Laura Rowland - The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

If so, was it Gilbert White?

Despite my misgivings, I could not suppress the hope that we would meet again.

The inexorable force of time conveys us past good and bad alike; all things must eventually end. My great adventure was over, and I could scarcely credit the reality of it. My body had become weak from eating and sleeping too little; yet even while I looked forward to going home, I wished I could live my entire London trip anew.

Rain beat against the windows in the second-class coach of the train carrying us northward. I gazed at the passing landscape, a dull scene of grey sky and sodden fields. Anne sat beside me, writing. The only other travelers present were two gentlemen-one sitting across the narrow aisle at the front of the coach, and the other at the rear. I observed them with only mild curiosity. Both wore city coats, trousers, and hats; both were reading newspapers. One had ginger hair and sideburns, while the other was dark.

With a despondent sigh, I opened my notebook and recorded our expenses for the trip. Anne and I had spent fourteen pounds-a vast sum. We had accomplished our initial purpose, but beyond that, what? I felt I had lived more in these few days than heretofore; yet now I was returning to the same quiet existence. Would I ever see London again? I nurtured faint hope of hearing from Gilbert White. The monotonous chugging of the train, its mournful whistle, the hard wooden seat, and the damp, chill air in the coach underscored how dreary and void everything appeared. There seemed little likelihood of learning the truth about Isabel White’s murder. As the miles rolled by, I brooded about what awaited me at home. Would Emily forgive me? Would I find Branwell in a worse state?

That evening, as we entered Leeds, a storm engulfed the train. Thunder boomed above the metallic racket of the wheels. Outside the windows, lightning illuminated the city in flashes; rain slanting through the smoky air dissolved the lights into yellow streaks. Anne and I were collecting our books and satchels in preparation for our arrival at Leeds Station, when suddenly the dark-haired man seated in front of us rose. He strode towards us, seized Anne, and jerked her out of her seat. Anne gave a startled exclamation. I gasped in alarm.

“Sir, what are you doing?” Anne cried.

The man pinned her hands behind her and dragged her up the aisle. Anne shrieked in fear, struggling against him.

“Let her go!” I jumped out of my seat. The train’s motion rocked me as I lurched after my sister. Horror flooded me as I realized that by leaving London, we had hardly escaped danger. I grabbed Anne’s arm and tried to pull her free, but the man held tight. Why should this stranger attack her? Anne’s screams pierced the thunder. A dreadful thought dawned. Was this man the murderer of Isabel White? Had he followed Anne and me here to kill us too?

“Please help us!” I called, turning to the ginger-haired man at the rear of the carriage.

He advanced up the aisle, gripping the seats to steady himself. Lightning blazed, and I glimpsed his face. His raw features wore an expression of sly malice: He was clearly no savior. Even as I recoiled from him, he snatched at me. I uttered a cry, dodged, and fell sideways into a seat. He grasped my collar. I realized that he and the dark man must be partners. He yanked me upright, and as my collar dug into my throat, I gagged. Anne’s screams continued. With a strength born of panic and the desire to save myself and my sister, I lunged towards the window. My collar tore. I beat my hands against the glass and fumbled open the window. Rain blasted into the coach.

“Help!” I shouted. “Someone, please help us!”

The noise of the locomotive and storm drowned my voice. The train sped on. My attacker scrambled into the seat after me. I sobbed in terror as he hauled me backwards into the aisle; I kicked and thrashed. I saw the dark man wrestling with Anne, whose cries and attempts to free herself weakened as he forced her to the floor.

“Anne!” I screamed. “No!”

My attacker clamped a rough cloth that reeked of chemicals over my nose and mouth. The cloth smothered me, and I felt a cold, burning sensation across my skin. Sickly sweet fumes invaded my lungs as I gasped and choked. My vision blurred, and a dizzying faintness quelled my struggles. Thunder boomed, then, darkness claimed me.

Distant voices and hurried footsteps merged in the darkness with a great rattling, rushing din. The smell of smoke accompanied the sound of water spattering as I gradually returned to consciousness. I lay on a firm surface; my head throbbed painfully, and my mouth was dry. Alarm, inspired by terrifying memory, jarred my groggy mental faculties alert.

My eyelids flew open. Light glared across my vision. I tried to sit up, but vertigo assailed me. Coarse, heavy fabric covered me up to my chin, and I thrashed under it, crying, “Anne!”

Her hazy image bent over me. “Dear Charlotte!” Her face was pale and drawn. “Thank God you’re all right!”

“Those men. Where are they?” Breathless with anxiety, I clutched my sister’s hands.

Anne said with a reassuring smile, “Don’t worry, Charlotte; we are safe now.”

I relaxed, though I remained bewildered. “Where are we?”

“At Leeds Station, in the stationmaster’s room.”

“My spectacles-”

Anne positioned the spectacles over my eyes, and my surroundings came into focus. On the walls were colorful railway maps of Britain. I was in a room furnished with a desk, bookcases, a sofa upon which I lay beneath a blanket, and several chairs.

“How did we get here?” Now I recognized the sounds of trains entering the station and people hurrying about. Rain was falling outside the window. “What happened to us?”

The door opened. Anne called over her shoulder, “Come in-my sister is awake at last.”

Gilbert White entered the room. What indescribable astonishment was mine!

“Hello again, Miss Bronte,” he said, gazing down at me with concern. His dark hair was wet; his black suit clung damply to him. “How do you feel?”

“Extremely unwell, but alive.” I pushed myself upright, fighting dizziness. “What are you doing here?”

“Mr. White saved us,” Anne said, giving him a thankful look.

“I don’t understand.” Overwhelmed by the events of the past moments, I shook my aching head. “What happened?”

Gilbert White perched on a nearby chair. Bruises discolored his cheeks, and his white collar was torn, but he appeared vigorously alive, his masculine looks enhanced by his injuries. “I was riding on the same train as you. When I got off at this station, I saw two men climb out of the carriage ahead of mine, supporting a woman who seemed unable to walk.”

“It was you, Charlotte,” Anne said. “The men who attacked us put you to sleep somehow.”

“It must have been the chemical on the cloth over my face.” My dry throat rasped, and Anne handed me a glass of water, which I gladly drank. “What could it have been?”

“Probably ether-the new drug used by surgeons to render patients unconscious during operations,” Gilbert White explained. “At first I didn’t know the woman was you, because I couldn’t see your face. Then I heard cries coming from the carriage that the two men had just left. I hurried over, looked inside, and found your sister lying on the floor, bound and gagged.”

“Oh, Anne,” I said, horrified. “Were you hurt?”

“Not at all; just frightened,” Anne assured me. “When Mr. White removed my gag, we recognized each other. I begged him to rescue you. He called the railway guards to assist me, then ran after the men.”

“I spotted them outside the station,” said Mr. White. “They were putting you into a hired carriage. One man got in after you. I grabbed the other as he was climbing up and knocked him to the ground. As the carriage sped away, I jumped in. The man inside fought me, but I threw him out onto the street. I then ordered the driver to return to the station.”