The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (34 page)

T’ing-nan’s narrow gaze rebuffed my suggestion. “You watch.”

He stalked from the room, along a passage towards the back of the house. I followed. Nick suddenly appeared, interposing himself between us and the door.

“You let me out,” T’ing-nan said.

Nick shook his head, held his position.

“I go,” T’ing-nan insisted, grabbing for the door handle.

Hitchman and one of the men I’d seen earlier joined us. “You aren’t going anywhere, young fellow,” Hitchman told T’ing-nan. “Your father’s orders.”

As the youth yelled protests in Chinese, Hitchman and the other man seized his arms. They bore the kicking, screaming T’ing-nan up the stairs.

“Sorry for the trouble, Miss Brontë,” Hitchman called. “We’ll just let him calm down awhile, and you can start his lessons tomorrow.”

They passed from my view. I heard a door slam upstairs, and T’ing-nan pounding on it and shouting. Nick still guarded the door. His glowering silence spoke a clear warning to me: I, too, was a prisoner.

T
HAT EVENING I ATE A DINNER OF ROASTED PILCHARDS, SERVED BY Ruth the housekeeper, alone in the dining room. Hitchman ushered me upstairs to my room, where I lay awake, listening to the sea, until sleep claimed me. The next morning, I began teaching T’ing-nan. He was sullenly uncooperative. At noon he announced that he’d had enough learning, flung the schoolbooks onto the floor, and stomped off to his room. I coaxed and scolded him through the door, but he refused to come out.

“Lost your pupil, have you?” Hitchman said.

“It seems that way,” I said, irked by his mocking manner. But T’ing-nan’s behavior afforded me a pretext for leaving the house. “Since I have nothing to do here, I should like to go into town.”

“Very well,” Hitchman said.

He summoned Ruth to accompany me, and Nick drove us to Penzance. The weather continued cool and drizzly. As Ruth and I walked up the main street, Nick trailed close behind us. We passed stalls at which fisherwomen in scarlet cloaks and broad hats hawked their wares to town ladies wearing fancy lace caps. Ruth paused, her attention caught by the pungent displays of fish. A peddler’s cart separated me from her and Nick. Swiftly, I edged away from them; I looked frantically around. Where would I find Oyster Cottage? I saw Nick roving the street, scanning the crowd for me. I hurriedly bent over a basket of cockles at a stall. He walked on without noticing me.

A man’s voice hissed in my ear: “What in the deuce is going on?”

Startled, I turned and saw Mr. Slade standing beside me. He wore shabby clothes like a fisherman’s, and a cap pulled low over his face. A sob of relief welled in my throat.

“Don’t look at me,” Mr. Slade ordered in a harsh whisper. “Act as though we don’t know each other.”

I tore my gaze from him and pretended to examine the cockles as I whispered, “The man we seek is not at the house. He’s expected to arrive later.”

Mr. Slade stifled a curse. I saw Ruth and Nick approaching. “Here they come,” I said in a panic.

“Look upward to your right,” Slade said urgently. “Do you see that house with the blue trim and two gables?”

I saw it, on a hillside street beyond market, and nodded.

“That’s Oyster Cottage,” Slade said. “Go there if you feel in danger.”

There was no time to advise him of the rules that hindered my freedom. We moved apart, and the crowds separated us. Ruth and Nick joined me.

“Find what you wanted?” Ruth asked.

I picked up a cockle and paid the proprietor for it. “Yes,” I said.

A storm blew in from the sea that night, lashing the waves against the cliffs and rain against the house. Foghorns moaned through my sleep. I was awakened by thumps and voices that echoed up from the cellars. Footsteps mounted the stairs. I listened, but nothing more happened. I slept until the parlor clock chimed seven. After washing and dressing, I ventured downstairs. Ruth served me a solitary breakfast. Outside the dining room window, a pale, drifting mist obscured the sea. The dampness, chill, and seclusion produced in me a languorous depression of my spirit. No sooner had I finished eating, than Hitchman appeared.

“My partner arrived last night,” he said. “He wants to see you. Come with me.”

The source of the sounds I’d heard now became apparent: The man must have arrived by boat and entered the house through a subterranean passage. This abrupt summons left me no time to inform Mr. Slade that our villain was at hand. Even if Mr. Slade had been watching the house, he would not have observed the arrival of its master. Fear choked the breath in my lungs, but it was easily outweighed by my strong curiosity.

Hitchman led me up the stairs, to the forbidden third story. It smelled of the perfume I remembered from the chateau. We followed a dim passage lined with doors. The last one stood open; Hitchman ushered me inside a small, dim chamber that resembled the cabin of a ship. A round window like a porthole overlooked the mist-shrouded sea. A telescope sat upon a table; maps hung on the walls above a rusted brass-bound trunk. Near the desk stood the man I had waited so long to set my eyes upon.

He was little taller than his son, but his proud carriage lent him a semblance of height. Unlike his son, he wore the dark coat and trousers of a British gentleman, and his gleaming black hair was cut short in corresponding fashion. Perhaps he had eschewed his native garb in order to blend in with the local citizens and move about freely. While the son was all restlessness, the father was all repose.

“So we meet again, Miss Brontë,” he said.

His silky, suave voice again worked an eerie magic upon my mind, dissolving my ties to Mr. Slade, the outside world, and everything sensible and sane. His face had a waxen gold skin that stretched tight over the curved planes of his bones. His age was indeterminate. With his haughty, sculpted nose and lips, he was at once repulsive and alluring. Words from Isabel White’s diary whispered in my mind:
His strange beauty captivated me.
His eyes, set beneath high, arched brows, were shaped like half moons. Their steady gaze drew me into their black depths. I feared that if I looked too long into them, I would lose myself. I struggled to think what Mr. Slade had told me to do, and I recalled my aim of learning as much as possible about this man.

“Now that I have entered your employ,” I said with a calmness I did not feel, “may I know your name?”

His half-moon eyes narrowed in faint amusement. “I am Kuan Tzu-chan. You may address me as Kuan.”

I later learned that this was his family name, which, in Chinese fashion, he spoke before his personal name. To Hitchman, who stood beside me, he said, “Leave us.”

Surprise, and offense, disrupted Hitchman’s genial expression. “I’ll stay, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Kuan said simply.

Hitchman stood irresolute for a moment, then departed. I saw that while he fancied himself as Kuan’s partner, he was clearly the subordinate.

“Come, Miss Brontë,” said Kuan, “let us converse.” He pointed me toward a chair and took for himself the wooden captain’s chair behind the desk. It was too big for his slight frame, but he sat regally. “Are your quarters satisfactory? Have you everything you need?”

I had engaged in similar conversations at every establishment where I’d worked; but Kuan’s voice imbued the mundane exchange with portentous significance. His keen scrutiny of me implied an interest in more than my comfort. “My physical needs are met, but I expected a little more. You promised me that if I accepted this position, I would live in luxury. And I prefer that my freedom not be so restricted.”

He heard my complaint with a look of condescension. “There are times in life when we must delay gratification and tolerate minor inconveniences in order to earn our rewards. Now then: I understand that you have met my son and begun his lessons. How does he progress?”

“Your son is intelligent, but he refuses to apply himself,” I said. “His antipathy towards my country has set him against mastering the language.”

A shadow of displeasure crossed Kuan’s smooth face. “My son must learn to accept the circumstances that fortune has thrust upon him. And you, Miss Brontë, must overcome his resistance. Have you ever had difficult pupils in the past?”

“Far too many,” I said.

“Were you ultimately able to tame and instruct them?”

“Not all,” I admitted. Were this an interview with any other employer, I would have tried to conceal my failings so he would not think ill of me; but the force of Kuan’s nature compelled me to honesty, as it had in Brussels. “It is impossible to teach someone who refuses to accept instruction.”

“So you blame the pupils, and not yourself, for their failure to learn?” Kuan said with a glimmer of a smile.

I didn’t want to anger him by implying that if T’ing-nan failed to learn English, it was his own fault; yet I wished to defend myself. “Medieval alchemists claimed to convert base metal to gold, but not even the best teacher can effect a similar transformation in a pupil.”

“In my land, a good teacher is one who acknowledges her own mistakes and endeavors to correct them, rather than giving up,” Kuan said.

He displayed the same arrogant superiority that I had observed in his son. I replied tartly, “With all due respect, sir, this is not your land.”

A look of secretive gloating came over Kuan. “I detect in you a harsh attitude towards children, Miss Brontë. Do you dislike them so much?”

My candor faltered; his observation was astute, and a woman who admits disliking children risks seeming a monster. “I like them very well,” I replied.

I could see that my falsehood did not deceive Kuan; yet satisfaction wreathed his features. “But still you would vigilantly protect any children in your charge?”

“Of course I would,” I said.

“You would endanger your own life before letting them come to harm?”

Although I could not imagine sacrificing myself for any of the brats I’d taught—nor for Kuan’s rude, petulant son—I nodded, rather than contradict my previous answer.

“You would place yourself between your charges and someone who attacked them?” Kuan said. “In fact, you would do anything rather than hurt a child?”

My nods grew weaker, for I did not have much enthusiasm for children and could not commit to risking my life for an unknown hypothetical child; yet his satisfied expression deepened. I felt that I had passed some arcane test he had set for me. He steepled his hands under his chin as he continued to scrutinize my face. “Why did you choose a profession that is so ill suited to your nature?”

“There are few others open to women,” I admitted.

“But many Englishwomen stay home rather than enter the service of strangers,” Kuan said. “Why did you not?”

“I was determined not to be a burden on my father,” I answered. “I considered it my duty to contribute to the household income.”

“Duty to one’s parents is the highest virtue,” Kuan said. “But how onerous must be the burden of supporting a brother and sister who are unfit to earn their own living.”

This description of Branwell and Emily enraged me, as did Kuan’s familiarity with our business. “They are not a burden,” I said in an icy tone. “Whatever I do for them and the rest of my family is done out of love, not obligation.”

Kuan contemplated me. “For love of family, then, you would go to lengths that you would not for anyone else.” He seemed pleased to have deduced this.

His questions had grown increasingly personal, and increasingly offensive. “May I ask the purpose of this discussion?”

He waved away my query. “Its purpose will become evident in good time.”

“Then until that time, I’ll not answer any more questions.”

Kuan placed his hands on the arms of his chair, conjuring the image of an emperor on a throne. “I am your master, and you are my servant. You shall do whatever I decree.”

Anger made me incautious. “I may be a servant, but you do not own me. Here in England, the law does not tolerate slavery.” I rose, flustered as usual while asserting myself. “If you will please excuse me, I must go now.”