Anne said, “If I obtain a post in the Lock house while Emily goes to the Charity School, what will you do, Charlotte?”
“There is an important clue in Isabel’s diary that remains to be investigated.” Turning to Mr. Slade, I said, “Wouldn’t you rather investigate it yourself, than rely on your associates?”
“What clue?” he demanded.
“If you won’t allow us to participate in the investigation, I won’t give you my transcript of the diary or tell you what is in it besides that which I’ve already told you,” I retorted.
Outrage filled his expression. “This is akin to blackmail!”
Yet I sensed that he admired my cleverness, albeit grudgingly. This gave me much satisfaction. “So be it.”
Mr. Slade looked confused, then vexed. “Even if I were to let your sisters have their way, I couldn’t go off and leave you unprotected.”
“Then take me with you,” I said. Carried away by excitement, I didn’t think about the impropriety of our traveling together. I knew only that I must prove my worth to him, and take a hand in protecting my family and myself, no matter the risks.
“You’ve gone mad,” Mr. Slade said with a derisive laugh. “The idea of your accompanying me while I make inquiries-” He ran a hand over his tousled hair in a gesture of exasperation. “It’s impossible.”
He looked to Papa, who only shrugged and said, “I fear I am powerless to influence the girls when they’ve made up their minds.”
I almost laughed with giddy delight at Mr. Slade’s chagrin. He said, “You are all amateurs, and you wouldn’t know what to look for, or how to avoid detection. You could ruin our chances of capturing the villain and thwarting his scheme, in addition to endangering yourselves.” Mr. Slade folded his arms and his expression turned obstinate. “If you want my help, you’ll follow my plan.”
I saw in him the authority of a man accustomed to leading; I also perceived the fiery aura of ambition that surrounded him. “If you want our cooperation, you will honor our wishes.”
My pulse raced as Anne, Emily, and I rose simultaneously and stood together, united against Mr. Slade. Often my sisters and I had been downtrodden, imposed upon, and disregarded. Singly we were weak, but our alliance now generated a mystical, strengthening force. Mr. Slade retreated a step backward from us, and his face took on the wonder of a man viewing a phenomenon he doesn’t understand. I beheld the hands that had once restrained me, the face I had struck, the body whose strength I’d opposed, and the mouth I had wanted to kiss. My heartbeat thundered like the storm on the moors; my blood rushed like the wind.
The wonder in Slade’s gaze changed to something akin to enlightenment. Unspoken words parted his lips, and I waited, breathless-for what revelation? Then the lucid depths of his eyes went opaque, as though he had closed some internal barrier against me. His features darkened with grim resignation.
“God help us all,” he said.
18
A week passed, during which Mr. Slade remained in the parsonage, taking meals with us and sharing our nightly prayers. He also spent much time writing letters, and reading letters he received, in the upstairs study where he lived. Whenever I went out, he accompanied me as my protector. His Irish charm won him general acclaim in the village and caused quite a stir among the young ladies. Papa respected him; Anne treated him fondly. Emily even stopped hiding from him, and Keeper now wagged his tail at Mr. Slade.
One might think that all the hours we spent together would have fostered a new acquaintance between Mr. Slade and myself. Yet I was afraid of saying anything that would reveal my feelings for him; consequently, my manner towards him was taciturn. His towards me exemplified cautious restraint.
At night Mr. Slade stayed downstairs, guarding the house, though he never seemed the worse for his wakeful nights. Perhaps his vigilance kept danger at bay, but still, I did not feel safe. Matters could not continue thus. Mr. Slade, through some arcane means, obtained for Anne the post of governess to Joseph Lock’s children. She left for Birmingham on Monday, 7 August, the same day Emily journeyed to the Charity School. Mr. Slade and I set out for London that very morning.
I had kept my bargain, showing him my transcript of Isabel’s diary and pointing out the mention of the prime minister. Now we sat in the train, on our way to investigate the very same man. With every revolution of the wheels, my own rashness appalled me more. What could I hope to accomplish? Did anyone deduce that I was traveling with a man who was only posing as my kin? I feared disgrace as much as I did the possibility that Isabel White’s killer pursued me.
After we had gone many miles, Mr. Slade produced a book and said, “Do ye recognize this?” In public, he maintained his Irish brogue for my safety.
The sight of Jane Eyre in his hand gave me a turn. “I believe I do,” I murmured.
“The author has a remarkable talent for storytellin’. I stayed up all night readin’ until I finished.”
I blushed with pride, as I always do when someone praises my work. I dreaded to continue the discussion, for they who praise a book often disparage it in the next breath.
“The tale did strike me as rather improbable,” Mr. Slade said.
My guard enclosed me like a suit of armor. “In what way?”
“Jane and Rochester were an odd pairing,” Mr. Slade said. “In real life, they’d never have formed an attachment.”
Stung by his criticism, I said tartly, “May I ask why not?”
“Rochester is a man of property and position, and Jane a penniless orphan. They’re from different worlds.”
“Similar status is not the only basis for a union between a man and woman,” I said, growing flustered as I defended my book. “Compatibility of minds is also important.”
“In fiction, perhaps,” Mr. Slade said. “But if Jane and Rochester were to exist, he would never discover their compatibility. A man like him, who has always required beauty and vivacity in a woman, doesn’t so easily forgo those attributes. And Jane quite lacks them.”
His words flayed me. “Jane’s character and judgment compensate for her lack,” I protested.
“True. But Rochester would never have noticed those good qualities behind her plainness, if not for the author’s guiding hand.” Mr. Slade added gently, “Forgive me if I’ve upset ye. Jane Eyre is a fine tale, and I don’t mean to diminish it.”
Alas, he had done more than diminish my book. He had ground my heart under his heel. I sought a change of subject. “Dr. Dury told me you’d been a soldier in Turkestan,” I said, then indicated a wish to hear of his experiences there.
Nostalgia veiled Mr. Slade’s eyes. “Middle Asia is a land of wild, savage beauty,” he said, and described its deserts, high mountains, exotic bazaars and mosques, and tribal warriors. “It’s also a troubled land that has been invaded throughout history by the Greeks, Persians, Mongols, Arabs, and Turks.”
He described the invasion of Kabul by the British East India Army and how it had gone wrong. “Forty-five hundred British troops and twelve thousand women, children, and Indian sepoys retreated from the kingdom in January 1842. The weather was bitterly cold, and the country deep in snow. Native partisans fired on us as we struggled through the Khurd Kabul Pass. Almost all of us were massacred.”
“You were on the march?” I said in surprise. “I read that there was but one survivor: an army doctor.”
“I was wounded and left for dead.” Mr. Slade’s grim manner hinted at horrors seen and suffered. For the first time since he’d come to Haworth, I glimpsed his true self through his genial Irish guise. “Later, I was discovered by natives I’d befriended. They hid me and cared for me. Eventually I made my way back to England.”
In awe of him, I said, “Working in France afterwards must have been more pleasant.”