Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (23 page)

“Oh, dear.” Mr. Heald looked taken aback, then smiled. “You must be the Reverend Brontë. I'm honored to make your acquaintance.” He extended his hand to Papa, who was so surprised that he shook hands. “May I have the pleasure of being introduced to your friends?” He indicated Ellen and Mr. Nicholls.

I said, “No, you may not!” A sudden thought startled me out of my indignation. “How did you happen to arrive in Haworth at the same time as I? Were you on the same train?”

“Well, yes,” Mr. Heald admitted.

“How did you find me? How did you follow me from London?”

“After Mr. Thackeray's lecture, I followed you to your publisher's house. I've been loitering outside it as often as I could, hoping for a glimpse of you. When I saw you come out last night—well, there you have it.”

That explained how he'd found me at the zoo. I had thought myself adept at spotting people following me, but Mr. Heald had proven me wrong. I began to fear that he and his intentions were not what he purported. He'd accosted me at the zoo moments before the terrifying chase began. Now he'd turned up again, soon after the events that had stemmed from my arrest. How had Wilhelm Stieber discovered that I was in Newgate Prison? He had to have been keeping track of me through his informants. Did they include Oliver Heald? Suddenly the irksome little man didn't seem as harmless anymore.

“Who sent you?” I demanded. “Was it Wilhelm Stieber?”

“What?” His face was a picture of confusion. “Who?”

In my excitement I forgot to be discreet. “Are you working for Russia? Was it you who chased me at the zoo? Are you helping Wilhelm Stieber find Niall Kavanagh and his invention?”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about,” Mr. Heald said.

Mr. Nicholls and Ellen looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. Ellen said, “My dear Charlotte, what
are
you talking about?” Papa's face showed dawning, dismayed comprehension.

“Tell me!” I shouted.

Backing away from me in fright, Mr. Heald said, “Nobody sent me. I came on my own. I only wanted to see you.” He clasped his hands and extended them to me. “I swear!”

“You've upset Miss Brontë enough,” Mr. Nicholls said. He seized Mr. Heald by the arm, propelled him toward the door, opened it, and shoved him out. Mr. Heald tumbled down the steps. Mr. Nicholls slammed the door. “Good riddance!”

I went to the parlor window and saw Mr. Heald limp down the hill. He cast a wistful, hurt look at me. I turned to face Papa, Ellen, and Mr. Nicholls.

Mr. Nicholls was puffed up because he'd rid us of the trespasser. “Now, Miss Brontë, would you be so good as to tell us the meaning of what you just said?”

I supposed he had the right to ask, but I couldn't tell him. “It didn't mean anything. Please just forget it. I'm so tired that I'm not making sense.” Perhaps I was so tired that my suspicions about Oliver Heald were figments of my mind.

“Don't make excuses,” Ellen said impatiently. “It's clear that something bad happened to you in London.” Her eyes shone with excitement. “Did you stumble onto another murder?”

She knew about the murder that had plunged me into my adventures in 1848, for I'd told her about it and let her accompany me on some of my investigations.

“Are you in the sort of trouble that we had three years ago?” Papa said, concerned.

He knew the whole story. The only person present who knew nothing was Mr. Nicholls. “Murder?” All alarm, the curate looked at the rest of us. “What trouble?”

Ellen, Papa, and I exchanged looks. Theirs showed that they remembered that Mr. Nicholls wasn't in on the story. Mine warned them that they'd been sworn to secrecy.

“We will not talk about this any further,” Papa said.

Mr. Nicholls bowed to Papa's authority. “Very well,” he said, hurt because he'd been shut out of our circle. “But if Miss Brontë is in trouble, I want to help.”

After too many people had lately refused to give me the help for which I'd asked, I liked Mr. Nicholls a little better for his willingness. “Thank you, but there's nothing you can do.”

“She's right. She doesn't need you.” Ellen moved to my side and put her arm through mine. “Charlotte, dear, let's go upstairs. You can tell me everything, and we'll decide what we're going to do.”

“
We
aren't going to do anything.” I stepped free of Ellen. “It's too dangerous for you.”

She laughed airily. “That's what you said last time. And we had such fun.” She gave Mr. Nicholls a pointed look. “Haven't you any duties elsewhere?”

He bristled. “As long as Miss Brontë is in danger, I'm staying.”

“Stay if you like,” I said, “but I must go.”

How I regretted my impulse to return to Haworth! I'd found no peace, and Wilhelm Stieber must have mounted a search for me. He would track me to Haworth—sooner rather than later if Oliver Heald were indeed his spy. I had made a dire mistake by laying my trail to my home; I'd brought the danger to my people. The only way for me to guard their safety was to leave immediately.

“Go where?” Ellen said, upset because she saw that I meant to leave her behind.

Papa beckoned me, “Come into my study, Charlotte.” He said to Ellen and Mr. Nicholls, “I'd like a private word with my daughter.”

We went into the study. He shut the door, sat behind his desk, and motioned me into the chair opposite him. I braced myself for more questions. He thought a moment, then asked one I hadn't expected. “Do you remember the mask we had when you were a child?”

“Yes, Papa.” I pictured it now—a comical paper goblin's face.

“I bade you to put it on. Then I asked, ‘What do you think is the best book in the world?' and you replied . . .”

“The Bible,” I said.

“I also asked your opinion on other important matters. You spoke up readily and truthfully. The mask made you feel free to speak your mind.”

Not as free as he thought. I'd not forgotten that he knew it was I behind the mask, or that if I gave answers other than those he wanted, I would get a lecture.

“I wish you would speak your mind now, Charlotte.” By drawing upon our history, Papa had bound me in a filial obligation tighter than the blanket gowns in Bedlam. “What on earth is going on? Does it involve John Slade?”

I couldn't deny him the truth, and I wanted at least one person who loved me and believed in me to know it. “Yes, Papa,” I said, and told him everything.

He expressed all the concern, horror, and woe that I'd expected, but he didn't try to dissuade me from carrying out the plan I'd also confided to him. “You must do what you must to save Mr. Slade, yourself, and your nation.” He chuckled sadly. “Of all my children, you are the most like me. You were all intelligent, and you all inherited my love of reading and writing, but only you wanted to take on the world, as I once did. A father shouldn't have a favorite among his children, but if I did, it would be you, Charlotte.”

Tears stung my eyes. I'd always thought he loved Branwell best; I thought he regretted that his only surviving child was I, the least satisfactory.

“Losing you would be the death of me,” Papa said. “But I will let you go on this mission of yours, with my blessing, if you will only promise me one thing.”

Beware of blessings with strings attached. “What is it, Papa?”

He held up his hand. “Promise first.”

Trapped by obligation and love, I said, “I promise.”

Papa rose, opened the door, and summoned Ellen and Mr. Nicholls. “Pack your bags,” he told them. “You are going with Charlotte. She has agreed to take you both.”

I had never seen them so flabbergasted. Ellen said, “It would be most improper for Mr. Nicholls to travel with us.” Mr. Nicholls looked amazed at his good fortune and stammered out his gratitude. I was horrified that Papa had saddled me with two guardians I didn't want and whose safety I feared for. I began to protest.

Papa cut us short with the stern look he gives parishioners who talk in church. “You promised, Charlotte,” he said, then addressed Ellen and Mr. Nicholls: “Protect my daughter.” His stare at Mr. Nicholls said he hadn't forgotten that his curate sought to woo his daughter away from him, but he would put that quarrel aside for now. “Should any harm come to her, I will hold you both responsible.”

T
HE SECRET ADVENTURES OF JOHN SLADE

1851 January. Slade barely managed to escape the Kremlin.

The call for his blood went out minutes after he slipped away from his listening post in the Tsar's reception hall, where he'd heard the news that the British agents had been executed. As he raced through the palace, he heard the tread of boots, the soldiers searching for him. His fall from grace had been so swift that he couldn't stop to think. All he could do was run.

Emerging into the frigid night, Slade saw lit torches carried by search parties moving around the palaces and cathedrals. He shivered in the cold; he hadn't even had time to fetch his coat. Dogs barked. The army had brought out the wolfhounds to track him. The walls of the Kremlin stood between him and safety. His only hope of getting out alive was the escape route he'd installed in case of emergencies.

He headed for the strip of wooded parkland that extended alongside the wall from the Saviour Gate to the tower at the eastern corner of the Kremlin. As he neared it, he heard the cry: “There he is!”

Running footsteps clattered on the icy pavement behind him. The dogs bayed, too close. Slade leaped through the snow between the trees and fell against the wall. He ran his hands over it, searching in the dark for the iron spikes he'd driven into the mortar, one by one, during many nights. They formed a ladder up the wall. With the army thrashing through the woods in pursuit, Slade climbed.

His head cleared the trees. He pulled himself up onto the crenellated wall. Someone in the tower shouted, “He's up there!”

Gunshots cracked. Bullets pinged off the wall around Slade. He dropped into the trees on the other side. Branches battered him all the way down. A snowdrift broke his fall. He scrambled up. As he ran along the promenade that bordered the river, he dodged gunfire from other watchtowers. Bonfires on the riverbank illuminated a skating party. Above the music from an orchestra Slade heard the furious stampede of horses' hooves. Mounted soldiers rounded the corner of the Kremlin and charged toward him. He whirled. More horsemen came galloping from the other direction. He skidded down the riverbank and hid among the people gathered around a bonfire. They wore rich sable coats; they were members of the aristocracy. Up on the promenade, the troops halted, torches raised, looking for him, hesitant to fire into the crowd and risk killing somebody important. Slade waited, panting and freezing.

A group of merrymakers strolled toward a troika parked on the ice. Slade hurried along with them. When they climbed into the troika, neither they nor their driver noticed him sliding underneath. The horses pulled the troika across the ice while Slade clung to the bottom. The relief he felt was short-lived.

Nowhere in Moscow is safe for a man wanted by the Third Section.

In the morning Slade made his way through the back alleys of the city to his lodging house, only to find policemen loitering outside. He turned and hurried away. Even if the police hadn't already confiscated the money he kept in his room, he couldn't get to it without being caught. He mingled with the people who crowded the shops and outdoor markets. By sleight of hand he stole a coat, boots, and a fur hat. A loaf of bread and a string of sausages vanished under his coat. Warmly dressed, his hunger satisfied, he set out to find a way out of town.

Soldiers patrolled every road. Wilhelm Stieber had mounted a massive search for him. Slade didn't know how Stieber had discovered his true identity, but Stieber must have had surveillance on him, even though he'd never spotted it. Now, every city gate he approached was heavily guarded. Slade watched the sentries stop, inspect, and question men who fit his description. He was trapped.