My dream dissipated like mist in the wind. Shocked alert, I realized that I had let evil into our house. “No!” I screamed. “Get out!”
One of the other men was near me, and I flew at him in outrage. He grabbed my arms. As I howled and kicked his shins and we struggled together, horrified exclamations came from Anne and Papa. Hysteria filled me: I fought harder. The third man leapt to his comrade’s assistance. Together they pinned my arms behind my back. The man with the gun seized Anne and jammed its barrel against her throat.
“Be still, or she dies,” he told me.
Anne’s mouth gaped with silent terror. Papa said, “Emily, please. Do as he says.”
My mind at last absorbed the idea that the man would kill Anne unless I obeyed him. Fear drained the resistance from my muscles.
The man with the gun ordered Anne: “Light a lamp.” She obeyed, her hands trembling. The lamp illuminated the men, who were all dressed in dark clothes, their hats shading vicious faces. One kept hold of me; the other bolted the door. He then snatched the lamp and roved around the house, while the man with the gun held us paralyzed. Soon he returned and said, “There’s nobody else here.”
Branwell must have sneaked out to the Black Bull Inn while we slept. Luck had favored him for once in his miserable life.
“These three will do.” The gunman told Papa, “Show us to the cellar.”
Papa reluctantly unbarred and opened the cellar door, beyond which a dark staircase led beneath the house.
“All of you go down,” ordered the gunman.
We went in single file, Papa first, Anne next, then the man with the lamp. My captor propelled me after them. The gunman followed close behind. None of us called for help; the village was too far away for anyone there to hear us. As we descended, the narrow stairwell enclosed me. I breathed the dank odor of earth and experienced the suffocating sensation that the very idea of captivity provokes in me. I suppressed an urge to fight my way back above ground. We reached the cellar, a room whose walls are made of stone and earth, in which my family rarely sets foot. The intruders flung Papa, Anne, and me on the floor amidst the odds and ends that had accumulated there over the years. They backed up the stairs.
Papa said, “Please have mercy.” His voice wavered. Anne and I huddled together; she moaned, and my terror choked me. “Please let us go.”
“Keep still,” said the gunman.
He and his comrades vanished through the door and banged it shut. The cellar was immersed in darkness. I heard the bar drop into place. Then there was silence, except for our breathing.
“This must be another in the same series of troubles that have plagued us,” said Papa.
“There can be no doubt. I sense the hand of the same villain at work,” Anne said mournfully. “I had hoped that the danger from him was past; but alas, it seems that it is not.”
“But why would he have us imprisoned in our own home?” Papa said. “And for how long do these men intend to keep us here?”
Anne made no reply. The suffocating sensation constricted my chest. Trapped in the subterranean darkness, I gasped for air.
“They can’t lock us up forever,” Papa said, as if trying to reassure himself as well as Anne and me. “People in the village will notice our absence. They’ll come to investigate. They’ll rescue us.”
The cold, damp gloom seethed with our horrified thoughts of what might happen to us in the meantime. I heard muffled voices from above: The intruders were still in the house.
Anne said, “Branwell is bound to come home eventually.”
We knew better than to expect deliverance from that drunken, hapless, opium-besotted wreck. My heart thudded with my craving to be free. I hurtled blindly up the stairs, tripping on them and falling on my hands and knees, crawling until I reached the top. I beat my fists against the door.
“Let me out!” I screamed.
No one answered; the door remained shut. I fought until my hands were bloody, screamed until my throat was raw. Finally, in a state of despair and exhaustion, I slid down the stairs. Anne held me and murmured soothing words as I wept. I wept for my lost liberty, for the book I would never write.
“If this is happening to us,” Papa said in a voice of dawning dread, “then what has become of Charlotte?”
35
The remainder of the voyage to Scotland passed without incident. The Queen and Prince Consort kept Bertie by them, relieving me of his irksome care; I had only the well behaved Princess to amuse. If there was danger on the royal yacht, I saw no sign of it. Indeed, I felt safer than I had since before Isabel White’s murder. Thirty-seven peaceful hours after setting sail, we arrived at Aberdeen on 7 September. Carriages and horses that had been shipped to Scotland ahead of time conveyed us to the new royal estate at Balmoral.
The Queen was as popular in Scotland as at home. Along our way, the Scots turned out to greet her. The Queen, Prince Consort, and their two elder children rode in an open carriage at the head of our procession. Crowds cheered them uproariously. The entrance to each village was decorated in the Queen’s honor with a triumphal arch made of barley or wheat sheaves, flowers, evergreens, or stags’ heads. The day was a whirlwind of happy faces, voices shouting greetings in a strange dialect, music from bagpipes, speeches by local gentry, and guns firing salutes. Riding in a carriage with the Queen’s other attendants, through a landscape of farms and distant, snow-capped peaks, I felt myself part of a grand, historic spectacle. In the joy of our reception, I was temporarily distracted from the horrific events that had brought me to this very place.
We reached Balmoral to find a Scottish Regiment’s Guard of Honor waiting at attention. Balmoral, located on the River Dee, on the eastern side of the lofty Cairngorm Mountains, comprised ten thousand acres of fields, woods of towering birch and pine trees, and meadow. The Forest of Ballochbuie abutted its northern border; on the south rose the dark crags of Loch-na-gar. The pretty white castle had many turrets and gables, gingerbread trim, an ancient square tower surmounted by a battlemented parapet, and a glass conservatory. It was surrounded by expansive gardens that sloped towards the river in a series of natural terraces.
Inside the castle was a hall paved with Dutch tiles; a broad staircase led to the upper floors. The rooms were furnished like a grand country house, with chintz upholstery and curtains; they were fewer and smaller than I’d expected, insufficient for the royal family and entourage. The servants and attendants-Mr. Slade, Lord Unwin, and other Foreign Office agents among them-were quartered in neighboring cottages. I had a tiny chamber upstairs in the castle, near the children’s nursery and the Queen’s chambers. The gentlemen of the household had rooms above us; the ladies-in-waiting below. After lunch in the crowded dining room, I walked behind the royal family on an inspection of the estate. Not until that evening did I have a chance to speak with Slade.
Local citizens staged a celebration for the royal family. A huge bonfire was lit upon Craig Linne. Fireworks spangled the sky above Balmoral. We gathered on the terrace to watch. Bertie and Vicky jumped up and down, squealing with excitement at the glowing streamers, rosettes, and exploding bursts of colored stars. Rockets boomed, echoing off the mountains. Guards, courtiers, and ladies-in-waiting cheered. The Queen and Prince Consort smiled happily. I stood apart from the others, an interloper. My presence could only remind the Queen of the threat that haunted her and spoil her enjoyment. Presently, Mr. Slade appeared at my side.
“Is all well with you, Miss Bronte?” he said.
“For the time being,” I said.
My senses quickened with the delight that his presence always caused me. I lifted my eyes to the distant heights, where the bonfire’s flames danced in the wind. Smoke and gunpowder scented the air.
“I’ve been inspecting the estate,” said Mr. Slade. “So have the twelve constables sent from London. We found no signs of trespassers or anything else suspicious.”