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

come to my house.”
    His concern touched me, and the invitation, which offered the prospect of a better acquaintance with him, strongly tempted me, despite my aversion to living among strangers. Yet I knew myself vulnerable to inclinations that would cause me misery.
    “You are very kind,” I said at last, “but I must decline your invitation, as there’s no need for you to protect me. I don’t consider myself to be in any danger.”
    I explained that I believed that the killer was someone who had been known to Isabel and had followed her to London. After giving my reasons, I added, “I fear I will never rest until I have done everything in my power to find out who is responsible for the murder.”
    “Your wish to exert yourself on behalf of a virtual stranger is commendable,” Mr. Smith said. Leaning closer, he whispered, “It reflects the same wonderful, generous spirit that I perceived in the author of Jane Eyre even before I met her.”
    His compliment warmed me; I was afraid to look at him. Were the characteristics he’d mentioned those he valued in a woman? Did I dare think he valued them more than youth, beauty, or charm? I said timidly, “Could you advise me on how I might persuade the authorities to investigate the murder?”
    He pondered a moment, then said, “I have a slight acquaintance with the commissioner of police. If you like, I’ll ask that he consider the facts you’ve provided.”
    “Yes. I do thank you.” Gratitude increased my already favorable disposition towards George Smith.
    Our carriage turned onto a noisy thoroughfare. Coaches rattled past strolling crowds, and street peddlers hawked playbills. Taverns filled with revelers, and gaudily dressed women loitered, shouting lewd invitations to men passing by. Gas streetlamps, their brightness veiled by smoke, lent the scene an unreal air that was at once frightening and intoxicating.
    The Misses Smith were peering out the window, chattering to each other. “That carriage has been following ours since we left Paternoster Row.”
    “Yes, it stays so closely behind us.”
    Unease crept over me. I peered backwards out the window and saw an enclosed black coach drawn by a black horses, and the figure of a driver seated upon the box. A fearful notion constricted my heart: Could someone be following me? Was it the same man who had followed Isabel White?
    I hastily recoiled from the window. Mr. Smith said to me, “You are shivering. Are you cold? Do you want the carriage blanket?”
    “No, thank you, I am quite comfortable,” I said, deciding that my imagination had gotten the best of me.
    We entered Covent Garden and drove past elegant stucco row houses. Men clustered outside the song and supper rooms or escorted ladies along the streets. Although July was the end of the London season, the theatre district was jammed with carriages. Scrutinizing them, I was relieved that the strange black coach seemed to have gone. Traffic converged upon the glittering Royal Opera House.
    When my party disembarked, Mr. Smith offered me his arm. His somber, direct gaze lent the polite gesture an intimacy that sped my pulse. I floated into the theatre with him, scarcely aware of Anne at his other side or the Misses Smith behind us. The foyer was filled with men in formal dress and women who wore gowns of brilliant hues, displaying naked shoulders and bejeweled bosoms. They cast critical glances at my plain country garments. Wellbred laughter pealed. My head still throbbed, and my stomach was queasy, but giddy anticipation masked my discomfort. I involuntarily clutched George Smith’s arm, and he turned to me.
    “You know, I am not accustomed to this sort of thing,” I stammered.
    He laughed as if we shared a joke. I savored our march up the crimson-carpeted staircase. Mr. Smith greeted acquaintances and introduced me as “My dear friend Miss Brown.” He smiled at me as if our secret joined us in a daring conspiracy. I began to think he liked me, I blush