Laura Rowland: The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

“I have interrupted your work to make an important announcement,” Lock said. “As you are aware, Lock Gunworks has a long, illustrious history. My ancestors armed King William’s troops against Louis the Fourteenth of France.”

A portrait that hangs in the parlor of his house depicts Joseph Lock as a robust man with bold features and shrewd blue eyes. He appears quite the successful merchant and town leader. As to the thoughts in his mind at the time of this announcement, I must enter the realm of conjecture. I imagine him feeling an eerie sensation of being two selves divided-one the physical manifestation of Joseph Lock; the other, an ugly wretch cowering inside him, ridden by guilt.

“My father-may he rest in peace-manufactured guns for the Napoleonic Wars and the African trade,” Lock continued. “It has been my birthright and my privilege to manage the firm and carry on the family tradition of loyal service to the Crown.” Lock’s voice cracked; tears of shame welled in his eyes, for he had dishonored his privilege and broken tradition through a secret, abominable crime.

He gathered himself. “However, I summoned you here not to speak of the past, but of present concerns. It is with great regret that I am today retiring from my post as head of Lock Gunworks and ceasing all involvement in the firm’s operation.”

An uneasy stir rippled his audience; Lock noted surprise on many faces, curiosity on others. He reviled himself for making his men accomplices to his crime. He looked upon the grimy, calloused hands that crafted the guns that bore his name, and he hated himself for lying.

“I do not make this decision lightly,” Lock said. Indeed, he had agonized over what to do. But the chain of events that had begun with one small mistake brought his frantic search for alternatives to a single unavoidable conclusion.

“However, my advancing age and poor health leave me no choice but to retire.” Another lie, that: he was only fifty, and in enviable health. “Therefore, I appoint my brother Henry as head of the firm.” Lock gestured, and the young man stepped forward. He was twenty-nine years old, pale, handsome, and nervous.

“I ask you to work as loyally for Henry as you have for me,” Lock told the workers, although he had no right to speak of loyalty after breaking all its bonds himself. “As a farewell token from me, you shall each receive an extra day’s pay.”

He hurried out of the courtyard, followed by the workers’ murmurs of “Thank you, sir,” and “God bless you.” He strode through the gun quarter, past the workshops and public houses, to his home in the suburb of Edgbaston. Here lived Birmingham’s important, wealthy citizens. The air was fresh, the smoke from the foundries a distant black smudge on the horizon, and the Birmingham Roar a muted echo. Birds sang in the trees that shaded the wide, sunny streets; mansions graced expansive lawns. The Lock residence was an elegant stone Italianate house. When Lock entered, his wife greeted him.

“You’re home early,” said she. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all.” Lock regarded her, blonde and rosy and innocent. Guilt and despair tainted his love for her. His betrayal of her was as grievous as his betrayal of his father and country. He said, “There’s just something I need to do.”

His two young sons raced into the hall, shouting and laughing. When they saw Lock, they halted, fell quiet, and stared at him. Lock mounted the stairs, consoling himself with the thought that his sons’ heritage and livelihood would remain intact, and they would never learn the worst about him. He went into his study and locked the door.

Cabinets lining the walls displayed firearms produced by Lock Gunworks. He removed a pistol. The sinner in him directed his trembling hands to place powder and ball inside its chamber; he welcomed punishment, craved release from suffering. But the vestiges of Joseph Lock, pillar of the church and community, resisted compounding his previous sins. His breath rasped; nausea roiled his stomach as he cocked the pistol. He deplored the agony and shame awaiting his family.

Did he perceive the true nature of the villain responsible for all he suffered? Perhaps he thought about her, and the terrible heat of longing again enflamed him. He sat clutching the gun, torn by warring impulses, until his sinful, guilt-ridden self persuaded him that there was no other escape from the hell that he’d made of his life, and certain disaster lay ahead if he did not act. By yielding to temptation and cowardice, he had abetted forces powerful enough to ravage the whole kingdom, and this offered the only possible means by which to stop them. “God have mercy on my soul,” he whispered, putting the pistol to his temple. He pulled the trigger.

The echo of that fatal shot quickly dissipated, but the inaudible reverberations traveled far beyond Birmingham, across time, and soon reached me.

During my lifetime a miracle has transformed England. Iron roads have spread fast and far, connecting every part of the kingdom. We now live in an age of steam engines and speed, and fortunes have been gained and lost on railway speculation. The rapid tide of progress merits awe, but on the evening when Anne and I set out for London, the miracle of train travel became a force hastening us towards doom.

That morning, Anne and I had sent our trunk to Keighley Station by wagon. Anne refused to leave without bidding Emily farewell, and Emily did not return from the moors-perhaps she hoped her absence would prevent our departure. Finally, after tea, I propelled a reluctant Anne out of the house. While we walked the four miles to Keighley, a thunderstorm drenched us, and I began to harbor serious doubts about our journey. Despite my earlier enthusiasm for the journey, and despite my assurances to Papa, I was far from confident about my ability to manage in the dazzling metropolis of London.

From Keighley we rode a local train to Leeds. It was dark by the time we arrived. Soldiers patrolled the platform-Leeds had been the site of recent Chartist demonstrations, and the threat of violence persisted. Soon Anne and I were boarding a first-class carriage for our nightlong journey. The carriage resembled an elongated stage-coach and contained three separate compartments. Anne and I occupied the center coach compartment, which had two upholstered seats facing one another, and a window on each side.

“Charlotte?” Anne said tentatively. “Where shall we stay in London?” This was the first expression of interest she had shown in the trip, as if she had only just accepted the reality of it.

“We’ll go to the inn where Emily and I lodged with Papa on our way to school in Belgium.” That trip had occurred more than six years ago, and I hoped the inn was still existent, because I knew nowhere else to go. Nausea born of apprehension churned my stomach.

“Do you think Mr. Smith will receive us?” Anne said.

“I daresay he will,” I said, “if only out of curiosity.” Surely Mr. Smith was as eager as the rest of the public to know the identity of Currer Bell.

“What shall we say to him?”

“We shall simply introduce ourselves and explain why we came.” As my nausea worsened, I saw Anne’s chin quiver with anxiety, and I hastened to reassure her. “The whole business should take but a moment, and we’ll then be free to see the sights.” I felt a duty to make Anne’s first trip to the city a pleasant one. “Would you enjoy that?”

“I would.” Anne smiled. “Dear Charlotte, you are so brave and capable.”

The engine roared and the departure bell rang. Suddenly the coach door opened, and a woman stepped inside. She set a large bag on the floor. Before seating herself opposite Anne and me, she gave us a polite bow. I returned the bow; then a closer look at her arrested my attention.