Laura Rowland: The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

Branwell lay, his wasted frame shrunken to the size of a child’s, under the coverlet. His red, unkempt hair straggled around his gaunt face. His features were yellow and sunken, his thin, white lips shaking. While Anne, Emily, and I wept around his bed, Papa knelt beside Branwell and clasped his hand.

“Oh, Father, I am dying,” Branwell cried. “I have misspent my youth and utterly, miserably disgraced myself. In all my past life I have done none of the great things I intended.”

“But you have,” I said. “You saved all our lives and proved yourself a hero.”

Throughout that day and night, my sisters and I sat vigil with Branwell; Papa prayed for his soul. Gradually, Branwell came to repent of his vices. He appeared to forget the Robinson woman; indeed, he seemed unaware that he’d ever loved anyone but his family. Towards us he expressed a tender affection that gladdened, yet broke, our hearts. The next morning-Sunday, 24 September-we watched his life draw to an end. He grew calm and remained alert; to the last prayer which Papa offered up at his bedside, Branwell whispered, “Amen.” After a sudden, brief convulsion, he departed us in his thirty-first year.

I felt as I had never felt before that there would be peace and forgiveness for him in Heaven. Every wrong Branwell had done, every pain he’d caused, vanished. I regretted that none but a few could know how brilliantly he’d risen to the last challenge of his life. I sank into a terrible state of grief, compounded by a delayed reaction to my harrowing experiences. Headache, bilious fever, and weakness kept me abed while Papa, Emily, and Anne made preparations for Branwell’s funeral.

When it was done, our household regained harmony, even though a pall of sadness hung over it. Papa went about his business in the parish with his usual dedication. Anne seemed at peace while she did her chores. I believe her efforts in the investigation had satisfied her need for accomplishment. Emily scribbled industriously on what looked to be a new novel. It seemed that our adventures had helped her break through the mental barrier that prevented her from writing and inspired her creative force. I believe she is destined for greatness, for immortality.

Only I was discontented.

I received a letter from George Smith, in which he said he looked forward to publishing my next novel and hoped I would visit him again soon. But he seemed part of another life, and I could not settle down to writing. I could feel no sense of resolution until I saw Mr. Slade again.

He sent me a note, from the Foreign Office in London. It said that he had interrogated Hitchman, who had revealed names and locations of Kuan’s confederates in the kingdom and abroad, in exchange for a sentence of life in prison instead of death by firing squad. Mr. Slade and his associates were presently occupied with arresting those criminals and purging corrupt officials from the government. The Charity School had been closed, the Reverend and Mrs. Grimshaw arrested, and the pupils sent to better institutions. Mr. Slade said he would call on me as soon as he could, but there was no renewal of the declarations he had made before we parted; I could not discern his sentiments between the lines. Had he changed his mind? Had I dreamed the words he’d said to me? When I composed my reply, I withheld the questions I longed to ask; I invited Mr. Slade to visit, and I shared our sad news of Branwell’s passing.

I also wrote to Isabel White’s mother, informing her that the man responsible for the murder of her daughter had been delivered to justice. My vow of secrecy forbade me to give her the specifics, but I hoped she would feel some satisfaction.

Then I waited.

October came, bringing cold weather. Two weeks after Branwell’s funeral, I donned my cloak and bonnet, intending to walk the moors, but instead I found myself in the graveyard beside the church. The wind blew around the grey stone slabs that marked the graves. Misty drizzle fell from the dark afternoon sky. As I strolled upon sodden grass, a funeral party dressed in black gathered around a new grave. My heart was as melancholy as the scene, until I heard a horse’s hooves pounding and saw a man riding up the lane. My spirits rocketed into joy.

“Mr. Slade!” I called.

He dismounted outside the graveyard. As he approached me, the dreary day brightened. I ran to meet him, then faltered because his serious expression inhibited my inclination to fling myself into his arms. All during our acquaintance we had advanced towards, then retreated from, each other; now he was in a phase of retreat.

“I was sorry to hear about your brother,” Mr. Slade said, his manner coolly formal. “My condolences to you and your family.”

I murmured my thanks. We avoided each other’s gazes as we strolled together through the graveyard. My heart lapsed into a familiar state of painful, unrequited longing. Mr. Slade must have spoken insincerely on the ship, perhaps carried away by the excitement of the moment. Now he wished to forget what had passed between us. I could think of nothing to say except, “How is your wounded arm?”

“It’s healing,” Mr. Slade said.

“How are the Queen and the children?”

“They are well,” Mr. Slade said. “Her Majesty sends you her best regards. Vicky and Bertie told her how valiantly you fought to save them, and she says that if you should ever need her services in return, you have only to ask.”

“I am glad to be in Her Majesty’s good graces.”

“Regarding Lord Unwin,” said Mr. Slade, “he has received a promotion.”

“After the trouble he caused?” I said, dismayed.

A hint of a smile lifted Mr. Slade’s mouth. “Lord Palmerston has sent him to join the colonial administration in India. The climate and tropical fevers should make quick work of him.”

We had a stilted conversation about the ongoing effort to dismantle Kuan’s criminal empire. I then said, “What will you do next?”

“The Foreign Office is sending me on a new assignment, to Russia. I expect to leave very soon. I cannot be certain when I’ll return to England.”

I heard in his voice that he was happy to go. He had no regret that we should soon part. Anguish stabbed me, yet I felt an unexpected rage. Throughout my life I had fallen in love with men and meekly accepted their rejection of me, but this time was different. I would not suffer in silence. My experiences had given me the courage to speak my mind.

“I understand what you are about,” I said, turning upon Mr. Slade. “You’ve come to bid me a perfunctory goodbye. You dallied with me in Scotland, you played at romancing me on the ship, and now you think you can act as if it never happened and we can go back to being strangers.” Offended beyond courtesy, I smote him on the chest. “You, sir, are the worst kind of cad!”

Mr. Slade beheld me as if astounded. “That isn’t why I came. What are you talking about?”

“You said you were in love with me, but I should have known better.” I didn’t care that my voice rose loud and now the funeral party was watching us. “Especially since you told me that you require beauty and vivacity in a woman and could never form an attachment to one who lacks them.”

“What nonsense is this?” Mr. Slade demanded in confusion. “When did I say that?”

“On the train to London,” I said, “when we were discussing Jane Eyre. ”

Mr. Slade looked flabbergasted by recollection. “I was speaking of the characters in the book, not of you and myself.” He uttered a laugh. “Women be damned! They’re always taking personally the things men say, reading into them meanings that were never intended. They never forget the most casual passing remark that we might make. You fool, I meant every word I said to you on that ship.”