Laura Rowland: The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

“But…,” Anne wrung her hands. “If Mr. Smith doesn’t believe there are three authors named Bell, why would he believe you if you write informing him that the authors are three Misses Bronte?”

“He probably would not,” I said, encouraged by a sense that Anne shared my desire for recognition. “Therefore, I propose that we go to London, so that Mr. Smith may see us with his own eyes.” As I spoke the words, my heart fluttered like wings inside my chest; the world of my dreams seemed suddenly within reach.

“London?” Emily said, as though I had suggested a trip to Hades. The color drained from her face, and she retreated from me. “I won’t go. I can’t!”

Here I must add a few more strokes to my portrait of Emily. She had spent almost her entire life in Haworth. Each time away, however brief, she would become sickly and lifeless, like a plant torn from its native soil. She feared strangers and crowds, and hated noisy, dirty cities. She made me feel selfishly cruel for asking her to travel to London; however, I was determined for us to go.

“Please, Emily,” I said. “It won’t be so terrible. We needn’t stay very long, and we won’t reveal our identities to anyone outside Smith, Elder amp; Company.”

“No!” Emily ran to the parsonage and pressed herself against its brick wall, looking more a frightened child than the woman of thirty years she then was.

Anne asked cautiously, “When would we leave?”

“Today,” I said. “I must mend my relations with Smith, Elder amp; Company as soon as possible.”

“Anne! You wish to go, too?” Emily gazed at Anne in disbelief. “You want to break your promise to me?”

“Oh, no,” Anne hastened to say. “It’s just that I think we must do what is right, and perhaps Charlotte knows best…” She quailed under the look of hurt and outrage that Emily gave her, then turned to me. “But we can’t just arrive at Smith, Elder amp; Company without warning. What would they think of us?”

My determination wavered. We possessed among us no beauty to help us gain favor, and I considered myself the plainest-so small and thin am I, with a head too large for my body, irregular features, and a pallid complexion. Furthermore, my plan seemed audaciously forward, defying convention that required modesty of the female sex. But I put aside vanity and fear of social censure; I got a firmer grip on my resolve.

“Smith, Elder amp; Company can hardly think less of us than they do at this moment,” I said. “We must risk a minor discourtesy for the sake of achieving a greater good.”

“Well, I’m not going,” Emily said. She was breathing hard, and her fingers kneaded her folded arms. “It’s not my predicament. Mr. Smith’s complaint regards only you and Anne. I’ve done nothing to warrant exposure. And I forbid you to tell anyone anything about me!”

It was clear that Emily would never be persuaded. “Very well; you may stay home,” I said reluctantly. “I won’t reveal your identity. I suppose that two of us will be enough to prove ourselves separate individuals to Mr. Smith… if you’ll come with me, Anne?”

Biting her lips, Anne looked from me to Emily, torn between her sense of duty to me and her loyalty to the person she loved best. When I became nurse, tutor, and disciplinarian to my younger siblings after the deaths of our mother and eldest sisters long ago, Anne was the only one never to disobey me. She had meekly accompanied me to the school where I taught, and she studied hard because she knew my salary paid her tuition. I knew she still felt indebted to me.

“Anne,” Emily pleaded.

A small sigh issued from Anne. Bowing her head, she murmured, “We’ll need Papa’s permission.”

Emily stood in stricken silence. Her eyes blazed with her fury and pain at Anne’s betrayal. Uttering a cry of despair, she turned from us and ran towards the moors with the swift grace of a fleeing deer. Anne and I silently watched her figure recede; then, without looking at each other, we went into the parsonage.

Papa was in his study, writing a sermon. When I told him about George Smith’s letter and our resolve to set things aright, he said, “Of course you must uphold your honor, and your proposal seems the only way.” Though I always defer to his authority, his generous heart is loath to deny me anything. He went on, “However, the idea of your traveling two hundred miles to London disturbs me. These are dangerous times.”

A cataclysm of revolution had convulsed Europe during the year. In France, radicals had rebelled against a corrupt, oppressive regime; strikes, riots, and warfare had beset Paris; the king had abdicated and gone into exile. In the Germanies, mobs had clashed with the army in the streets of Berlin. The Italian states had risen up against Austrian rule; in Vienna, the Hapsburg monarchy had battled its own citizens when they clamored for social reform. In Britain, Irish nationalists had revolted against English domination, while across England, radical Chartists had staged mass demonstrations. Their quest for voting rights for all men and equal representation in Parliament had incited violent disturbances. Queen Victoria had fled London. Yet I had no inkling that these events held any significance for me-they seemed but minor disturbances in distant domains.

“Things are somewhat quieted lately, Papa,” I said. “Anne and I should be safe enough.”

“Emily does not wish to go?”

“No, Papa.” Guilt sickened me.

Papa said with reluctance, “I should escort you and Anne.”

“Oh, no, Papa,” I said, “you must not risk your health.” He was susceptible to severe colds, and besides, I’d set my heart on our going unaccompanied. “We’ll be fine by ourselves. I’ve visited London before, and I know my way around the city.”

“Very well,” Papa said with evident relief. “But do be careful.”

“We shall, Papa.” I hesitated, then asked, “May we stay a few days to see the sights?”

After some debate, Papa consented. Jubilant, I hurried Anne upstairs, where we began hastily packing. I was folding garments into a trunk when I noticed Anne standing at the bedroom window. Outside stretched the moors, like an empty sea. Emily had disappeared.

“She’ll understand that we have no choice. She’ll forgive us,” I endeavored to reassure both Anne and myself.

Anne blinked away tears. I suffered a fresh onslaught of guilt, but resumed packing. The future beckoned.

Now, as the hour grows late and the candles burn low, I wonder if I would have gone to London had I known that I was taking my first step towards a man who personified evil and madness. Would I have gone knowing what pleasure and pain, hope and despair, terror and glory, would be mine? But the fact is that I did go; and perhaps, when I have finished recording my tale, I will know whether I am more glad or sorry.

Once, during a trip to the continent, I saw a medieval tapestry that depicted an everyday scene in an ancient town. Lords and ladies promenaded around the castle; merchants plied their trade in the street; peasants worked the fields while mounted hunters galloped through the forest and pilgrims entered a cathedral. Each tiny creature pursued his own business as if unaware of the folk in distant sections of the tapestry-yet all were joined by the underlying warp. I am struck by the resemblance of that tapestry to my story. On the morning I received George Smith’s letter, I had no knowledge of events occurring a hundred miles away or of persons whose lives would soon be interwoven with mine.

Birmingham is a large industrial city south of Haworth; for my description of it and the happenings there, I elaborate upon an account given me by my sister Anne, who became closely acquainted with certain characters and environs. In a district known as the gun quarter is a courtyard surrounded by the brick buildings of Lock Gunworks. The noise of saws, hammers, and metal on grindstones emanated from neighboring businesses. Smoke from forges blackened the sky. Across the city resounded the Birmingham Roar: continuous gunshots from the test-firing of weapons. On this day the craftsmen of Lock Gunworks gathered in the courtyard around Joseph Lock, proprietor.