Laura Rowland - The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

“Oh. I see.” I saw that Ellen was hurt by my evasion. Guilt pricked me, but before I could frame an explanation that would placate her without revealing too much, Ellen said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. It concerns that book everybody has been talking about, Jane Eyre.”

A feeling of dread coursed through me.

“I heard a rumor that you are the author,” Ellen continued. “At first I thought it could not possibly be true, because you wouldn’t have published a book without telling me. But when I read Jane Eyre, I recognized Thornfield Manor as Rydings, where my family used to live. The grey house with its battlements, the rookery, and the thorn trees were all in the book, just as you saw them when you visited us. And I could almost hear your voice speaking as I read. Now I must know for certain: Did you write Jane Eyre?”

Wincing inwardly, I clutched my teacup. Ellen had never been much interested in literature, and I never thought she would read Jane Eyre , let alone recognize anything in it. I had sworn to keep the secret, yet I didn’t want to lie to my faithful friend.

“Ellen,” I began.

As eager anticipation brightened her face, I spied Emily standing in the parlor doorway. Emily glowered at me, her meaning clear: She did not wish that Ellen be told, even though Ellen was one of the few people outside the family whom she liked. Then Emily turned and walked away, leaving me to choose between my friend and my sister.

“I did not write Jane Eyre,” I declared. “If anyone tells you otherwise, you must set them straight.”

“Oh. Yes, of course I will.” Ellen looked unconvinced, even wounded, by my denial.

Anxious to atone for my deception, I clasped Ellen’s hand and said, “I’m glad you’re here, and I haven’t even thanked you for coming. Please forgive me, and let me explain about the experiences I mentioned in my letter.” I described Isabel White’s murder and the incidents that followed, sharing with Ellen my belief that the events were somehow related.

“How awful!” Ellen exclaimed, clutching her throat as if she might faint. “My dear, how did you manage to find so much trouble?”

“I’m afraid that trouble found me, and it still lurks at my door,” I said.

As I told her about the package from Isabel White and the inquisitive man in the village, I watched her expression turn aghast. She cried, “Oh, Charlotte, I can’t bear for you to be in danger. You must come home with me this instant.”

“That won’t help me discover who’s behind the attacks,” I said. “Conveying the package to Isabel’s mother and learning what I can from her represents my only hope of protecting myself and my family. But I cannot travel to Bradford alone under these circumstances, and Emily and Anne refuse to go with me. And Papa’s health is too weak.”

“How fortunate that I can be of use to you after all!” Ellen said, clapping her hands together. “My dear, I shall accompany you to Bradford.”

Too late I realized that I should have anticipated this reaction. When Ellen is determined to help, nothing can stop her. “But those men might come after me again. I mustn’t put you in danger.”

Ellen waved away my protests. “I know you, Charlotte. You’ll have no peace until you’ve done your duty to that poor woman, and if you don’t have someone to accompany you, you’ll make up your mind to go alone, no matter the risks.”

There was truth in her words, but I could not put Ellen’s safety at risk. “It’s a journey of ten miles. We would have to stay overnight in Bradford. Surely you’re not prepared for the trip, and your mother would worry if you were gone so long.”

“Oh, but I am prepared.” Ellen laughed merrily. “My trunk is outside. I came here expecting to stay with you at least a week, and I have Mama’s blessing.” Then dismay cast a shadow upon her countenance. “Unless-Charlotte, are you trying to say that you don’t want my company?”

“No, of course I do,” I hastened to assure her. As I tried to impress upon Ellen the serious nature of the threat, I could see that she remained hurt by what she saw as rejection, and unconvinced that any harm could befall her. Tears filled her eyes, and she dabbed them with a lacy handkerchief.

“I understand,” she murmured. “I see that I’m not needed here, and I shall go home at once. Forgive me for bothering you.”

It became clear that either I had to allow Ellen to accompany me to Bradford, or her feelings would be hurt beyond consolation. Moreover, I recognized that Ellen’s proposal offered a solution to my problems. Should any persons wish to attack me, perhaps they would not if I was accompanied by someone outside my family, whom they wouldn’t want to involve in their business. That Ellen had arrived today seemed almost a divine coincidence that enabled me to honor a murdered woman’s last wish.

“We’ll leave for Bradford early tomorrow,” I said.

The town of Bradford is situated in the lower foothills of the Pennines. Its textile mills cluster along the valley like black, cancerous growths; coal mines mar the surrounding landscape. Mean tenements house men, women, and children who toil in the mines and mills from sunrise to sundown. The air resounds with the whine and roar of machinery.

The train conveyed Ellen and me to this hell on the morning of 21 July 1848. We left our bags at the station; then a hansom cab carried us through narrow streets amidst heavy traffic, past shops whose windows were so begrimed by soot that I couldn’t see inside. Dense smoke laden with cinders stung my eyes and immersed the town in a perpetual dusk.

Ellen held a perfumed handkerchief over her nose and mouth. “This must be the most unwholesome place in the kingdom,” she said. “I hope we do not take ill.”

Illness was of secondary concern to me: I had spent the journey in dread of meeting again the two men who had attacked Anne and me. Although today’s train trip had passed without incident, I nonetheless anxiously scanned the hordes of shopkeepers, laborers, businessmen, and servants on the streets.

The cab left Ellen and me at the entrance to Eastbrook Terrace. Carrying my satchel, which contained Isabel’s package, I beheld a gloomy alley enclosed by two-story attached tenements constructed of dark, dingy brick. The pavement was covered by foul muck that was inches deep. I wondered how Gilbert White could allow his mother to live in such squalor. Surely he could afford better accommodations for his family. Did he shirk his duties as a son? Though disturbed by the thought, I held out hope that I might find him here. Perhaps he was staying with his mother, and had thus been too busy to write to me.

Boards had been set atop bricks to form bridges spanning the filth. Ellen and I gingerly walked along these, then up a staircase to Number 20. I knocked on the door.

“Come in,” called a woman’s faint voice from inside.

The room we entered was dim, its window partially covered with a muslin curtain. On a chair in the corner sat the woman, dressed in a white cap, white apron, and dark frock, her face in shadow.

“Mrs. White?” I said.

“Yes, who’s there?” the woman replied in a timid tone, craning her neck.

“My name is Charlotte Bronte,” I said, “and this is my friend Ellen Nussey.”

As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw that Mrs. White was perhaps sixty years old, frail of figure. Her face was gaunt, her pale skin lined; yet I discerned in her features the same delicately sculpted bones that Isabel had possessed. She held on her lap a cloth that looked to be a bedsheet. Her fingers plied a needle and thread, hemming the sheet in quick stitches. That she could sew in such poor light puzzled me, until a closer look at her showed filmy blue eyes gazing blankly up at me. Mrs. White was blind.