The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (33 page)

Now, on 29 August, the train approached Penzance. The village climbed the hills in tiers of whitewashed stone houses around Mount’s Bay. A causeway extended to St. Michael’s Mount, a rocky islet crowned by a castle. Seabirds screeched from rooftops and harbor; brick chimneys arose from tin mines. Grey clouds blanketed the sky; the fishing fleet drifted on the lead-colored ocean. Through the open window blew the smells of sea, fish, and tar; the misty drizzle tasted of salt. My dread expanded so large in me that I almost suffocated. In the station, I faltered onto the platform amidst citizens who spoke the strange Cornish dialect. Suddenly a man jostled me. He pressed into my hand a small, folded square of paper.

“Excuse me,” he said.

No sooner did I recognize Mr. Slade’s voice, than he was gone so quickly that I barely glimpsed him. As I secreted the paper in my pocket, I heard my name called. I turned and found myself facing a tall man, some forty-five years of age, with a languid, slouching stance. His hair was blond, his features handsome, his country tweeds impeccably tailored.

“Yes?” I stammered in reply.

The man smiled and bowed. “An honor to make your acquaintance. Kindly allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tony Hitchman. I’ve been appointed to meet you.”

I realized at once that Mr. Hitchman was not the man who had invited me: His speech was the proper diction of the British upper classes, free from any foreign accent.

“Had a pleasant journey, I hope?” Mr. Hitchman said.

As I answered that I had, I gleaned a closer inspection of him. Behind his languid posture I sensed the alertness of a predatory beast ready to spring. His smile had a roguish cast, emphasized by a scar that snaked down his left cheek. His pale green eyes were cold, their appraisal of me too direct. All told, I doubted that Hitchman was the respectable gentleman he seemed on the surface. My distrust of him exceeded what I would have felt towards anyone associated with the villain who’d brought me here. And I perceived that the distrust was mutual.

“This is Nick,” he said, indicating a man hovering near us.

Nick was swarthy, his strong build clothed in rough garments, his dark eyes shadowed by heavy lids. He nodded me a silent greeting and lifted my bags.

“If you’ll please come this way?” Hitchman said.

Everything in me rebelled against going with them—but I had promised to lead Mr. Slade to the villain. Quaking from fear, I allowed Hitchman to guide me to a carriage. Nick stowed my bags and took the reins; Hitchman sat beside me. The carriage wended through narrow, rising crooked lanes, past fishermen’s cottages and the brick buildings of shops. Below us I saw boats clustered in the harbor, and a handsome promenade along the shore.

“Ever been in Penzance before?” Mr. Hitchman asked.

“No,” I said, fighting the urge to look backward and see if Mr. Slade was following us.

As we drove through the town, curiosity momentarily abated my terror. Here had my maternal grandfather been a tea merchant and my grandmother the daughter of a silversmith. After their deaths my mother had left Penzance; I had never ventured to these parts. I wondered if any of the people I saw on the streets were my relations, whose acquaintance I would have liked to make.

“What have you been told about the terms of your employment?” Hitchman said.

“Nothing,” said I. “Perhaps you could tell me what my duties are?”

“You’re to be a teacher.”

Never had I imagined that I’d been hired to practice my former profession. “Who is to be my pupil?”

“My partner’s son,” Hitchman said.

A ray of illumination shone through the veil of mystery that shrouded the villain. I now knew that he had a child. And I knew that Hitchman was no mere minion, but the villain’s coconspirator. My distrust and fear of Hitchman increased.

“What subjects am I to teach?” I inquired.

“English,” came the answer.

I began to suspect that the villain intended other uses for me. I hoped he would be caught—and I would be rescued—before I found out what they were.

We drove out of town, along the shore, past hills covered with cedar and pines that looked black in the wet, dark day. I heard a carriage behind us and took courage from the notion that surely Mr. Slade followed me. We turned onto a lane that wound down into a narrow cove; the other carriage continued along the road. Twisted cypress trees clung to the rocky cliffs that sheltered the cove. On a rocky outcrop of land, a lone house perched above the sea. The low tide lapped over the rocks. The house had a slate roof and thick granite walls built to withstand storms. It was square and stark, with three floors. Nick halted the carriage outside the attached stable.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Hitchman said. “After you’ve had a bit of a rest, you can meet your pupil.”

Nick carried my bags up the steps to the house. I saw no alternative but to follow. Inside the house, I hesitated in the foyer, which had a bare stone floor and cracked plaster walls. A cold, damp draft wound through doors to various rooms. From beyond the stairway came a woman and two men. Hitchman introduced the stern, black-clad woman to me as Ruth the housekeeper, but he did not name the men, who were of the same silent, tough sort as Nick. I felt desperate to escape, but I must first draw the villain out of hiding.

“May I meet my employer now?” I said.

“Sorry; he’s away on business,” Hitchman said. “He’ll return in a day or so.”

My heart plummeted.

“After you, Miss Brontë?” Hitchman gestured with mocking courtesy towards the stairs.

I doubted that Mr. Slade would want me trapped here to wait for the villain; yet I knew that his career—and the lives of innocent people—hinged on me. Thus, I preceded Hitchman upstairs, into a chamber. The furniture was carved in elaborate, unmatched designs, its surfaces marred; the porcelain jug and basin on the washstand were chipped, and the mirror’s gilt frame tarnished; the Turkey rug was discolored. I had a sudden memory of tales my mother had told me of Cornwall. Wrecking and piracy had once been common occupations here. Cornish folk would watch for ships to founder on the rocks offshore, then pillage the cargoes; they also attacked the ships at sea. I wondered if my quarters had been furnished with salvage and loot.

Nick set my bags by the bed and departed. Hitchman said, “Is there anything you need? A bite to eat, perhaps?”

I answered in the negative: I could not have swallowed food. I peered through the window, whose glass was scarred by wind and salt. Behind the house, a dock rose on pilings from the sea. The cove was hidden from the view of everyone except fishermen on the distant ships. I remembered that Cornwall’s other famed pastime was smuggling. The smugglers had once conveyed tin from local mines to the Continent, and spirits, tobacco, and silks to England. Secluded coves such as this had provided hiding places for boats laden with contraband. Perhaps this house had once belonged to a smuggling baron.

“By the way, I should mention a few rules for you to observe.” Hitchman spoke in a casual tone, but when I turned to face him, his gaze promised harsh retribution for disobedience. “You’ll confine yourself to this floor and the one below. The upper story and the cellars are off limits. After dark, you’ll stay in your room. And you’ll not leave the premises without an escort. Nor will you speak about the household’s business to outsiders. Do you understand?”

“Quite,” I said coolly, though I despaired to realize how little freedom I would have.

Hitchman smiled, as if he sensed my unhappiness and relished it. A current of antipathy flowed between us. “I’ll leave you, then. Come downstairs when you’re ready. Dinner will be served at six.”

He walked to the door, turned, and added, “Your predecessor broke the rules. She didn’t last long afterward.”

Then Hitchman was gone. As his footsteps receded down the stairs, I absorbed the impact of his parting words. I had been brought here to fill the vacancy left by Isabel White, whom his associates had murdered; a similar fate awaited me should I defy him and his partner. I sank into trembling fear, when suddenly I remembered the paper given me at the station. I closed the door, brought out the paper, and read the following message:

Even as the reassurance from Mr. Slade lifted my heart, I despaired anew. How could I reach him without disobeying Hitchman’s rules and imperiling my life? I saw that I must not count on Mr. Slade for help; my own resources must suffice. Overcome by fatigue, I lay on the bed and rested for an hour. I then rose, washed my face, and tidied myself. Then I crept downstairs and entered the front parlor. It was furnished with the same battered opulence as my room. As I peered into a curio cabinet, someone lunged out from behind it.

“YAH!” he shouted, arms raised in menacing fashion.

All my stifled terror and anxiety exploded like a thunderbolt in my chest. I screamed. Recoiling, I flung up my hands and stumbled backward.

“Ha, ha!” my attacker chortled. “I scare you!”

It was a boy, short and slender. He wore a dark blue cap that fit tight around his head. His black hair was in a long plait. I formed an impression of a high-collared blue jacket that was fastened with frogs, and loose black trousers above feet clad in black slippers, before his round, laughing face captured my attention. His eyes were narrow and tilted. These, along with high cheekbones, marked him as a Chinese—the first I’d seen outside pictures in books.

“You look so surprise. Funny!” Pointing a finger at me, he doubled over in a fit of giggles.

“Who—who are you?” I gasped.

The boy’s mirth vanished; he stood up straight and fixed an imperious gaze on me. “I am Kuan T’ing-nan.” Instead of asking me who I was, he said, “You my teacher.”

I realized that this boy must be the son of the villain. Logic decreed that the villain would also be Chinese. The son spoke English with an accent similar to the father, although far less capably. How had a Chinaman come to this kingdom? Why would he wish to scheme and murder here, far from his native land? The answers must wait. Survival must be my concern, and the boy before me represented the first challenge.

Drawing myself up to my full height, I spoke in the severe tone I had often used while a governess: “I am Charlotte Brontë. Your father has engaged me to teach English to you. It appears that you will benefit from a few lessons. You will also never startle me like that again.”

But my manner failed to produce the desired respect from T’ing-nan. Disdain twisted his mouth. “I no need teacher,” he said. “I not a child.”

A closer look showed me the dark stippling of whiskers on his face. He was not a child, but a young man, perhaps eighteen years of age. His small size had misled me to think him much younger.

“You no tell me what to do,” he said. “You servant. I the master.” His expression of smug superiority reminded me of many privileged, spoiled children I had taught. He reached out and shoved my shoulder. “You go away.”

Affronted, I stood my ground. “Your father engaged me. Whether I go or stay is his decision, not yours. And I doubt he’ll be pleased to hear of your misbehavior.”

Even while a scowl darkened T’ing-nan’s aspect, his boldness visibly deflated. I sensed in him a fear and dislike of his father. But the mischief in his eyes kindled anew. He prowled in a circle around me, forcing me to turn so I could watch him.

“Where you come from?” he said.

“Yorkshire,” I said. “That’s in the north of England—”

“England!” He spat the word in disgust. “It is small country. I see map. England look like bird shit on ocean.” Whoever had taught him what little English language he spoke, he had learned a coarse vocabulary. “England ugly. People ugly.” T’ing-nan’s look said this judgment included me. “I from China.” Now he swelled with pride. “China big. China beautiful.” He had also learned manners that would disgrace a ditchdigger. “Ladies in China wear pretty clothes. Why you wear plain, cheap dress? Your family have no money?”

“They have less than some people but more than others,” I said tartly. “As long as you’re in England, you should learn that proper behavior is expected here. A gentleman does not make insulting personal remarks to people, nor shove them, nor criticize their country.”

T’ing-nan waved away my instructions. “I no want learn. I hate England. My father hate, too. Someday we go home to China. Then I no need speak or act English.”

I spied a chance to learn more about my mysterious employer. “Why does your father hate England?”

“England bad for China,” T’ing-nan said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, eager to know what grudge his father had that justified murder.

But T’ing-nan only smirked, like a child enjoying a secret.

“If he hates England, then what is he doing here?” I said.

“Business,” T’ing-nan said bitterly.

“What kind of business?”

The youth stopped circling me, and his expression turned wary. “My father go here, go there,” he said, gesturing ambiguously. “Sometime make me go with him. Other time, leave me someplace. While he gone, men watch me. They keep me in house. Lock me up. Never let me outside except at night. Never by myself.” Angry resentment gleamed in his eyes. “At home, in China, I go wherever I want. I have friends. I have fun. But here, nobody. No fun. In England, I am prisoner.”

“Why?” I said.

“My father want no one see us.”

Chinamen are rare in England, and I surmised that the villain wished to avoid the notice that his and his son’s appearance would attract. Pity leavened my dislike of T’ing-nan. His loneliness and confinement must exceed that which I’d ever known.

“But surely you could be allowed to walk in the cove?” I said. “There you would be hidden from the public.”