucco façades and black wrought-iron fences gleaming. Children rolled hoops, and nurses wheeled perambulators under leafy trees in the square near Westbourne Place, where George Smith resided.

He and I sat in his dining room with Anne, his mother, and his sisters. The house was splendid, with Turkey carpets, polished mahogany furniture, white table linens, and fine crystal, silver, and china. Flowers masked the odor of cesspits that permeates even the best homes of London. Yet Anne and I were so bashful that we could only pick at our portions of roasted joint. Neither of us contributed much to the conversation until I described my experience at the opera and what we had found upon returning to the Chapter Coffee House.

The company expressed shock and sympathy. George Smith said, “You didn’t spend the night in your room after it was ransacked, I hope?”

“No,” I said. “The proprietor of the inn was kind enough to give us other accommodations.”

“Do I correctly understand that you believe the two incidents and the murder may be related?”

“The proprietor said a common thief must have climbed onto the roof and broken into our room. But I doubt that a murder, a chase in the theatre, and a burglary all on the same day of my life are mere coincidence.”

“Was anything taken?” inquired Mrs. Smith. She was a handsome, portly woman with rich brunette hair. She had not been told the true connection between her son and his guests, and she eyed me with curiosity.

“No, madam,” Anne murmured.

George Smith frowned, one hand clasping his chin while the other toyed with his glass. “Whether or not these experiences are connected and someone wishes you harm, I do not like this disturbance to your peace of mind.”

Gratified by his concern, I expected him to reiterate his invitation for Anne and me to stay with him. Instead he said, “Perhaps you should return home immediately.” His solicitude seemed as genuine as ever; yet I felt dismay at the suggestion that he wished me to leave.

“Last night you indicated that you would speak to the commissioner of police about investigating Isabel White’s murder,” I said. “Should I not remain available in case I am needed?”

“I shall go to the commissioner as I promised,” said George Smith, “but should it be necessary for the police to communicate with you, a letter will surely suffice.”

Mrs. Smith seconded this opinion; Anne nodded. I beheld my publisher with increasing perplexity. Yesterday he had seemed an ally in my quest for the truth about Isabel White; but now he appeared eager to dismiss me and handle matters himself. What had changed?

“I am most grateful for your assistance and concern, but I think that Anne and I should stay at least until Tuesday,” I said, spurred to assert my independence.

“As you wish,” George Smith conceded graciously, but I could tell he was displeased.

When dinner ended, the ladies retired to the parlor. The Smith sisters hurried to the piano, taking Anne with them, and Mrs. Smith joined arms with me.

“I welcome this chance for us to become better acquainted,” she said in a friendly fashion. “Come, let us sit by the window, where we can smell the roses in my garden.”

Seated beside Mrs. Smith on a divan, I nervously braced myself for questions about who I was and why I was there. I wouldn’t like to lie, yet I dared not break my pledge to Emily.

The Smith sisters began playing and singing a gay tune for Anne. Mrs. Smith said, “My dear George is often at his business all twenty-four hours of a day.” Her maternal tone was fond. “He works so hard.”

“How admirable,” I said, relieved that I was apparently not to be the subject of the discussion.

“Yet he is the most attentive son and brother anyone could wish,” Mrs. Smith said. “No matter how busy he is, he always makes time for his family.”

I had noticed the affection between my publisher and his family —particularly his mother.

“George and I have always been the closest of companions,” Mrs. Smith said, as a maid served coffee to us. “I believe I know him better than does anyone else.” Her smile was uncannily like her son’s. “And I hope you will excuse a mother’s boasting if I say that I’m tremendously proud of him?”

I nodded, trying to determine where the conversation was leading.

The Smith sisters commenced a new song. Mrs. Smith said, “Even though George is so busy, he must soon embark upon a most important phase of his life.” Her manner turned conspiratorial. “You will understand that I refer to matrimony?”

Wariness stole over me as I sensed something unpleasant coming, although I couldn’t imagine what.

“The choice of a mate is difficult for my George. Wherever he goes, the young ladies flock around him.” Mrs. Smith’s hands lifted and fell in a gesture of mock helplessness. “Ah, but you understand his appeal for the fair sex—do you not?”

Her smile persisted, but her eyes had turned hard as flints: She had noticed my admiration for her son, and her disapproval was evident. I felt mortified that I had been so transparent. I sat speechless.

Mrs. Smith laughed, and the sound had an undertone of scorn. “But I have no doubt that my dear George will make the right marriage when the time comes. His wife should be his equal in youth, beauty, charm, and fortune. After all, like deserves like, wouldn’t you agree?”

Nodding automatically, I experienced the further embarrassment of realizing that Mrs. Smith, who didn’t understand the relationship between George and myself, assumed that I wished to engage him as a suitor. She was warning me off because I was too old, too plain, too awkward, and too poor for her son! Although I had never presumed to dream of marrying him, I burned with humiliation. How I wished I could tell her that the good fortune of Smith, Elder & Company owed much to a famous book, of which I was the author! Instead, I lifted my cup and swallowed coffee that tasted bitter as poison. I could not reveal my secret.

“Mr. Smith has been most attentive to me,” I said instead, desiring his mother to know I had cause to believe he cared for me.

Anger replaced the self-satisfaction on the face of Mrs. Smith; she gave me a mocking smile. “My dear George bestows his kindness upon everyone. Often, people misconstrue his motive as affection when he is merely giving sympathy to those who need it. And sometimes his business requires him to endure people outside his usual circle.”

My heart contracted as if under the crushing pressure of a giant fist. The scent of roses turned sickening. The sad truth was now clear—George Smith’s attentions towards me stemmed from his interest in me as Currer Bell, not as Charlotte Brontë. At last I understood why he was so eager for me to leave London: He wanted Currer Bell safe from harm so that she could write more books for Smith, Elder & Company.

Mrs. Smith regarded me with an air of smug triumph. “Surely you understand me when I say that my dear George will neither disappoint his mother nor jeopardize his own prospects when he marries?”

When George Smith entered the parlor, I dared not even look his way.

The next morning Anne and I called on Thomas Cautley Newby, the publisher whose fraud had brought us to town. After an unpleasant talk during which we chastised him and he insisted that the problem was but a misunderstanding, I took Anne to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The firmament arched blue and cloudless above us as we walked by the monument to Admiral Horatio Nelson. The square impressed me as an apt symbol of England’s military power. I bethought myself a citizen of the great kingdom that had defeated Napoleon and ruled the seas unrivaled ever since, commanding an empire that extended across India, Australia, New Zealand, and Africa. While insurrections had shaken Europe time and again during our century, Britain had so far held firm—the army had quelled the Chartist demonstrations that had taken place in London this spring. Now vendors sold trinkets to sightseers streaming in and out of the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields; pigeons fluttered, chasing breadcrumbs tossed by children. All was tranquil.

Anne and I joined a throng heading into the gallery, whose massive Grecian façade dominated the square. The viewing of fine paintings has always given me great pleasure, and the gallery’s cool, echoing chambers contained works by my favorite artists; yet they could neither distract me from my shame over George Smith nor soothe the pain of hope denied yet again.

“Dear Charlotte, you seem unhappy,” Anne said as we strolled the gallery. “Is it Isabel White’s death that troubles you?”

“It is.” I would rather have died than admit how I had deluded myself about Mr. Smith, and Isabel White did still weigh heavily upon my mind. “I doubt that I can depend on Mr. Smith to help determine who killed Isabel. I fear that I can do nothing about the murder.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best.” Anne added, “I shall be glad to be home. There, no one will chase you or invade our rooms.”

The prospect of leaving London the next day depressed me all the more. Absently wandering the galleries, I lost Anne in the crowd and walked into a room of Italian paintings. In the deserted, shadowy chamber, medieval dukes, noblewomen, and Madonnas gazed down at me from their golden frames. Distant sounds echoed eerily like whispers from the past. A man appeared before me so suddenly that he seemed to have materialized from thin air.

“Miss Brontë?” he said.

The unexpected sound of my name halted me. Startled, I focused on the man’s black frock coat at my eye level. My gaze moved upward to the white collar and white cravat that identified him as a clergyman, then alit on his face. He had keen, intense features and an olive complexion shaded by a cleanshaven beard. Wavy black hair tumbled above grey eyes of striking clarity and brilliance. Staring into these, I experienced a peculiar, electrifying sense of recognition; yet the man was a stranger.

“Please excuse my accosting you in this rude manner,” he said. Fleeting confusion clouded his face, as if he noticed my reaction to him—or felt the same shock? “My name is Gilbert White. I’m the brother of Isabel White—I believe you’ve met her.”

“Isabel’s brother?” I felt dismay as I wondered whether the clergyman knew of his sister’s death, for I did not wish to have to break such news. Noticing his bleak, strained expression, however, I realized that he must know, and I felt a rush of sympathy.

“Please let me explain,” he said as a flock of chattering patrons streamed into the gallery. “I’m the vicar of a parish outside Canterbury.” His voice was quiet but resonant, with the same North Country accent as Isabel; he held a black hat in hands that were well shaped and clean. “Isabel and I had arranged to meet in London for a holiday together, but when I went to our rendezvous place yesterday, she never came. I didn’t know what else to do except go to the police. They told me Isabel had been killed.”

Gilbert White drew deep breaths; looking away from me, he blinked rapidly.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” I said, moved by his grief and wishing I had more to offer than condolences. As a parson’s daughter, I regularly have occasion to comfort the bereaved, but I always feel my helplessness.

“It is God’s will, and I must accept it,” he murmured. “Yet I shall have no peace until I know what happened to Isabel. Somehow I cannot believe she was killed by a common thief.” He turned on me a gaze filled with anguish and frustration. “The police told me you knew her and that you witnessed the murder. I decided that I must speak with you and learn as much as possible about my sister’s death, so I went to the Chapter Coffee House—the police said you had lodgings there. The proprietor told me where to find you.”

I did not recall telling the proprietor I was going to the National Gallery, but I supposed he had overheard Anne and me discussing our plans at breakfast. Neither did I think to wonder how Mr. White had recognized me, a stranger, in the crowd.

“Might I beg a few more moments of conversation with you, Miss Brontë?” His keen face alight with entreaty, Gilbert White said, “Would you let me buy you a cup of tea?”

Ordinarily I would have declined an invitation from a stranger, yet I could hardly refuse aid to a bereaved brother. He was a respectable man of the cloth, and drinking tea with him in public would harm neither my person nor my reputation. And perhaps he represented an opportunity to discharge the duty I felt towards Isabel White.

“Yes; I would be glad to tell you whatever I can,” I said.

Anne came looking for me then, and I introduced her to Gilbert White. We went to a coffee shop whose clientele consisted of modestly dressed ladies and a few clergymen. A maid in a frilled cap and apron served us tea. When I told Gilbert White about Isabel’s behavior on the train, he reacted with bewilderment.