Laura Rowland - The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

“I must learn who killed Isabel,” he declared. Leaning towards me, his slender, strong figure tense with purpose, he said, “I beg you to tell me everything she said during the journey, in the hope that her words to you contained some clue to the mystery of her death.”

Having failed to induce the police to search out the murderer, I desired to help Gilbert White achieve the same objective. I related what I remembered about my conversation with Isabel. As I spoke, Mr. White watched me closely.

“I regret that your sister and I talked more about me than about her,” I said, flustered by his attention. “My experiences as a governess will contribute little towards identifying the killer.”

“One never knows what information may prove useful in the future,” Gilbert White said, “and I sincerely thank you for your assistance, Miss Bronte.”

For the first time he smiled-a brief flash of white teeth that lent his face a radiance more striking than conventional good looks. The effect momentarily dazzled me. I reckoned that Gilbert White smiled neither often nor at just anyone; a smile from him seemed a gift. But a man like him could have no sympathy with anything in me, and I must shun him as one would fire, lightning, and all else that is bright but antipathetic. Gilbert White wanted facts from me, just as George Smith wanted me to write novels for him, and I wouldn’t be a fool twice.

“Tell me, Miss Bronte,” Gilbert White said, pouring more tea for Anne, who had been sitting timidly throughout the whole interview. “How did you come to be a governess?”

His interest seemed genuine, not merely polite, and it was balm to my injured pride. “I was born the third of six children,” I said. “Our mother died when I was five, and my father was left alone to raise us all.”

Sympathy softened Gilbert White’s sharp features. “I know what it is to lose a parent. My mother was widowed when Isabel and I were quite young.”

I felt drawn to him against my will, in spite of the lesson I’d learned from George Smith. “My father is a clergyman of limited means,” I said, “and he determined on educating his children to support themselves. He sent my two eldest sisters and me to the Clergy Daughters’ School in Cowan Bridge. Unbeknownst to him, the conditions there were unwholesome. My sisters contracted consumption and died.”

Heartache and rage halted me as I recalled the bitter episode. I saw Anne puzzling at why I would talk so much to a stranger; yet Gilbert White’s attention encouraged me. “Later, Anne and I attended a better school at Roe Head, where we received training to qualify us as governesses. We eventually obtained positions in private homes.”

“Are you governesses still?” Gilbert White asked Anne.

She looked down at the table and remained silent, while I hesitated between opposing impulses. I had promised to protect the secret of our identity, but I found myself overcome by a desire to show Mr. White that I was more than the ordinary person I appeared to be.

“No,” I said, “I am an author now.”

“Indeed?” Surprise and growing interest animated Gilbert White’s expression. “What have you written?”

“My book is called Jane Eyre,” I said, lowering my voice so that the shop’s other customers wouldn’t hear. Anne kicked my foot under the table, but reckless daring spurred me on. “It was published under my pen name-Currer Bell.” When Mr. White asked what the story was about, I said, “It relates the experiences of a governess.”

“Based on your own experiences?” he said.

“It is more fiction than autobiography,” I said, though I have since come to realize that Jane and I have much in common.

“Perhaps you described the life you wanted to live,” Mr. White suggested.

I felt myself blushing. “Well, not quite.” Although I wouldn’t have enjoyed suffering Jane Eyre’s woes, a passionate love affair with a man of kindred spirit was a different matter; indeed, fiction can fulfill dreams that life does not.

Another kick from Anne brought me to my senses. “I must ask you not to tell anyone I wrote the book,” I said to Gilbert White. “It’s a secret known only to my sisters and my publisher.”

“I shall be honored to keep your confidence,” he said, as though he meant it. “I don’t read much except religious works, but I shall certainly buy and read your book.” His eyes sparked with sudden thought. “If I send you my copy, would you inscribe it for me?”

Pride and gratification warmed me as I nodded.

“How should I address the parcel?”

“It will reach me at the parsonage, Haworth, Yorkshire.”

“I do thank you. I’ve never met an authoress before,” Gilbert White marveled. Then he spoke in a voice tinged with caution: “Miss Bronte-”

Anticipation rose in me, and though I resisted defining what I hoped him to say, my breath caught.

“Did Isabel give you anything?”

“Why, no,” I said, startled, disappointed, and vaguely disturbed. “What would she have given me?”

Gilbert White shrugged, his expression rueful. “I don’t know. I don’t even know quite why I asked. I suppose I was just hoping that Isabel passed on to you something-anything-that might explain what led to her death.”

This sounded reasonable; yet uneasiness stirred in me, for I recalled Isabel White clutching her carpetbag as though she feared it would be stolen. What had she owned that someone else might want, perhaps badly enough to kill for it? I thought of the wreck of my room at the Chapter Coffee House. Did someone think I now possessed some unknown treasure?

Did Gilbert White seek the same object? If so, could he be involved in what had happened to me-and to Isabel?

I could not have guessed then that my suspicions might be justified. When I saw tears of grief and despair in his eyes, I inwardly rebuked myself for my distrust. Whatever crimes I witnessed or misfortunes I experienced, I ought not to suspect everyone I met of evil motives.

“I wish your sister had given me something of use,” I said. “If she had, I would gladly give it to you; but alas, she did not. I wish I could be of more help.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” Gilbert White said with sincerity. “Now I fear I’ve imposed upon your kindness too long.” Rising, he extended his hand to me. “Thank you and goodbye, Miss Bronte.”

As I grasped his hand, our gazes met. I felt the warm, firm grip of his fingers, and the same electrifying sensation as when I’d first beheld him. It struck within me an unfathomable premonition that we would someday be important to each other. I saw my discomposure reflected in Gilbert White’s eyes, and I knew that the same premonition had visited his mind, as well.

“You think I spoke too frankly to Mr. White, don’t you?” I asked Anne as we rode in a hansom cab towards Paternoster Row.

“Emily wouldn’t like our secret told to a stranger,” Anne said with quiet reproof. “However, he seems trustworthy.”

“Do you think so?” I said.

“Yes. In spite of such a brief opportunity to appraise his character, I have the feeling that he is a person who keeps his commitments.”

Still, my unease persisted. If Isabel had planned to meet her brother, why had she not said so? Was it he that she feared?

“Mr. White looks nothing like his sister,” Anne remarked.

That I, too, had noticed the lack of resemblance caused me further disquiet. Yet I preferred to trust Gilbert White rather than admit that someone of bad character could inspire in me the peculiar feelings that arose in his presence. “Families vary in looks. After all, you and I are nothing like Branwell.”

Our cab paused at an intersection. Looking out the window, I saw other black hired carriages. I recalled the one I had seen on the way to the opera, and I shivered at the thought that someone might be still following me.