“I ought to turn you over to the law,” Mrs. Grimshaw said.
A vision of myself locked in prison horrified me. Gasping, I fell on my knees before Mrs. Grimshaw. “Have mercy. I beg you to forgive me.”
“But you must be punished.” That Mrs. Grimshaw relished my terror and humiliation was evident.
“Do to me what you will,” I said, “but please let me stay. I promise I’ll never steal again.”
“There is a way you can avoid punishment and prove you deserve to be kept ’ere,” Mrs. Grimshaw said with a show of reluctance.
“I’ll do anything,” I cried. “Anything you ask!”
Folding her arms, Mrs. Grimshaw beheld me, her shrewd gaze taking my measure. She nodded, and her smile turned conspiratorial. “We’ll just forget about your mistake. Quit your sniveling, and go to bed. Tomorrow you’ll do a special little task for me.”
I felt overwhelming relief that she had given me a second chance, and shame that I had been branded a criminal. “Thank you,” I whispered. As I fled the room, apprehension clutched my heart. I had put myself in the power of a woman whom I believed was up to no good, and what did she expect of me?
20
On the morning of my fourth day in London, I breakfasted with Kate in her spacious dining room. It was decorated in shades of yellow. Sun shone through the windows, and fresh flowers adorned the table. I wished I could absorb some of the brightness around me and enjoy the generous meal of eggs, breads, ham, and jellies, but I worried about Emily and Anne, and I had begun to fear that my presence in London was unnecessary.
At that moment Mr. Slade strode into the room. “Good morning,” he said casually, and sat at the table as though his sudden appearance were not remarkable.
I looked down at my plate, for fear he would see the joy that rose in me. Kate exclaimed happily, “My prodigal brother! To what do we owe the honor of your company?”
“There have been some new developments,” Mr. Slade said. “Please forgive me for leaving you uninformed so long, Miss Bronte. I’ve been investigating the prime minister through indirect channels, in vain. Lord John Russell has no apparent connection to Isabel White, Joseph Lock, or Isaiah Fearon. To discover his part in this business, we must ask him directly.”
“Lord Unwin has ordered us to stay away from the prime minister,” I reminded Mr. Slade. “Dare we disobey?”
He frowned as if he wished his superior to the devil. “We must, or lose a chance to acquire whatever facts Lord Russell may have about Isabel’s master.”
“How shall you approach him, when he’s occupied with government affairs day and night and surrounded by men who protect him from interruptions?” Kate asked.
Mischief glinted in Mr. Slade’s eye. “Lord John Russell plans to attend a certain event. And I have secured an invitation.”
He handed me a square of heavy, cream-colored paper. Printed in elegant script, it read, “The Duke and Duchess of Kent request your presence at a ball.”
“The ball offers an opportunity for a chance encounter with the prime minister,” Slade said. “Miss Bronte, shall we go together?”
My first reaction was my usual, dire dread of social occasions. My second was anxiety concerning practical matters. As I sat tongue-tied, Slade said, “Have you some objection?”
Kate took the invitation from me, examined it, and cried, “The ball is tonight! My dear brother, Miss Bronte fears there’s not enough time for her to prepare.”
“The ball doesn’t start till nine o’clock,” Mr. Slade said to me. “Can you not be ready by then?”
I could not be ready ever, for I possessed nothing to wear. Kate flashed me a look of comprehension and said, “Miss Bronte will be ready.”
She whisked me upstairs to her chamber, where she laid out beautiful, shimmering silk frocks. “It’s fortunate that we’re nearly the same size. I shall happily lend you a ball gown.”
I was grateful to her, yet still apprehensive; what business had I in such fine raiment? Since bright colors and low necklines don’t become me, we selected a modest grey satin. That night, when I stood ready before the mirror, I thought I wouldn’t disgrace myself. The gown’s narrow bodice and flounced skirt lent me stature, and the emerald sheen of the fabric lit auburn lights in my hair, which Kate had dressed in fashionable style.
“Your eyes are as bright as diamonds,” Kate said fondly. “They’re all the adornment you need.” Then she leaned close and whispered: “Though he may seem unresponsive, don’t despair. Even the most broken heart can mend. Fate can work magic even on a man who has for years shunned romantic attachment.”
I saw my face blush redder, thinking that Kate had noticed my feelings towards her brother; yet I wondered at her remark. Did she mean that he had suffered a broken heart? And if so, who had been the object of his love?
Shaky with anticipation, I descended the stairs. In the foyer Mr. Slade paced. His black evening clothes and unruly hair gave him a look of raffish elegance. When he spied me halfway down the stairs, I saw the surprised admiration that I had hoped to see in his eyes, but as I nervously smiled, his countenance turned aloof.
“Shall we go?” he said indifferently.
He neither looked at me nor spoke during our carriage ride through London. We alighted in Belgrave Square, outside a magnificent mansion. We joined the splendidly attired gentlemen and ladies parading up to the doors, from which emanated violin music. My hand trembled on Slade’s arm, yet I wasn’t quite so nervous as on the night at the opera with George Smith. The finery I wore clothed me like armor; having a mission to accomplish fortified my courage. Inside the vast ballroom, we were engulfed by a horde of guests. A crystal chandelier blazed. Mirrored walls magnified the room and the crowd; a roar of voices and laughter echoed over the music from the orchestra.
“We must find the prime minister,” Mr. Slade said. “Let’s dance. That will allow us a view of everyone.”
The orchestra commenced a waltz. Before I could protest that I did not know how to dance, Mr. Slade had led me out on the floor. At first I stumbled, but then I found myself caught up in the music, waltzing effortlessly. The lights, the dancers, and their reflections spun around me. Mr. Slade’s face was the single clear image in the blur of color and motion. His gaze scanned the room; but as we whirled together, his eyes met mine, briefly at first, then for longer intervals. His frown signaled reluctance to behold me; yet he did, as if unable to prevent himself. My heart was beating fast. Did Mr. Slade draw me closer? Did his hand tighten on mine?
Just when I thought I would faint from intoxication, Mr. Slade said, “There is the prime minister.”
He hurried me from the dance floor to a cluster of people. At their center was a man in his fifties whose massive head and broad shoulders seemed too heavy for his short, frail body. His face was unwholesomely pale, its skin masking prominent bones. Mr. Slade maneuvered us through his entourage to his side.
“My lord,” Mr. Slade said. The prime minister turned to us, his eyes shrewdly inquisitive. “I am John Slade, and this is Miss Charlotte Bronte. May we have a word with you?”
Lord John Russell had been born to wealth and privilege, but he embraced modern ideas and belonged to the Whig Party, which represented the interests of businessmen and opposed the Tory royalists. He had distinguished himself by introducing the famous Reform Bill that extended voting rights and shifted power from the landed aristocracy to the men of commerce. Its passage had won him enormous popular acclaim. He had ascended to the supreme post of prime minister, but his two-year tenure had been plagued by Chartist insurrection, worsening poverty and violence in Ireland, and the threat that revolution on the Continent would spread to England. Now he cast an uninterested glance at me, then looked Mr. Slade up and down. He seemed ready to brush us off without a reply.