Free The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë by Laura Joh Rowland Page A

under the crushing pressure of a giant fist. The scent of roses turned sickening. The sad truth was now clear—George Smith’s attentions towards me stemmed from his interest in me as Currer Bell, not as Charlotte Brontë. At last I understood why he was so eager for me to leave London: He wanted Currer Bell safe from harm so that she could write more books for Smith, Elder & Company.
    Mrs. Smith regarded me with an air of smug triumph. “Surely you understand me when I say that my dear George will neither disappoint his mother nor jeopardize his own prospects when he marries?”
    When George Smith entered the parlor, I dared not even look his way.

    The next morning Anne and I called on Thomas Cautley Newby, the publisher whose fraud had brought us to town. After an unpleasant talk during which we chastised him and he insisted that the problem was but a misunderstanding, I took Anne to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The firmament arched blue and cloudless above us as we walked by the monument to Admiral Horatio Nelson. The square impressed me as an apt symbol of England’s military power. I bethought myself a citizen of the great kingdom that had defeated Napoleon and ruled the seas unrivaled ever since, commanding an empire that extended across India, Australia, New Zealand, and Africa. While insurrections had shaken Europe time and again during our century, Britain had so far held firm—the army had quelled the Chartist demonstrations that had taken place in London this spring. Now vendors sold trinkets to sightseers streaming in and out of the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields; pigeons fluttered, chasing breadcrumbs tossed by children. All was tranquil.
    Anne and I joined a throng heading into the gallery, whose massive Grecian façade dominated the square. The viewing of fine paintings has always given me great pleasure, and the gallery’s cool, echoing chambers contained works by my favorite artists; yet they could neither distract me from my shame over George Smith nor soothe the pain of hope denied yet again.
    “Dear Charlotte, you seem unhappy,” Anne said as we strolled the gallery. “Is it Isabel White’s death that troubles you?”
    “It is.” I would rather have died than admit how I had deluded myself about Mr. Smith, and Isabel White did still weigh heavily upon my mind. “I doubt that I can depend on Mr. Smith to help determine who killed Isabel. I fear that I can do nothing about the murder.”
    “Perhaps it’s for the best.” Anne added, “I shall be glad to be home. There, no one will chase you or invade our rooms.”
    The prospect of leaving London the next day depressed me all the more. Absently wandering the galleries, I lost Anne in the crowd and walked into a room of Italian paintings. In the deserted, shadowy chamber, medieval dukes, noblewomen, and Madonnas gazed down at me from their golden frames. Distant sounds echoed eerily like whispers from the past. A man appeared before me so suddenly that he seemed to have materialized from thin air.
    “Miss Brontë?” he said.
    The unexpected sound of my name halted me. Startled, I focused on the man’s black frock coat at my eye level. My gaze moved upward to the white collar and white cravat that identified him as a clergyman, then alit on his face. He had keen, intense features and an olive complexion shaded by a cleanshaven beard. Wavy black hair tumbled above grey eyes of striking clarity and brilliance. Staring into these, I experienced a peculiar, electrifying sense of recognition; yet the man was a stranger.
    “Please excuse my accosting you in this rude manner,” he said. Fleeting confusion clouded his face, as if he noticed my reaction to him—or felt the same shock? “My name is Gilbert White. I’m the brother of Isabel White—I believe you’ve met her.”
    “Isabel’s brother?” I felt dismay as I wondered whether the clergyman knew of his sister’s death, for I did not wish to have to break such news.