“Indeed,” Dr. Dury said, “but a mutual connection, John Slade, has alerted me to expect you and Miss Bronte. Please join me for tea. We have important business to discuss.”
His parlor was paneled in mellow wood. Books filled the shelves, covered the desk, and lay piled on the mantel and floor. We sat in armchairs before a crackling fire. A servant brought the tea, and Dr. Dury toasted crumpets.
“Being here brings back so many memories,” Papa said, “that I can almost imagine myself a raw youth again.”
Dr. Dury chuckled. “I’ll never forget my first sight of you, arriving from Ireland with your great height, flaming red hair, and strong brogue. You certainly stood out among the pupils.”
“Ah, to be sizars together again,” Papa said.
He and Dr. Dury had both belonged to this group of impoverished young intellectuals who worked as tutors in exchange for their education and board. “At least we need no longer sleep on the floor of a crowded attic,” Dr. Dury said.
“Nor study with our feet wrapped in straw to keep them warm,” Papa agreed, sipping tea.
“Despite the privations, you graduated in the first class,” Dr. Dury said. “But it’s the present, not the past, that concerns us now.” He turned to me. “What has happened that you need the services of my friend John Slade?”
I briefly described my recent experiences and watched his kind face grow grave. “We must know whether Mr. Slade is what he claims to be. Are you well enough acquainted with him to assure us?”
“Indeed,” said Dr. Dury. “I first met Slade when he came to study here in 1831. He was the most outstanding pupil I’ve ever had. His father was an army colonel, and his family traveled widely. Slade had a gift for language and was proficient in French, Italian, German, and Russian. He possessed great intellect and a passion for learning that went beyond the theology he studied. He aspired towards a career in the Church, but he took extra classes on history, natural science, economics, and politics. We had furious debates about those subjects during his tutorials. Slade also excelled in fencing and shooting. He had such a zest for life.”
These were good things to hear of Mr. Slade; yet doubt remained. How had this paragon turned from the Church to a life of underhanded pursuits?
“But he had a wild side.” Dr. Drury shook his head regretfully. “He liked women, drink, and gaming. When he wounded a towns-man in a duel, he was almost sent down. His father’s influence saved his college career. He was ordained in 1835 and obtained a curacy in Wiltshire, but lasted only two years. Life as a country cleric was too quiet for him.”
I was interested to learn that Mr. Slade had once been a clergyman, yet not surprised, for he had convincingly played his role as the Reverend Gilbert White. I had sensed the wildness in Mr. Slade, but saw no remnant of the boisterous young reveler. What had changed him?
“Slade then joined the army of the East India Company,” Dr. Dury said. “That, as you may know, is the great mercantile concern that trades in the Eastern Hemisphere. It earns a fortune from cotton, spices, indigo, silks, and tea. It governs India in the name of the Crown, and its army protects the colonial territories and citizens of the British Empire. Slade served the company in Kabul.”
Dr. Dury explained that this savage kingdom of mountains, plains, deserts, steppes, and tribal chiefs had become during those years a battleground in the rivalry between Britain and Russia, who fought for control of Turkestan. When Russia had earlier supported Persia’s siege of the Kingdom of Kabul, the Crown feared that the region would fall completely under Russian influence, threatening Britain’s Indian empire. A British invasion of Kabul was therefore mounted.
“The East fascinated Slade. His letters were filled with his discoveries about the culture, and his flair for language was put to good use. He dressed as a native holy man and wandered enemy territory, gathering news and surveying the land. He brought back valuable information on enemy activities. But the trouble there undid his military career.”
The East India Company’s army had entered Kabul in 1839 and installed upon the throne a king sympathetic to the British, Dr. Dury related. Insurrections broke out among the natives, and the British occupation failed. “John Slade was discharged and returned to England. His talents and his exploits in the East recommended him to men in high places. He became an agent of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
That mysterious organization is the subject of much rumor and speculation; few facts about it are known. Frowned upon by polite society, it reeks of the treacherous spy methods practiced by Continental police, so repugnant to the honest British. Yet it has always borne a whiff of glamour that appeals to me.
“Slade infiltrated radical societies in Europe, reporting their activities to his superiors in the Foreign Office,” Dr. Dury said, then paused and pondered. “Something happened to him in France. His letters stopped for a year, and we lost contact. When we renewed our friendship in 1845, I found him drastically altered. He had become serious, solitary, and focused on his work to the exclusion of all else. He never told me what troubled him, and his manner discouraged my asking. But I can assure you that Slade remains in the employ of the Secret Service to this day. Reliable sources tell me that he is one of its best agents and defenders of the Crown. I believe his character to be strong, steady, and virtuous.”
“That is high praise indeed, and proof enough for me that Mr. Slade is what he has represented himself to be,” said Papa. “What say you, Charlotte?”
Our host’s commendation had removed much, but not all, the doubt in my mind. “Can we really trust Mr. Slade?” I asked Dr. Dury. “Should we ask for his help?”
Dr. Dury contemplated the fire; its intermittent glow played upon his pensive countenance. “I know persons who have placed their trust in Slade and lived to thank him.” Dr. Dury lifted his keen blue gaze to me. “But keep in mind that a spy lives by treachery.”
This advice did not quench my misgivings, yet swayed me in favor of Mr. Slade. Furthermore, I knew not what else to do to protect my family and prevent worse disaster. “Then we shall accept Mr. Slade’s help,” I decided.
Even as I spoke, the earth seemed to fragment under me. What business had I to involve myself with a man who belonged to such a different world? I recalled that day on the moor with him, and I felt again the fierce, savage excitement. What forces would my decision unleash?
Papa nodded. “It is for the best, Charlotte.”
“Very well,” Dr. Dury said, though not without reluctance. “I shall contact Slade, and you will hear from him soon.”
17
John Slade returned to Haworth on 30 July.
My family rose early that Sunday for church. As Emily, Anne, and I took our seats in our pew, villagers filed into the galleries, and the sonorous music of the organ echoed. Papa preached while the sexton walked the aisles and awakened slumberers with a tap of his long staff. A sudden stir arose in the congregation; I turned and saw the man who had entered the church.
Although a letter from him had prepared me for his arrival, it did not lessen my shock at seeing Mr. Slade again. My heart began to pound. Mr. Slade, wearing black clerical garb, paused and looked around while curious villagers scrutinized him. His gaze lit on me, and I felt that all the world had acquired a new life. The sunlit arched windows and the flowers on the altar seemed brighter; Papa’s voice reading the Gospels sounded more melodious. I breathed intoxication from the very air. Mr. Slade bowed slightly, then seated himself in an empty pew. I averted my face, overwhelmed by shame that I would experience profane sensations in church. In the wake of my shame galloped fear. What had I done by agreeing that Mr. Slade should come?
When the service ended, my sisters and I rose. Mr. Slade walked up the aisle to meet Papa. “Greetings, Uncle Patrick,” said Mr. Slade. “ ’Tis I, John Brunty, your nephew from Ireland.”