We were heading for the waterfall that was a favorite place of my brother and sisters and myself, a place where Branwell might have sought refuge, when I heard a voice call my name. I saw a tall man striding towards me. He was dressed in black, with a white clerical collar; the wind whipped his tousled black hair. Terror struck ice into my bones. It was Gilbert White, the man who had deceived me, the man responsible for the attacks on myself, the murder of Isabel White, and a scheme that would bring disaster upon the kingdom. And I was alone on the moors with him.
“Miss Bronte,” he called, raising a hand in greeting.
I whirled and began running for my life. “Keeper! Come!” I shouted.
We raced up and down slopes. From behind me I heard the rustling of grass crushed under rapid footsteps. I looked over my shoulder and saw Gilbert White cresting the hill; his long legs carried him faster than I could run. As I scrambled over a wall, crows wheeled overhead, their caws mocking me. My heart hammered; breathless fatigue rendered my limbs awkward. I reached the birches and alders that bordered Sladen Beck. I plunged between the trees, stumbled down the bank, and crouched to hide. Below me, the stream’s clear, rushing water gurgled round the rocks where my brother and sisters and I had once played. The waterfall splashed down a staircase of boulders. But here I found no sanctuary, for Gilbert White burst through the trees and alighted on the bank above me.
“Miss Bronte, why did you run from me?” Hardly even winded, he spoke in surprise and bafflement.
I reared up, panic-stricken. Keeper growled. I was glad of his protection. “Don’t come any closer,” I said to Mr. White in a voice intended to warn.
He hesitated, glanced at Keeper, and said, “I must have startled you by coming suddenly upon you like that. Please forgive me.”
The very presence of him defiled this private place, and anger gave me courage. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I wondered if anything had happened to you,” Mr. White said.
“Having heard not a word from you, I came to visit, and I saw you walking up the hill, and I followed.” Now he seemed to realize that I felt something other than mere surprise at his unexpected visit. “I thought you would be glad to see me. Why do you look at me with such animosity?”
His eyes were as clear and brilliant as I remembered; his sharp features as compelling; the vigor of his body as masculine. I was ashamed that I had ever admired him or desired his regard. I was mortified to realize that I still did.
“You lied to me.” My voice quavered with hatred as well as fear. I recalled my dreams about him, and I experienced afresh the painful disillusionment I had suffered at his deceit. With great satisfaction did I see his dismay.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Your name is not Gilbert White,” I said. “You’re not Isabel White’s brother. I was taken in by you at first, but I know better now. I also know you’ve been spying on me.”
“Spying on you? Why, Miss Bronte, I’ve done no such thing.” He took a step towards me, but when Keeper snarled, he moved back up the bank. “How can you think I would deceive you?” He feigned incredulity. “Where did you get these ideas?”
“I received a package that Isabel sent me before she died, and I went to Bradford to give it to her mother,” I said. “She told me that Isabel was an only child.”
He frowned, suddenly disturbed. “A package from Isabel? Did you see what was in it?”
That he should care foremost about the package! “You killed Isabel,” I said. “It was you I saw struggling with her in that alley. Your accomplices tried to kidnap me. You rescued me only to cultivate my gratitude, such that I might then do whatever you asked.” I saw him stiffen and draw back, his face registering chagrin that he could no longer play me for a fool. “Who are you?” I demanded. “What do you want with me?”
Clouds gathered in the sky, and cold shadow doused the water’s sparkling light. My adversary clenched his fists, and terror gripped my heart, for I expected him to strike me dead. But instead, he half turned away from me, gazing at the water. I might then have fled, yet I did not. I felt myself part of a story whose ending I must know, even at the price of my life.
The rushing water sounded loud in the silence between us. The wind quickened across the moors; I smelled rain. Starlings twittered, agitated by the impending storm. Keeper whined. At last my companion turned to me, and I beheld a stranger. Gone was the polite, humble cleric Gilbert White. This man’s face was stern and formidable, his dark depths no longer masked by artifice. For the first time, I was seeing him as he really was.
“You have accused me of many evils, Miss Bronte, but I’m guilty of only one.” His voice had altered to match his true self; the false Northern accent dropped away. “I did not murder Isabel White. The only harm I’ve done you is to win your friendship by false pretenses. I hope that when I explain why, you’ll excuse my deception.”
I knew not what he could say to earn my forgiveness; but I waited, for his gaze compelled me to hear him.
“My real name is John Slade,” he said. “I’m a secret agent of Her Majesty’s Foreign Office.”
I stared, my mouth agape. I had heard of the Foreign Office, which managed the nation’s affairs abroad; I had heard tales of the men who spied behind enemy lines, consorted with savages, and lived by their wits. A thrill of excitement coursed through me, but my distrust of him prevailed.
“Why should I believe you,” I said, “after you’ve lied to me already? Why should I believe you’re not still lying?”
John Slade answered my scorn with cool composure: “You are a woman of rational mind. Listen to what I have to say, then decide whether to believe me.”
I shook my head in defiance; but a hint of a smile touched his mouth. “You can go if you wish,” he said. “But you are also a woman of insatiable curiosity. Shall I begin, then?”
Silence was my grudging assent. Too well did he know me!
“Since 1842 I’ve worked in France and Italy,” Mr. Slade said. “Those countries are rife with secret societies made up of radicals whose purpose is to dethrone kings, foment wars, and spread revolution across Europe. My job was to infiltrate the societies. This I did by pretending to be a radical myself. I gained the trust of the leaders and reported their plans to my superiors. It was in Paris last year that I met Isabel White. She was a governess for an English diplomat’s family. She was also a courier who conveyed money and messages between the French societies and their counterparts in Britain.”
Amazement filled me. Though I’d known that Isabel had secrets, never had I imagined such a life for her. But I cautioned myself against taking Mr. Slade at his word.
“I befriended Miss White because I wanted to know who was employing her and financing the radicals,” Slade went on. “She confided to me that she felt like a traitor for helping their cause, and she wanted to stop. I decided I could trust her to help me instead. That was in the beginning of this year, when it looked as though revolution would come to England. I told Miss White my true identity and hired her to work as my informant. When she had messages to deliver, she would copy them into the margins of old books. We met in crowded public places, where she would slip the books to me.”
I thought of the book of sermons, which lay in the upstairs study at the parsonage. How would Mr. Slade know that Isabel wrote messages in books unless he was indeed an agent of the Crown and had done what he said? But Isabel’s writing made no mention of secret societies, and if she had intended that book for Slade, why had she sent it to me? Still, his mention of messages in books weakened my suspicions.
He paused, scrutinizing me in an apparent effort to know my thoughts; then he proceeded: “Miss White gave me names of French radicals and Chartist agitators, as well as their plans for acts of violence, but she refused to tell me who was employing her to work for them. From hints she dropped, I deduced that she feared him too much to expose him.”