Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (46 page)

He struck a match. With trembling hands he applied the flame to the fuse.

T
HE FUSE CAUGHT FIRE. IT BEGAN TO BURN. THE FLAME REFLECTED in Niall Kavanagh's spectacles. Kneeling before his bomb, he had the reverent look of a saint witnessing a divine visitation. For an instant, the rest of us watched in motionless, horrified silence. The next instant, everything happened so fast that I barely had time to register who did what and when.

Slade exclaimed, “Your Majesty! Run!”

She tried to, but stumbled on her skirts. George Smith rushed to help her. Supported on his arm, she ran with him, but tripped again and fell, bringing George down with her. Slade charged toward the bomb. So did Stieber. He didn't want the bomb to explode, kill him, and foil the Tsar's plot against England, but neither did he want Slade to gain possession of the device. Before Slade could throw himself on the fuse and smother the flame, Stieber rashly gave in to his desire to destroy Slade. He fired the pistol.

I screamed, “Look out!” But I was too late. Slade dropped as if the bullet had cut his legs out from under him. A shout of pain burst from him as he landed with a heavy thud, on his side, before he reached Kavanagh. He tried to raise himself, his hands slipping in blood that spread on the floor beneath his body. Stieber aimed the gun down at Slade. I rushed to him and grabbed his arm. He threw me off and pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked. It had run out of bullets.

As I sighed with relief, he tossed the gun aside and took another from his coat pocket. He'd taken the extra weapon from one of his men before he'd left them. Now he saw, as I did, that the fuse had burned down to a mere inch. The flame flared and sputtered. Stieber dove at it while he fired on Slade again. Slade rolled away from the shot. He kicked out at Stieber with his left leg. His right leg was bleeding from the wound in his thigh. His foot struck Stieber's knee. Stieber flailed his arms and lost his grip on the gun as he tried to rebalance himself. It flew out of his hand, skittered across the floor, and stopped near the glass fountain. Stieber fell on his buttocks. Slade crawled toward the fuse. I hurried to help him, but Stieber raced up behind me and shoved me away. He and Slade lunged for the bomb. They collided in midair.

Kavanagh smiled beatifically, as if nothing that was happening could affect him. He seemed ready to die a martyr to his own genius, at peace at last.

Mr. Thackeray stood by, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as if he couldn't decide whether to join the melee or run. His face had the expression of a stray dog I'd once seen wander into Euston Station, panicked by the roaring locomotives and the crowds. He still clutched his glass of lemonade.

The burning end of the fuse had almost reached the igniting device on the bomb. The flame burned brighter. It crackled and sizzled as it consumed the gunpowder that coated the twine. Slade and Stieber crashed to the floor together, their hands outstretched inches from the fuse. I grabbed the glass from Mr. Thackeray's hand and dashed the lemonade onto the fuse.

Sometimes we act best when we act unthinkingly. Sometimes the body takes the initiative when the mind is too fraught with confusion to guide us. I didn't pause to remember that liquid extinguishes fire. I instinctively put the ancient knowledge to work.

The fuse hissed and fizzled out. Lemonade splashed Niall Kavanagh. Uttering a startled grunt, he looked from the wet fuse to me. Slade and Stieber were struggling to untangle themselves from each other. Kavanagh giggled, took another match out of the box, and struck it. But the match was drenched. It wouldn't light. Neither would the next one he struck. Rendered impotent by common sense, the scientific genius wailed.

Mr. Thackeray and I were so surprised that we stood gaping. Kavanagh flung the matches on the floor. Then he hurled himself, shrieking and sobbing, at me. I was caught off guard. He grabbed me by the front of my dress and shouted, “You spoiled everything!” He shook me so hard that my neck snapped back and forth and my teeth jarred.

His face was purple with fury, bleared with mucus, his bloodshot eyes burning through his tears. At the corners of his mouth, saliva frothed. He reminded me of Branwell during one of his rages, desperate for opium and liquor. But Branwell had never laid a hand on any of us. I had never feared that he would hurt me except inadvertently. Niall Kavanagh punched my left ear. I cried out as pain shot through my jaw, cheekbone, and temple. The lights in the Crystal Palace shimmied and fragmented, as if behind a pane of shattering glass. Noises echoed weirdly. Through them I heard Slade calling, “Charlotte!”

My vision cleared, but I was so dizzy that that the world spun. Niall Kavanagh was yelling at me, calling me profane, ugly names. His angry face whirled before me. Nauseated by vertigo, fearing contagion, I turned my head away. I seized his wrists and tried to break his grip on me, but although he was skin and bone, weakened by disease and dissipation, his temper lent him strength. I could not break free.

Near us, Slade was on the floor with Stieber. Hands gripping each other's throats, they grunted, shouted, and kicked. Slade rolled on top of his enemy. He lifted Stieber's head up, then banged it against the floor. He thrashed free of Stieber and sped toward me.

“I'm all right,” the Queen told George Smith, who hesitated between his duty to assist her and his desire to save me. “Go fetch help.”

Although clearly reluctant to abandon her and me, George went running. I saw Stieber raise himself to a sitting position. Gasping and coughing, one hand at his throat, he pushed himself onto his knees. He walked on them toward the bomb.

“Never mind me!” I cried to Slade as I grappled with Kavanagh. “Stop Stieber!”

Mr. Thackeray recovered his wits. “Go ahead,” he told Slade. “I'll take care of Miss Brontë.”

Slade wheeled around and charged at Stieber. Mr. Thackeray took hold of Kavanagh's collar, said, “Desist, or I'll be forced to hurt you,” and pulled.

With one hand still twisted in the folds of my dress, Kavanagh flung his other arm up and behind him. His fist hit Mr. Thackeray's face. Mr. Thackeray yelped and released Kavanagh. I struck out at Kavanagh, pummeling his face. He seemed not to care, even though blood poured from his nose. He shook me, cursing while I fended off slaps and punches. My vertigo upset my balance; I fell. He crashed upon me, just as Slade tackled Stieber and brought him down.

Flat on my back, I kicked, but my legs were entwined in my skirts. I struggled to push Kavanagh away, but his weight held me down. He caught my wrists, pinned them to the floor. Mr. Thackeray seized Kavanagh by the arms and heaved. Kavanagh lifted off me like a tiger ripped from its prey. The ruffle on my dress tore off in his hands. He shrieked; his body arched and flailed. As Mr. Thackeray tried to grip him in a headlock, Kavanagh snarled and bit. He assailed Mr. Thackeray like a dervish made of kicks, swings, and punches. He was so consumed by violent urges that he forgot who'd angered him; he didn't care whom he attacked. Mr. Thackeray clumsily dodged and parried blows. They landed everywhere. His legs caved. I snatched at Kavanagh, but he swerved out of my reach. He lowered his head and rammed it into Mr. Thackeray's stomach. Mr. Thackeray doubled over, dropped to his knees, and fainted.

I tried to stand, but my dizziness tilted the floor up at a sickening angle. My ear rang and my head ached from Kavanagh's blow. I saw the bomb, sitting in a puddle of lemonade, ignored by everyone. I heard the Queen shout, “Miss Brontë, get the bomb! The bomb, you idiot!”

I dragged myself toward it while Kavanagh hobbled to a standstill. The Queen's words had penetrated his tantrum; he saw me and realized that he was about to lose his precious invention. He bellowed, ran ahead of me, and snatched up the bomb. He crammed it into the suitcase and secured the lid. The room pitched like the deck of a ship in a storm, but I managed to reach him. I grabbed the suitcase.

“You can't have it!” Kavanagh shrilled. “It's mine!”

We fought a tug-of-war. He had hold of the handle and I, the wheels. I hung on even though I was sweating and sick. The jars inside the suitcase rattled dangerously. I prayed that shaking the bomb wouldn't set off the gunpowder.

Slade wrestled Stieber by the fountain. Stieber's movements had grown feeble; his strength was waning. Slade straddled his stomach and punched his face again and again. Slade's expression was merciless as he administered the brutal beating. It seemed as if he dealt Stieber one blow for each of the Russian radicals and British agents executed, one for Katerina's death, one for his torture in Bedlam, one for mine. Stieber wriggled helplessly, his face a mass of blood.

I yanked on the suitcase with all my might. At the same moment Kavanagh shoved the suitcase at me. I fell backward. The ceiling undulated; lights twirled. Kavanagh pulled on the suitcase. An attack of retching weakened my grip on the wheels.

Stieber flung out his hand and groped for the pistol he'd dropped. His fingers grazed it, but it slid out of his reach. Slade saw. Delivering another punch to Stieber's face, he snatched up the pistol. Stieber pounded his fist against the bullet wound in Slade's thigh. Slade yelled and convulsed with pain. Stieber grabbed the wrist of Slade's hand that held the pistol. He and Slade grappled for control of the weapon. It discharged with loud bangs, spewing bullets that ricocheted off the floor

Kavanagh ripped the suitcase out of my hands. Exhaustion and dizziness overcame me. I collapsed. Kavanagh absconded, the suitcase in tow. He wheezed and coughed, his steps slowed by exhaustion, his strength sapped by disease: a dead man on his last, desperate flight.

Slade wrenched the pistol and himself away from Stieber. He rose on his good leg, teetered on his injured one. Stieber sat up, bleeding from his nose and mouth. Slade aimed the pistol at his foe and cocked the trigger. His raw, battered face wore an expression of triumph so unholy that it was frightening. At last he would have his revenge.

The Queen shouted, “Kavanagh is getting away!” She started after him, hobbled on a sprained ankle, and stopped. “Mr. Slade!” She pointed at Kavanagh, who'd progressed some ten feet down the transept. “Shoot him!”

Jolted out of his private obsession, Slade looked from Stieber to Kavanagh. His face went momentarily blank as he observed Kavanagh lugging the suitcase that contained the bomb, which needed only a new fuse and new matches to explode. He aimed the pistol at Kavanagh.

“There's one bullet left,” Stieber said, his words muffled by cut, bloody lips. “You can shoot him or me. It's your choice.”

“Him!” The Queen jabbed her finger at Kavanagh.

Slade gritted his teeth against the pain of his wound. His trousers were drenched with blood. I watched him realize that if he shot Kavanagh, he would have to kill Stieber with his bare hands, and he hadn't enough strength left. He swung the pistol around to Stieber.

“Don't! That's an order!” the Queen shouted.

“You'd better shoot Kavanagh before he's out of range.” Amusement gleamed through the blood running into Stieber's swollen eyes.

Although he knew that Kavanagh and the bomb posed a greater immediate threat than Stieber did, Slade hesitated. I saw his thirst for revenge battling his duty to the Queen and his need to save the world. I was so much in sympathy with my husband that I couldn't speak, even though my own life hung in the balance. The decision must be Slade's.

“Well?” Stieber said with a malicious smile. “Which will it be?”

Despair shone in Slade's eyes.

They met mine.

Love obliterated the anguish and indecision in his gaze.

As Kavanagh hobbled farther away, Slade clasped the gun in both hands to steady it, sighted on Kavanagh, and fired. The gun kicked in his hands as it boomed. The force knocked Slade to his knees. Kavanagh twisted, then crumpled. He lay beside the suitcase, writhed, and squalled. Slade had sacrificed his revenge, for my sake.

Stieber pushed himself to his hands and knees. He crawled, then walked on all fours, then stood up and ran with a lurching, unsteady gait.

George Smith returned, accompanied by a horde of policemen. The Queen directed them to Kavanagh. The police surrounded the scientist. She said, “Take that suitcase, and be careful with it!”

Mr. Thackeray awoke and said dazedly, “What happened?”

I gathered myself up. Still battling dizziness, I faltered over to Slade.

“Are you all right?” I asked. The sight of all the blood on him horrified me. Could he lose so much and survive? I wrung my hands, not knowing what to do. I embraced him and kissed his cut, bruised face.

“I'm fine,” Slade gasped out.

He limped after Stieber, fell, and cursed. Helpless, he aimed the gun at his retreating enemy. He pulled the trigger, and I knew he hoped Stieber had lied about the number of bullets left in the gun. But the gun only clicked. Stieber had spoken the truth. With a roar of enraged frustration, Slade threw the gun at Stieber. It landed on the floor inches short of its target. Stieber reached the crowds still massed at the distant end of the Crystal Palace.