Read Online Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë by Laura Joh Rowland - Free Book Online

my hair in a simple knot. The face in the mirror was as plain as ever. Once my plainness had caused me much grief, but these days I liked my visage better: it belonged to Currer Bell, the author who’d fulfilled my childhood dreams. And the dress brought back happy memories of the first time I’d worn it, three years ago, the first and only time John Slade and I had danced together. His admiration had made me feel beautiful. I saw my eyes shine with tears. Had I lost him forever? Or would I find him tonight?
    I went downstairs and met Mr. Thackeray and two ladies, one buxom and willowy and fair, the other slight and dark, both dressed in silk gowns and glittering gems. “Good evening, Jane—er, Miss Brontë,” said Mr. Thackeray. “Please allow me to present two dear friends of mine.” He introduced the slight, dark lady. “This is Mrs. Crowe, your fellow authoress.”
    Mrs. Crowe had huge, intense, unblinking eyes. She might have been pretty were she not so thin. “It’s a privilege to meet you,” she said in a hushed voice. “I so admire your work. Perhaps you’ve heard of mine?”
    â€œYes.” I understood that she wrote about mediums, séances, and the spirits on the Other Side. I thought it utter claptrap, but I said, “I look forward to reading your books.”
    â€œAnd this is Mrs. Brookfield,” Mr. Thackeray said.
    Smiling, conspiratorial glances passed between him and the fair woman, a rich society hostess. Although not young, she was beautiful. She was also Mr. Thackeray’s paramour. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance,” she said in a friendly fashion. I took an immediate dislike to her. Mr. Thackeray was himself a married man, and I could not condone adultery.
    â€œYou look splendid tonight,” Mr. Thackeray said to me with such sincere admiration that I forgave him his sins. “Are you ready for our expedition to the theater?”

    Here I must describe other events that occurred outside my view. The details, based on facts I later learned, are as accurate as I can make them. Reader, you will see that when I went to the theater that night with Mr. Thackeray and his friends, I was in grave danger.
    As our carriage rattled down the road, the street seemed deserted; the pools of light beneath the lamps were empty. A warm hush enveloped Hyde Park Gardens. I didn’t notice the figure standing in the shadow under a tree near the house I’d just left. It was the foreigner I had seen in Bedlam, the Tsar’s Prussian conspirator. He had followed George and me from the asylum to Whitechapel, and from Whitechapel to the Smith house. Now he watched the house until a maid stepped out the front door, on her way home for the night.
    â€œExcuse me,” he said.
    She gasped and paused. “Lord, you gave me a scare.”
    â€œWho is the master of this house?”
    â€œMr. George Smith,” the maid blurted.
    â€œWho was the lady that left in the carriage?”
    â€œWhich lady?” The maid stepped back from him, wary of strangers, sensing that he was more dangerous than most.
    â€œThe small, plain one.”
    â€œNone of your business, I’m sure.” Offended by his impertinence, she was haughty as well as frightened.
    He took a sovereign from his pocket and offered it to her. Her eyes bulged with greed. She accepted the coin. “The lady’s Charlotte Brontë, also known as Currer Bell. The famous authoress.”
    â€œDoes she reside in the house?”
    â€œNo. She’s just visiting.”
    â€œWhere does she reside?”
    â€œHaworth. In Yorkshire.” The maid slid a nervous glance toward the house. “I can’t talk anymore. The mistress doesn’t like us to gossip.” She hurried away.
    The Prussian walked around the corner, to a waiting carriage. He climbed in and sat opposite the two men already inside. Their names were Friedrich and Wagner.