The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (22 page)

The sight of
Jane Eyre
in his hand gave me a turn. “I believe I do,” I murmured.

“The author has a remarkable talent for storytellin’. I stayed up all night readin’ until I finished.”

I blushed with pride, as I always do when someone praises my work. I dreaded to continue the discussion, for they who praise a book often disparage it in the next breath.

“The tale did strike me as rather improbable,” Mr. Slade said.

My guard enclosed me like a suit of armor. “In what way?”

“Jane and Rochester were an odd pairing,” Mr. Slade said. “In real life, they’d never have formed an attachment.”

Stung by his criticism, I said tartly, “May I ask why not?”

“Rochester is a man of property and position, and Jane a penniless orphan. They’re from different worlds.”

“Similar status is not the only basis for a union between a man and woman,” I said, growing flustered as I defended my book. “Compatibility of minds is also important.”

“In fiction, perhaps,” Mr. Slade said. “But if Jane and Rochester were to exist, he would never discover their compatibility. A man like him, who has always required beauty and vivacity in a woman, doesn’t so easily forgo those attributes. And Jane quite lacks them.”

His words flayed me. “Jane’s character and judgment compensate for her lack,” I protested.

“True. But Rochester would never have noticed those good qualities behind her plainness, if not for the author’s guiding hand.” Mr. Slade added gently, “Forgive me if I’ve upset ye.
Jane Eyre
is a fine tale, and I don’t mean to diminish it.”

Alas, he had done more than diminish my book. He had ground my heart under his heel. I sought a change of subject. “Dr. Dury told me you’d been a soldier in Turkestan,” I said, then indicated a wish to hear of his experiences there.

Nostalgia veiled Mr. Slade’s eyes. “Middle Asia is a land of wild, savage beauty,” he said, and described its deserts, high mountains, exotic bazaars and mosques, and tribal warriors. “It’s also a troubled land that has been invaded throughout history by the Greeks, Persians, Mongols, Arabs, and Turks.”

He described the invasion of Kabul by the British East India Army and how it had gone wrong. “Forty-five hundred British troops and twelve thousand women, children, and Indian sepoys retreated from the kingdom in January 1842. The weather was bitterly cold, and the country deep in snow. Native partisans fired on us as we struggled through the Khurd Kabul Pass. Almost all of us were massacred.”

“You were on the march?” I said in surprise. “I read that there was but one survivor: an army doctor.”

“I was wounded and left for dead.” Mr. Slade’s grim manner hinted at horrors seen and suffered. For the first time since he’d come to Haworth, I glimpsed his true self through his genial Irish guise. “Later, I was discovered by natives I’d befriended. They hid me and cared for me. Eventually I made my way back to England.”

In awe of him, I said, “Working in France afterwards must have been more pleasant.”

His face went rigid and a shadow darkened it. “Not in the end,” he said coldly, and turned away.

I felt mortified because I had intruded on private ground and he had spurned me. I wished to know what had happened to Mr. Slade in France, but dared not ask. Little more conversation passed between us.

When we reached London, Mr. Slade hired a carriage. We drove around the streets, and after he ascertained that no one was following us, we proceeded to the home of his elder sister, with whom he had arranged for us to stay. Katherine Slade Abbot was a respectable, well-to-do widow; she lived in an elegant house in Mayfair. Mrs. Abbot, or Kate, as Mr. Slade fondly called her, had his coloring and eyes; she was pretty, vivacious, and kind. After we dined, Mr. Slade hurried me into another carriage. We rode by an indirect route to the Foreign Office to confer with his superiors.

The Foreign Office was situated on Downing Street, in bleak, grimy brick buildings. We went to a room paneled in dark wood and lit by gas lamps. Seven men sat at a long table. The man at its head was some fifty years old, with a rigid bearing and sleek hair the color of his sallow, pallid complexion; he wore a gold satin waistcoat. Reader, you will recognize him as Lord Unwin, the man whom Slade met in the Five Coins Tavern after the murder of Isabel White. His companions were nondescript and dressed in drab hues. The smoke from their pipes hung in the air. Everyone rose when Mr. Slade and I entered the room. Being the only woman present discomposed me. That I’d had the temerity to demand participation in a matter within their purview now seemed ludicrous.

They greeted Mr. Slade, who turned to me, indicated the man at the head of the table, and said, “May I introduce Lord Alistair Unwin, deputy chief of the Foreign Office.” He had dropped the Irish brogue and spoke in his own voice. To Lord Unwin, he said, “This is Miss Charlotte Brontë.”

Quaking inside, wishing myself at home, I curtsied. Lord Unwin bowed politely, but his arched eyebrows and sharp, haughty features conveyed disdain towards me, and I took an immediate dislike to him. “Please be seated,” he said.

I was not introduced to the other men. Mr. Slade and I took chairs at the end of the table. Lord Unwin addressed Mr. Slade: “You’ve chosen an inconvenient hour to meet. I’m late for a ball.”

“My apologies, Lord Unwin,” Mr. Slade said, “but Miss Brontë and I have only just arrived in town, and there are matters that must be discussed without delay.”

Lord Unwin glowered at Mr. Slade, and I observed the animosity between them. “I presume these urgent matters concern the murders of Isabel White, Joseph Lock, and Isaiah Fearon, as well as your investigation of a conspiracy against the Crown?”

“They do, my lord,” said Mr. Slade. The other men watched in somber silence.

“Well, tell us what you have to report, and be quick about it.”

“Miss Brontë has visited Isabel White’s mother and the school Isabel attended,” Mr. Slade said. “She has come to relate her discoveries to you.”

Self-conscious and faltering under the men’s scrutiny, I told what I’d learned. When I finished, Lord Unwin said, “How admirable, Miss Brontë. Our sincerest thanks.” He gave Mr. Slade a contemptuous smile. “So Miss Brontë has obtained Isabel White’s missing book and the important clues therein. She has also linked the Charity School to the men who attacked her on the train and who have an apparent connection with the mysterious criminal we seek. That’s more than you’ve accomplished lately. How fortunate for us that she happened along.”

Anger smoldered in Mr. Slade’s eyes. I could hardly enjoy praise given at his expense, and I wondered at the reason for Lord Unwin’s ill treatment of him. Mr. Slade said evenly, “It is fortunate indeed that Miss Brontë is helping with our inquiries.”

“What have you done to further them?” Lord Unwin frowned at his gold watch.

“I’ve sent Miss Brontë’s sister Anne to be a governess in Joseph Lock’s house,” Mr. Slade replied. “She’ll try to learn why Lock killed himself and what connections the gun factory may still have with our criminal. Her other sister, Emily, has gone to teach at the Charity School, in the hope of discovering how it fits into the criminal’s scheme, and what that scheme is.”

Lord Unwin received this news with amazement. “You allowed Miss Brontë’s sisters to undertake the work of professional agents?” he said, his voice rising to a shrill pitch. “My dear fellow, have you gone mad?” His subordinates’ faces reflected his disapproval. “Should these women bungle the attempt, our mission could be compromised.” He was more concerned for his mission than for my sisters’ safety, and I liked him even less.

“Anne and Emily Brontë are experienced teachers, and they’ll perform their roles more convincingly than could agents posing as teachers,” Mr. Slade said. “They understand the need for caution, and I have confidence in them.”

Though he spoke with patient calm, I sensed how much Lord Unwin’s reproof disturbed him. By insisting on our involvement, my sisters and I had undermined Mr. Slade’s standing in the Foreign Office. That he took the blame for our actions instead of laying it on us did his manners credit.

“If your amateur spies do cause trouble, you shall be held personally responsible,” Lord Unwin said in a threatening tone. “What other plans have you?”

“Isabel White wrote that her master had drawn the prime minister into his scheme.” Mr. Slade rose, gave Lord Unwin my copy of the message from the book, then took his seat again.

Lord Unwin peered down his sharp nose at the lines Mr. Slade had marked. “How fantastic! It is beyond belief that Lord John Russell should be involved in these affairs.”

“The matter merits consideration,” Mr. Slade said.

A leery, indecisive look crossed Lord Unwin’s features. “Isabel White was a woman of base morals. She could have lied about the prime minister.”

“Granted,” Mr. Slade said, “but if her message tells the truth, then the prime minister represents another connection to the criminal. We cannot afford to overlook that possibility.”

Lord Unwin propped his chin on his hand and regarded Mr. Slade through hooded eyes. “What do you propose doing?”

“I propose an audience with the prime minister for Miss Brontë and myself, in order that we can tell him what we’ve learned and find out what he knows.”

Incredulity was Lord Unwin’s response. “You would confront the prime minister and accuse him of consorting with a trollop? You would claim to his face that he has fallen under the sway of a man who plans an attack on the kingdom?”

“We wouldn’t accuse him,” Mr. Slade said. “We would discreetly question him, then ask his help in apprehending the criminal.”

“Discretion would not make Isabel White’s story less insulting to Lord John Russell.” Lord Unwin smacked his palms down on the table. “Permission is denied.”

Although Mr. Slade maintained his composure, I sensed his anxiety. “But the prime minister may possess information that could advance our investigation,” he said. “He may even know the criminal by name, or have learned what his scheme is.”

“Maybe; maybe not,” Lord Unwin said with a reedy chuckle. “We’ve only Isabel White’s dubious claim to support your conjecture.”

“It is imperative that Lord John Russell be questioned.” The set of Mr. Slade’s jaw betrayed his anger at Lord Unwin’s opposition.

“Provoking his wrath could bring worse disaster than whatever the criminal intends,” Lord Unwin said waspishly. “If you offend the prime minister, the repercussions will be farreaching.”

I realized that Lord Unwin cared more to safeguard himself than to protect England from further violence, and he was more concerned that the prime minister would punish him for Mr. Slade’s actions than about the success of the investigation.

“We must take the risk.” Leaning towards his superior, Mr. Slade entreated, “Please reconsider.”

Lord Unwin folded his arms resentfully. “My decision is final. Stay away from the prime minister.”

“You can’t close off an entire avenue of inquiry!” Mr. Slade protested, leaping from his seat.

“Indeed I can,” Lord Unwin sneered. “You’d best hope that your amateur spies can elicit the facts we need. I now adjourn this meeting.” Chairs scraped as Lord Unwin and his men rose; he bowed to me. “Good evening, Miss Brontë.”

“Lord Unwin fears to risk his own neck,” Mr. Slade said with bitter ire as we rode away in our carriage. “That a man like him should have charge over the nation’s affairs! God save us all from cowards!”

I confess that I savored the feeling of comradeship that stemmed from our siding together against Lord Unwin. “Why does Lord Unwin dislike you so much?”

“For common reasons as old as history.” Mr. Slade gave a humorless laugh. “Lord Unwin belongs to a proud, noble family that lost its land and wealth. He was forced to go to work instead of enjoying the life of an idle aristocrat. Family connections got him a post in the Foreign Office, and he’s been promoted to a high rank merely because of his name. I, on the other hand, am an upstart son of a nobody. My achievements rankle Lord Unwin because they, not birthright, have won me a place in the world. He would like to see me fail, disgrace myself, and prove his superiority.” Mr. Slade mused, “Lord Unwin’s kind are fast losing their domination over England, and he has chosen to punish me for that.”

How well I understood. While a governess, I had been abused by rich employers who resented my education, as if I had insulted them by possessing what they lacked. My sense of camaraderie with Mr. Slade increased. “What shall we do?”

Mr. Slade’s teeth flashed white in a brief, cunning smile. He said, “I have ways to circumvent Lord Unwin’s orders.”

My hopes buoyed me yet again, with their sudden resurgence.