The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (24 page)

O
N THE MORNING OF MY FOURTH DAY IN LONDON, I BREAKFASTED with Kate in her spacious dining room. It was decorated in shades of yellow. Sun shone through the windows, and fresh flowers adorned the table. I wished I could absorb some of the brightness around me and enjoy the generous meal of eggs, breads, ham, and jellies, but I worried about Emily and Anne, and I had begun to fear that my presence in London was unnecessary.

At that moment Mr. Slade strode into the room. “Good morning,” he said casually, and sat at the table as though his sudden appearance were not remarkable.

I looked down at my plate, for fear he would see the joy that rose in me. Kate exclaimed happily, “My prodigal brother! To what do we owe the honor of your company?”

“There have been some new developments,” Mr. Slade said. “Please forgive me for leaving you uninformed so long, Miss Brontë. I’ve been investigating the prime minister through indirect channels, in vain. Lord John Russell has no apparent connection to Isabel White, Joseph Lock, or Isaiah Fearon. To discover his part in this business, we must ask him directly.”

“Lord Unwin has ordered us to stay away from the prime minister,” I reminded Mr. Slade. “Dare we disobey?”

He frowned as if he wished his superior to the devil. “We must, or lose a chance to acquire whatever facts Lord Russell may have about Isabel’s master.”

“How shall you approach him, when he’s occupied with government affairs day and night and surrounded by men who protect him from interruptions?” Kate asked.

Mischief glinted in Mr. Slade’s eye. “Lord John Russell plans to attend a certain event. And I have secured an invitation.”

He handed me a square of heavy, cream-colored paper. Printed in elegant script, it read, “The Duke and Duchess of Kent request your presence at a ball.”

“The ball offers an opportunity for a chance encounter with the prime minister,” Slade said. “Miss Brontë, shall we go together?”

My first reaction was my usual, dire dread of social occasions. My second was anxiety concerning practical matters. As I sat tongue-tied, Slade said, “Have you some objection?”

Kate took the invitation from me, examined it, and cried, “The ball is tonight! My dear brother, Miss Brontë fears there’s not enough time for her to prepare.”

“The ball doesn’t start till nine o’clock,” Mr. Slade said to me. “Can you not be ready by then?”

I could not be ready ever, for I possessed nothing to wear. Kate flashed me a look of comprehension and said, “Miss Brontë will be ready.”

She whisked me upstairs to her chamber, where she laid out beautiful, shimmering silk frocks. “It’s fortunate that we’re nearly the same size. I shall happily lend you a ball gown.”

I was grateful to her, yet still apprehensive; what business had I in such fine raiment? Since bright colors and low necklines don’t become me, we selected a modest grey satin. That night, when I stood ready before the mirror, I thought I wouldn’t disgrace myself. The gown’s narrow bodice and flounced skirt lent me stature, and the emerald sheen of the fabric lit auburn lights in my hair, which Kate had dressed in fashionable style.

“Your eyes are as bright as diamonds,” Kate said fondly. “They’re all the adornment you need.” Then she leaned close and whispered: “Though he may seem unresponsive, don’t despair. Even the most broken heart can mend. Fate can work magic even on a man who has for years shunned romantic attachment.”

I saw my face blush redder, thinking that Kate had noticed my feelings towards her brother; yet I wondered at her remark. Did she mean that he had suffered a broken heart? And if so, who had been the object of his love?

Shaky with anticipation, I descended the stairs. In the foyer Mr. Slade paced. His black evening clothes and unruly hair gave him a look of raffish elegance. When he spied me halfway down the stairs, I saw the surprised admiration that I had hoped to see in his eyes, but as I nervously smiled, his countenance turned aloof.

“Shall we go?” he said indifferently.

He neither looked at me nor spoke during our carriage ride through London. We alighted in Belgrave Square, outside a magnificent mansion. We joined the splendidly attired gentlemen and ladies parading up to the doors, from which emanated violin music. My hand trembled on Slade’s arm, yet I wasn’t quite so nervous as on the night at the opera with George Smith. The finery I wore clothed me like armor; having a mission to accomplish fortified my courage. Inside the vast ballroom, we were engulfed by a horde of guests. A crystal chandelier blazed. Mirrored walls magnified the room and the crowd; a roar of voices and laughter echoed over the music from the orchestra.

“We must find the prime minister,” Mr. Slade said. “Let’s dance. That will allow us a view of everyone.”

The orchestra commenced a waltz. Before I could protest that I did not know how to dance, Mr. Slade had led me out on the floor. At first I stumbled, but then I found myself caught up in the music, waltzing effortlessly. The lights, the dancers, and their reflections spun around me. Mr. Slade’s face was the single clear image in the blur of color and motion. His gaze scanned the room; but as we whirled together, his eyes met mine, briefly at first, then for longer intervals. His frown signaled reluctance to behold me; yet he did, as if unable to prevent himself. My heart was beating fast. Did Mr. Slade draw me closer? Did his hand tighten on mine?

Just when I thought I would faint from intoxication, Mr. Slade said, “There is the prime minister.”

He hurried me from the dance floor to a cluster of people. At their center was a man in his fifties whose massive head and broad shoulders seemed too heavy for his short, frail body. His face was unwholesomely pale, its skin masking prominent bones. Mr. Slade maneuvered us through his entourage to his side.

“My lord,” Mr. Slade said. The prime minister turned to us, his eyes shrewdly inquisitive. “I am John Slade, and this is Miss Charlotte Brontë. May we have a word with you?”

Lord John Russell had been born to wealth and privilege, but he embraced modern ideas and belonged to the Whig Party, which represented the interests of businessmen and opposed the Tory royalists. He had distinguished himself by introducing the famous Reform Bill that extended voting rights and shifted power from the landed aristocracy to the men of commerce. Its passage had won him enormous popular acclaim. He had ascended to the supreme post of prime minister, but his two-year tenure had been plagued by Chartist insurrection, worsening poverty and violence in Ireland, and the threat that revolution on the Continent would spread to England. Now he cast an uninterested glance at me, then looked Mr. Slade up and down. He seemed ready to brush us off without a reply.

“This concerns Isabel White,” Mr. Slade said.

The prime minister’s face blanched paler; his throat contracted. “I do not know anyone by that name.” His voice was incongruously affected, mincing, and uncertain for a man of his status. “Excuse me.” He turned and fled, ignoring the stir that his abrupt departure created.

“Come,” Mr. Slade said, grabbing my hand. “If he gets away, we may never have another chance at him.”

We hastened in pursuit across the dance floor. We followed Lord John Russell down a winding staircase and outside to a garden. Trees arched between the star-jeweled sky and the garden’s brick paths and flowerbeds. The lighted ballroom windows cast their radiance over all. The air was redolent with the smells of flowers and cesspools. I gasped, breathless from running. We caught up with the prime minister near a pond centered by a marble statue of Aphrodite. The prime minister faced Mr. Slade with jaw thrust out and fists clenched.

“Isabel sent you?” he demanded. “Well, you can tell her that I’ll have nothing more to do with her. And unless you leave these premises at once, I’ll have you imprisoned for trespassing!”

He must have thought we were in league with Isabel and her master, and he had run to avoid public exposure. The same realization flashed across Mr. Slade’s face. “Isabel didn’t send us,” he said. “I’m an agent of the Crown, employed by the Foreign Office.”

The prime minister shook his massive head, glowering at us. “I’ll believe none of your filthy lies. Go to the devil!”

In desperation I cried, “Please, my lord, we mean you no harm. We’ve come to help you.”

He turned to me in surprise, as though wondering how such an obviously insignificant person would dare to entreat him.

“Isabel White has been murdered,” I hurried on. “We believe that the same man who forced you to serve him is responsible. His henchmen tried to abduct me and nearly killed my brother. Isabel claimed that he has launched a plot that threatens the kingdom. Our only chance to stop him is to band together.”

Lord Russell’s hands slowly unclenched; he regarded me with shock. “Isabel was murdered? How did it happen?”

I was filled with relief that he appeared ready to listen, and amazement at my own boldness. I recounted the details of Isabel’s death; then Mr. Slade described the murder of the merchant Isaiah Fearon. As he told about discovering that Isabel was a courier between radical societies and her master who abetted them, the prime minister took on the aspect of a man beholding the ruin after a siege of a city.

“How did you connect me to all this?” he said.

I explained what we had read in the book Isabel had sent me. Now Lord John Russell staggered over to a marble bench and sat down heavily.

“Then it’s true that an intimacy with Isabel put you in thrall to her master?” Mr. Slade asked.

Lord Russell nodded, in evident relief at confessing what he must have kept a dark secret. “It all began in the year 1844,” he said. “I was battling the Tory opposition to grant civil rights to the Irish and regulate the factories. My wife was gravely ill. I had invested money in ventures that proved unsound, and I lost a fortune. I was forced to borrow heavily to cover my expenses. I became so distraught I could not rest. I took to roaming the town at night, in search of a diversion. One evening I found myself in a gaming club. It was there that I met Isabel.”

Shadows like bruises obscured the prime minister’s face; the gay music from the house mocked his unhappiness. “She was a hostess at the club. Ordinarily, I would never consort with a woman of her kind. But Isabel was beautiful. I was lonely and vulnerable and smitten.”

Here was verification of the tale in Isabel’s diary, I thought, glancing at Mr. Slade. But his attention remained focused on Lord John Russell.

“I continued to meet Isabel, at disreputable taverns and lodgings,” the prime minister went on. “Eventually I began to tell her my troubles, as I suppose many men do with their mistresses.” He grimaced in self disgust. “She said she knew someone who could give me financial assistance. At first I refused, for I knew the money would come with strings attached. But as I neared the verge of financial ruin and a mental breakdown, Isabel’s repeated offers grew more tempting. One night she brought me five hundred pounds from the man she called her master. I accepted it, as I did further payments.”

His posture withered with shame; I pitied him.

“What was asked of you in exchange?” Mr. Slade said quietly.

“Nothing at first,” Lord John Russell said. “I severed my relations with Isabel in 1845, when I took my wife to seek medical advice in Edinburgh. My financial position improved, and I thought myself rid of problems. But then . . .” His expression turned doleful. “Early in 1847—some six months after I became prime minister—Isabel waylaid me outside the Houses of Parliament. She told me that her master ordered me to pay him ten thousand pounds. I was horrified. I said I could not and would not pay. But she said that unless I did, my wife would be told of my adultery. My wife was still in poor health, and the shock might have killed her. Therefore, I did an unpardonable thing.

“At the time I was responsible for the Treasury and funds ear-marked for relief efforts in Ireland. From those I stole ten thousand pounds to pay Isabel’s master. Yet his demands did not end there. Soon Isabel told me that he wanted me to ensure that certain ships left England without inspection or interference.”

“Which ships?” Mr. Slade said in a tone of controlled eagerness.

“I don’t recall, but they belonged to various trading firms,” Lord John Russell said. “They all were bound for the Far East.”

“What was their cargo?” Slade asked.

“I preferred not to know. I deduced that they conveyed Englishwomen to be sold to wealthy Oriental men. I told Isabel to inform her master that I refused to aid an illegal, immoral trade. But she said that he had spies at the Treasury, and he knew how I had obtained the money I had paid him. And unless I let the ships pass unimpeded, her master would expose me as an embezzler. The scandal would ruin my political career.”

These, then, were the threats by which her master had subjugated the prime minister. Greed, poor judgment, and fear can weaken the most powerful of humanity.