The whistle sounded, and the engine chugged; the train moved forward with a laborious turning of wheels, through smoke and steam. The woman gave a sigh of relief. She and Anne soon fell asleep, despite the train’s jolting, clamorous progress through the moonlit countryside. I cast furtive, envious glances at the stranger. My own plain, puny appearance has been a lifelong source of grief to me. As a young girl I wrote stories featuring heroines variously named Mary Percy, Zenobia Ellrington, or Augusta Romana di Segovia, all beautiful and much desired by their heroes; I created in fantasy what reality had denied me. As I now beheld all my heroines embodied in the stranger seated opposite me, awe gave way to curiosity.
Who was she? Her clothes appeared of decent quality but were neither new nor expensive. Her straw bonnet was unadorned; the grey pelisse hid whatever she wore beneath it. Was she married or a spinster? A gentlewoman of modest origins, or royalty in disguise? More speculation occupied me for many miles. On what business did she travel alone?
A sudden moan issued from the woman. Her eyelids fluttered; her head tossed from side to side, and she cried, “No! No!” Bolting to her feet, she lurched against me.
“Madam!” I exclaimed in alarm. “What is it?”
The woman’s arms flailed; her eyes were blank with terror. I recoiled backwards in panic. Anne stirred but slept on. Was the woman having a fit? Trapped in the coach with her, miles from the next station, what should I do?
“Help, please, help!” the woman shrilled.
I considered waking Anne, then decided she would be of little use. Rising, I seized the woman by the wrists, pressed her into her seat, and sat beside her.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” I urged, “so I may assist you.”
The woman was trembling, her breath a rapid wheezing. She lunged towards the door.
“No!” I held tight to the woman to prevent her jumping from the train. “Calm yourself: It was surely just a bad dream that frightened you.”
“A dream.” The woman’s gaze cleared, and her voice conveyed grateful relief, but her complexion turned ashen in the moonlight. Her hand clutched her chest.
Quickly I rummaged through my satchel and brought out a vial of sal volatile. The woman inhaled the powerful fumes and coughed; her breathing slowed and deepened, and color returned to her cheeks. Lying back in her seat, she smiled weakly at me.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “You are so kind. I must have disturbed you terribly.” She spoke in a melodious, wellbred voice tinged with a North Country accent. “I do apologize.”
“There’s no need. I’m glad to be of service,” I said. Conversation with strangers is contrary to my habit-I am usually tongue-tied in their presence-but the incident had fostered a sort of intimacy between the woman and myself. “What could have frightened you so?”
“I hardly know. Nightmares are so often forgotten upon waking.” The woman’s gaze darted, and I suspected that she, in fact, did recall but preferred not to say. Then, apparently feeling that she owed me some courtesy, she said, “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Isabel White.”
“It’s an honor to make your acquaintance,” I said. “I am Charlotte Bronte, and that is my sister Anne.”
Isabel White regarded me with dawning interest. “Your surname is quite unusual. How is it spelled?”
I told her, adding, “It was originally ‘Brunty,’ but my father modified it when he left Ireland as a young man. He renamed himself for the Duke of Bronte-the title conferred upon Horatio Nelson in recognition of military services. He has been for many years the parson of St. Michael’s Church in Haworth.”
“Do you and your sister live with him?” Isabel asked, her aquamarine eyes intent on me.
“Yes. Anne and our sister Emily and our brother Branwell and I all make our home at the parsonage.” I was flattered by Isabel’s attention, as handsome people seldom paid me any. “Do you live in Yorkshire?”
Isabel’s expression turned opaque, like a window when frost forms upon it. “Once I did, but no more.”
The terse reply stung me, and I blushed because my innocent question had apparently offended Isabel. I was ready to excuse myself and return to my seat, when Isabel seemed to regret snubbing me and explained, “I have been working as a governess.”
Though gratified to learn her social position, I was disappointed that she was but a humble governess. Now the lovely Isabel seemed an object of pity. There were advantages in being my plain self: Currer Bell had happily quit her former occupation. “I, too, have been a governess. How does the profession suit you?”
“I consider it less a matter of suitability than of necessity,” Isabel said. “When circumstances require, a woman must support herself, regardless of her feelings about her position.”
“I quite agree,” I said. “I’ve always endeavored to earn my own livelihood.”
“There are but few jobs open to women,” Isabel said. Her manner seemed oddly defensive, and I wondered why she should need to justify herself to a comrade. “I should be thankful that I was given an education that won me pleasant, lucrative employment.”
“As should I be,” I said, further confused by Isabel’s tone of bitter sarcasm. She might be making a joke about the hard labor that governesses performed for low wages; yet I sensed in her words a hidden meaning. I wondered why such a beauty had not acquired a husband who would have spared her the necessity of employment.
I myself had received no fewer than two marriage proposals, from eminently suitable clergymen. I had refused both, since I harbored no tender feelings for my suitors, nor they for me. They were merely eager to acquire wives to share their work, and I was unwilling to accept a man I could not love. I have become well convinced that I shall never marry at all-reason tells me so, although stubborn hope persists against all odds.
“Governessing might not have been so bad if I had any aptitude for disciplining children.” Recalling my time with the Sidgwick family of Lothersdale, I shook my head ruefully. “I hope I never again meet such unmanageable cubs as those of my first employer. The eldest, a girl of seven, threw tantrums whenever I asked her to recite her lessons. Each day was a battle of wills, and I often the loser.”
A pained, understanding smile curved Isabel’s lips. “Children can be difficult.”
“At my last post at Upperwood House in Rawdon,” I said, “the little boy passed his water into my workbag.”
We laughed, and our shared mirth warmed me. “Even worse than the children were the mistresses of the houses,” I said. “They treated me as an inferior, and it was a sore trial to live as their dependent, at their command. It was no use complaining to them about their children’s misbehavior. They scolded me for failing to maintain order and allowed the children to do as they liked. I shudder to think what ill-mannered adults those children have surely become.”
Isabel nodded; a faraway look unfocused her eyes. “We are indeed products of our early training,” she murmured.
Shyness barred me from asking what she meant by this cryptic comment. She baffled and fascinated me increasingly. “I often found the masters of the houses preferable to the mistresses,” I said in an effort to keep the talk flowing. “Their presence caused the children to behave better. They made no demands on me; indeed, they made my lot easier.”
“If that is the case, then you have been fortunate, Miss Bronte.” Isabel gave me a queer smile in which self-pity blended with condescension.
Not knowing how to respond to this, I said, “Where are you currently employed?”
Isabel hesitated. “At the home of Mr. Joseph Lock. He is a gun maker in Birmingham.”
“Is Mr. Lock a kind master?” I inquired politely.