Too late I realized that I should have anticipated this reaction. When Ellen is determined to help, nothing can stop her. “But those men might come after me again. I mustn’t put you in danger.”
Ellen waved away my protests. “I know you, Charlotte. You’ll have no peace until you’ve done your duty to that poor woman, and if you don’t have someone to accompany you, you’ll make up your mind to go alone, no matter the risks.”
There was truth in her words, but I could not put Ellen’s safety at risk. “It’s a journey of ten miles. We would have to stay overnight in Bradford. Surely you’re not prepared for the trip, and your mother would worry if you were gone so long.”
“Oh, but I am prepared.” Ellen laughed merrily. “My trunk is outside. I came here expecting to stay with you at least a week, and I have Mama’s blessing.” Then dismay cast a shadow upon her countenance. “Unless-Charlotte, are you trying to say that you don’t want my company?”
“No, of course I do,” I hastened to assure her. As I tried to impress upon Ellen the serious nature of the threat, I could see that she remained hurt by what she saw as rejection, and unconvinced that any harm could befall her. Tears filled her eyes, and she dabbed them with a lacy handkerchief.
“I understand,” she murmured. “I see that I’m not needed here, and I shall go home at once. Forgive me for bothering you.”
It became clear that either I had to allow Ellen to accompany me to Bradford, or her feelings would be hurt beyond consolation. Moreover, I recognized that Ellen’s proposal offered a solution to my problems. Should any persons wish to attack me, perhaps they would not if I was accompanied by someone outside my family, whom they wouldn’t want to involve in their business. That Ellen had arrived today seemed almost a divine coincidence that enabled me to honor a murdered woman’s last wish.
“We’ll leave for Bradford early tomorrow,” I said.
The town of Bradford is situated in the lower foothills of the Pennines. Its textile mills cluster along the valley like black, cancerous growths; coal mines mar the surrounding landscape. Mean tenements house men, women, and children who toil in the mines and mills from sunrise to sundown. The air resounds with the whine and roar of machinery.
The train conveyed Ellen and me to this hell on the morning of 21 July 1848. We left our bags at the station; then a hansom cab carried us through narrow streets amidst heavy traffic, past shops whose windows were so begrimed by soot that I couldn’t see inside. Dense smoke laden with cinders stung my eyes and immersed the town in a perpetual dusk.
Ellen held a perfumed handkerchief over her nose and mouth. “This must be the most unwholesome place in the kingdom,” she said. “I hope we do not take ill.”
Illness was of secondary concern to me: I had spent the journey in dread of meeting again the two men who had attacked Anne and me. Although today’s train trip had passed without incident, I nonetheless anxiously scanned the hordes of shopkeepers, laborers, businessmen, and servants on the streets.
The cab left Ellen and me at the entrance to Eastbrook Terrace. Carrying my satchel, which contained Isabel’s package, I beheld a gloomy alley enclosed by two-story attached tenements constructed of dark, dingy brick. The pavement was covered by foul muck that was inches deep. I wondered how Gilbert White could allow his mother to live in such squalor. Surely he could afford better accommodations for his family. Did he shirk his duties as a son? Though disturbed by the thought, I held out hope that I might find him here. Perhaps he was staying with his mother, and had thus been too busy to write to me.
Boards had been set atop bricks to form bridges spanning the filth. Ellen and I gingerly walked along these, then up a staircase to Number 20. I knocked on the door.
“Come in,” called a woman’s faint voice from inside.
The room we entered was dim, its window partially covered with a muslin curtain. On a chair in the corner sat the woman, dressed in a white cap, white apron, and dark frock, her face in shadow.
“Mrs. White?” I said.
“Yes, who’s there?” the woman replied in a timid tone, craning her neck.
“My name is Charlotte Bronte,” I said, “and this is my friend Ellen Nussey.”
As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw that Mrs. White was perhaps sixty years old, frail of figure. Her face was gaunt, her pale skin lined; yet I discerned in her features the same delicately sculpted bones that Isabel had possessed. She held on her lap a cloth that looked to be a bedsheet. Her fingers plied a needle and thread, hemming the sheet in quick stitches. That she could sew in such poor light puzzled me, until a closer look at her showed filmy blue eyes gazing blankly up at me. Mrs. White was blind.
“I’m afraid your names are unfamiliar to me.” She spoke in Isabel’s voice, coarsened by age. “Have we met before?”
“I knew your daughter,” I said, uncomfortably aware that the woman was still in mourning for her child and that I was intruding at a difficult time. “We met on a train to London. She asked me to call on you.”
“Ah, you’re a friend of Isabel. I’m fair glad to meet you.” Half rising, Mrs. White extended her bony, delicate hand. I shook it, as did Ellen.
“Please, do sit down,” Mrs. White entreated.
The room contained a divan, a table, a dresser, a chest, and a cupboard, all set against the walls; a hooked rug covered the floor. Everything was spotlessly clean, despite the foul odors from the street. Ellen and I settled on the divan; I placed my satchel beside me.
“Are you come to bring word of Isabel?” said Mrs. White. “Have you seen her lately? How is she?”
Ellen and I exchanged glances of alarm and puzzlement, for it appeared that the woman did not know her daughter was dead.
Mrs. White’s expectant smile faded; she cocked her head, straining to divine the cause of our silence. “What’s wrong?” she said, suddenly fearful. “Has something happened to Isabel?”
Alas, I had no choice but to deliver the news which Gilbert White had apparently not, although he had told me he was going to Bradford to see his mother. “I am so sorry,” I faltered, “but your daughter is-Isabel has died.”
Mrs. White sat frozen for a moment, her countenance blank; then she slowly released her grip on her sewing, which slid off her lap. She whispered, “No!”
“I’m sorry,” I said again, wretched at the sight of the shock I’d caused.
Tears pooled in Mrs. White’s eyes, though she shook her head in repeated denial. “But Isabel came to visit me not three weeks ago. She were in perfect health. How can she be dead?”
With great reluctance I informed Mrs. White of the murder, omitting the horrific details. A frenzy of weeping besieged the woman. “No! It can’t be!” Her hands groped, as if in a desperate search for her daughter. “Isabel! Isabel!”
Ellen enfolded Mrs. White in her arms. I was glad Ellen had come, for she provided much better comfort than I could have. At last Mrs. White’s sobs abated. Ellen went to the kitchen to make her a cup of tea, while I stayed by her. She looked shrunken and forlorn, and suddenly older than her sixty years; her eyes were red, and her complexion mottled from her tears.
“When I was in London, I met your son,” I said. “He knows of Isabel’s death. Has he not been here?”
“My son? I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve no son.”
Her evident confusion was nothing to that which I experienced. “But he introduced himself as Isabel’s brother. His name is Gilbert. He was coming here to see you.”
“There must be some mistake,” Mrs. White said. “Isabel is-or was-my only child.”
What horror and surprise were mine! Gilbert White-I knew not what else to call him-had lied to me about his name, his past, and why he wished to know the truth about Isabel’s death. He must have arranged a false address at which to receive my correspondence. Had his attentions to me been part of the lie? A dark emptiness opened inside me, then filled with panic. An idea surfaced from the chaos in my mind.