Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (19 page)

Southampton is a pretty seaside town about a hundred miles from London. As we rode in a carriage through its streets, I was blind to its charms. Dirty and disheveled, still wearing my wrinkled jail uniform, guarded by troops, I felt like a prisoner of war being transported to the enemy stockade. My life as Currer Bell, the famous author, seemed part of a distant, glittering dream. We reached the port, where the captain on a steamboat called, “Last ferry to East Cowes! All aboard!”

The soldiers escorted me onto the ferry. We traveled down a broad watercourse, past fishing villages and piers, toward the blue, sparkling expanse of the English Channel. I love the sea, and usually the sight of it invigorates and uplifts me; but even it could not lighten my heart. I did not ask the soldiers why we were going to East Cowes. I sat mute with despair.

As we entered the Channel, the sun descended; the western sky turned a radiant pink that cast a rosy sheen upon the ocean. Ahead, some five miles distant, loomed the Isle of Wight, whose cliffs rose up out of the sea to wooded heights cloaked in dusk. We approached the shore through a flotilla of pleasure craft. Laughter, singing, and music drifted from parties aboard. The coppery sun melted into the ocean as the ferry docked at the tiny village of East Cowes. We disembarked, then climbed into a carriage that conveyed us uphill, through meadows and woods, past pretty summer houses. The cool evening breeze revived me somewhat, but I was weak from hunger; I'd not eaten all day. My head ached, and I felt dizzy and tremulous. My heart began to race because we must have been nearing the end of our journey and my reckoning with fate.

On a rise that overlooked the sea was a huge mansion that looked like a palace lifted out of the Italian Renaissance period. Its white walls, square towers, and tile roofs shone pink in the waning light of sunset. Recognition struck me. I'd seen this mansion before, in a newspaper illustration, several years ago. My lips moved in a silent exclamation:
Dear God.
I knew where I was. I knew who had summoned me here.

The carriage paused outside a gate, which two guards opened; they greeted my escorts and waved us inside. We drew up in a wide driveway. Gas lamps burned in the grand porch. As the soldiers handed me down from the carriage, the door of the mansion opened. Out stepped a small woman dressed in a pale summer frock. She was plumper than when I'd last seen her, in 1848; she'd given birth to her seventh child the previous year. Her face was rounder, her cheeks ruddier from the summer heat; but she was the same regal, imperious personage with whom I had the honor of claiming an acquaintance.

Queen Victoria glided to the head of the stairs and gazed down her long nose at me.

“Welcome to Osborne House, Miss Brontë.” Her voice was tart with displeasure. “What sort of trouble have you caused us this time?”

R
EADER, THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND DID NOT LIKE ME.

Despite the fact that I had saved the lives of her children, she bore me a grudge because she could not forget that they'd been kidnapped while in my care. Although she knew that the disastrous events of 1848 would have transpired with or without me, in her mind I was inextricably associated with them. No matter that she had pronounced herself forever in my debt; she couldn't forgive me. Perhaps she couldn't forgive me because she was in my debt. Her Majesty did not like being in anyone's debt, let alone that of someone she considered a common little upstart.

She instructed the soldiers to take me to the back terrace, then turned and went back inside the mansion. The terrace was enclosed by stone balustrades and decorated with statuary and potted plants. In the daytime it would command a fine view of the ocean. White ironwork chairs surrounded a table on which a lamp burned. Sitting alone, I gazed up at the stars that began to appear in the sky, then down upon the garden, whose flowers exhaled sweet perfume. I gasped with shock because I had traveled from murder scene to jail to insane asylum to the royal retreat in the space of twenty-four hours.

Children's laughter tinkled in the garden. A fair-haired girl in a pink frock ran up onto the terrace, chased by a boy who yipped like a wild Indian. Four younger children followed on their heels. They all saw me and skidded to a halt.

“Who are you?” the eldest boy demanded.

He and the girl in pink were taller than when I'd rescued them from their kidnapper—he would be ten now, she eleven. She was Princess Vicky. He was Albert Edward, called Bertie, Prince of Wales and heir to the throne. I am not fond of children, but I'd developed an affection for these two. As courtesy brought me to my feet, I resisted the urge to hug Bertie and Vicky.

“Hello,” I said. “Don't you remember me?”

“It's Miss Brontë!” Vicky exclaimed. “How nice to see you.” She was still the perfect little princess, all gracious manners. She introduced the younger children. “These are Alice, Alfred, Helena, and Louise.”

“Miss Brontë and I defeated the evil Chinaman and his army,” Bertie told them. “Like this!” He grabbed his little brother Alfred. They began tussling and yelling.

Vicky said, “Stop that before someone gets hurt!” Neither her nature nor Bertie's had changed: he was still naughty and heedless; she, the big sister who tried to maintain order.

“That's enough, children.” Their mother spoke kindly but firmly from the doorway. Beside her stood her husband Albert, Prince Consort. “Go inside now. It's late.”

She gave me a look that said she wanted her precious offspring nowhere near me. As they marched into the house, Vicky called, “Good night, Miss Brontë.” The Queen came out to the terrace, responded to my curtsy with an indifferent nod, and plopped herself down in a chair.

“Please sit down, Miss Brontë,” said Prince Albert. I obeyed. “How glad I am to see you again. I am sorry that it must be under such circumstances.” He spoke in the same formal, ponderous manner that I remembered, but he shook my hand with genuine friendliness. His face was pale, moist with sweat, and tired; his figure had grown paunchy, and he seemed older than his thirty-two years. His health had been poor when I'd first met him, and perhaps three more years with the Queen had taken its toll. “I regret that you suffered in Newgate Prison and Bethlem Hospital for so long.”

“It wasn't that long.” The Queen clearly thought he was making too big a fuss over me.

“We sent for you as soon as we heard what had happened,” Prince Albert said.

It seemed a miracle that they had come to my aid. “How did you hear, may I ask?”

“We have ears everywhere,” said a man who joined us on the terrace.

Surprise followed surprises. “Lord Palmerston,” I blurted.

“None other.” Henry Temple, or Lord Palmerston, the Foreign Secretary, bowed with a flourish. “Good evening, Miss Brontë.” He lifted my hand, kissed it, smiled into my eyes, and said, “You're looking lovely, as usual.”

We both knew better. He was still the jaunty, handsome flirt who'd earned himself the nickname “Cupid.” His eyes still glinted with the wits that had masterminded the Queen's cooperation in Slade's and my plot to capture the villain who'd tried to bring down the British Empire. But he was thinner, his curly hair grayer; his sixty-seven years showed.

I had developed an avid interest in these three august personages whose paths had briefly crossed mine in 1848. I had read everything about them that I could find in the newspapers, and I therefore knew that Lord Palmerston's career had recently hit some rough patches. One of these was the Don Pacifico Affair. In 1850, rioters in Athens burned down the house of a merchant named Pacifico. Pacifico, a British subject, appealed to London for help. Lord Palmerston sent a fleet to seize Greek ships worth enough to compensate Don Pacifico. An international uproar brought England to the brink of war with France and Russia, which disapproved of Lord Palmerston's actions, and the British government to the brink of dissolution. Lord Palmerston had made a speech in Parliament, claiming that British citizens everywhere in the world were entitled to protection from the British government. He'd saved the government and his own career, but he'd created much bad feeling.

The Queen couldn't condone what Palmerston had done without her blessing, and she'd threatened to dismiss him. He'd promised never to behave so high-handedly again, and so gained a reprieve. But I could feel the tension between them as he took the chair next to mine.

“A network of informants maintains a watch on persons of interest,” Lord Palmerston explained. “It helps keep the British Empire in power. And you, Miss Brontë, have been a person of interest since the events of 1848. You also merit attention due to your status as a literary figure.” He added gallantly, “I read
Jane Eyre
, by the way. I found it quite entertaining.”

“So did I,” the Queen admitted. “I couldn't put it down.”

That was high praise from her. “Many thanks, Your Majesty.”

“Word of your arrest filtered up to me from the police department,” Lord Palmerston told me. “Had I been in town, I would have sent someone to fetch you sooner. Unfortunately, I was here on the Isle of Wight, conducting business with Her Majesty. By the time I received the news, you had been taken to Bedlam. I sincerely apologize for the delay.”

“I sincerely thank you for rescuing me,” I said.

Lord Palmerston smiled. “It was the least I could do. After the service you rendered our nation, we owed you a favor.”

“Consider it a favor repaid,” the Queen said grumpily. “But do not consider yourself a free woman, Miss Brontë. You are still facing a charge of murder. Did you kill that actress?”

“Of course she didn't,” Lord Palmerston said.

Prince Albert said, “Miss Brontë is incapable of doing such a thing.”

“Stay out of this,” the Queen snapped at them. “Let Miss Brontë answer, and let me draw the conclusions.”

“Yes, dearest,” said Prince Albert.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” said Lord Palmerston.

The Queen's round, protuberant eyes fixed me with a suspicious stare. “I want to know what in Heaven is going on. Did you kill that woman, or did you not?”

“I did not kill Katerina,” I said with all the force of the truth.

She looked askance at me. “I understand that you were caught standing over her dead body with the murder weapon in your hands. How do you explain that?”

“Katerina had been tortured and stabbed before I arrived,” I said. “I found her. Then I heard someone coming. I thought it was the murderer, and I picked up the knife in order to defend myself.”

The Queen harrumphed, although the men seemed satisfied by my explanation. “If you didn't kill her, then who did?”

“It was Wilhelm Stieber,” I said.

“He is a spy for the Tsar,” Lord Palmerston interjected.

“I know who he is,” the Queen said, peeved. Lord Palmerston had educated her about foreign politics, and she chafed at her role as his pupil.

Lord Palmerston leaned toward me, chin in hand. “I've heard reports that Stieber has been sighted in London. This is a most interesting development.”

“How do you know Wilhelm Stieber killed Katerina?” the Queen asked me.

“She told me before she died.”

The Queen studied me skeptically. “How convenient. Why, pray tell, would the Tsar's spy torture and kill a cheap, common actress? How did Wilhelm Stieber even know Katerina?”

“She was his informant.” I explained that Katerina had apparently consorted with men, that she'd elicited from Russian immigrants their secrets about plots against the Tsar, that she'd sought from Englishmen clues to the whereabouts of Niall Kavanagh and the gun he'd invented. I mentioned that the gun could decide the outcome of a war between Russia and England, and that Wilhelm Stieber meant to obtain it for the Tsar. “But Katerina began working for a British secret agent. Stieber found out. He tortured her in an attempt to learn where the agent was, and he killed her for betraying him.”

The Queen's response was a derisive snort. “Surely a woman on her deathbed would be incapable of relating such a complete, coherent, and fantastic story as that.”

“She didn't,” I admitted. “I deduced it by combining her last words with what the British agent had told me earlier. The agent is John Slade.”

“Slade!” The Queen smiled with good humor for the first time that evening. Although Slade had been as much involved in her children's kidnapping as I had, she bore him no grudge. “That marvelously attractive spy who thwarted the attack on my kingdom!”

Lord Palmerston's expression turned grave at the mention of Slade. “That marvelously attractive spy is no more, Your Majesty. John Slade went to Moscow in the autumn of 1848. While there, he turned traitor and revealed the identities of his fellow agents to the Russian secret police. He was executed.”