Number 65 Cornhill turned out to be a large bookseller’s shop in an imposing row of four-story buildings. Above its display windows, the legend “Smith, Elder, amp; Company” was engraved in stone. I swallowed hard, looked at Anne, and said, “The sooner done, the better.”
We entered the shop and found inside a spacious room with bookshelves lining the walls. Customers browsed while lads bustled about wrapping books in paper and string, hauling stacks in and out, calling remarks to one another. Everyone had an intimidating air of sophistication. After some hesitancy, Anne and I crept up to the counter.
“May I help you?” said a clerk.
He was a distinguished-looking gentleman with a brisk manner, and my nerve almost failed me. I cleared my throat and said, “May I see Mr. Smith?”
“Is Mr. Smith expecting you?”
“No,” I said. “But it’s quite important.”
“Very well,” said the clerk. “Please wait a moment.”
He went through a door at the rear of the shop. Anne and I huddled together. I regretted that we, in our simple country frocks, looked not at all like famous authors. I wished I resembled Isabel White, and I momentarily wondered what had become of her. Just as I experienced an overwhelming impulse to run, the clerk returned, followed by a tall man.
“Did you wish to see me, ma’am?” the man said in a well bred, dubious tone.
Stricken by terror, I peered up at him through my spectacles. He was lithe and clean shaven with smooth brown hair and sideburns; he wore a dark grey summer coat, pale trousers, a crisp white shirt, and blue silk stock. “Is it Mr. Smith?” I quavered.
“It is.” A touch of impatience colored his polite manner.
George Smith was younger than I had expected-not above twenty-five years of age-and quite handsome. He had dark, shrewd eyes, regular features, a dimple in his strong chin, and a fair complexion. I grew all the more flustered because I am uncomfortable in the presence of attractive men. That they care not for me was a painful lesson learned early in life. I fumbled in my handbag, took out the letter that had brought me to London, and handed it to Mr. Smith. He examined it, and I saw confusion on his face.
“Where did you get this?” he said, regarding Anne and me with sharp suspicion.
“You sent it to me,” I blurted, then lowered my voice so that no one else in the shop would hear. “I am Currer Bell.”
George Smith’s jaw dropped. “You?” he exclaimed in amazement. “You are-”
“Charlotte Bronte,” I said, suppressing a wild urge to laugh. “And this is my sister Anne Bronte, who writes under the name Acton Bell. We’ve come so that you might have ocular proof that there are at least two of us.”
My forthrightness must have convinced Mr. Smith, because an incredulous smile lit up his face. “How wonderful to meet you at last!” He shook hands with me, then Anne. “This is an honor.”
If he was disappointed by the sight of the notorious Bells in the flesh, it did not show. Light-headed with relief, I heard myself and Anne making polite replies. Mr. Smith escorted us to a small room. He entreated us to sit in chairs, while he perched on a desk cluttered with books, papers, pens, and inkwells. “You must have traveled here immediately upon receiving my letter,” he said, still beaming with excitement.
“We-we left Haworth that very day and just arrived in London this morning.” Blushing violently, almost too agitated to speak, I said, “We apologize for coming uninvited and without warning, but we wished you to know at the earliest possible time that Anne is the author of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and that I have not breached my contract with you.”
“Ah, yes. Well, now that you both are here, the misunderstanding is resolved.” Mr. Smith added with sincere entreaty, “Please forgive me for doubting you, and let me express how splendid it is to make the acquaintance of a truly great author.”
Wonderful praise, this-more recognition than I could have hoped for! Dazzled, I murmured, “Sir, you are too generous-I do thank you-yes, of course you’re forgiven-”
“Tell me, Miss Bronte,” said Mr. Smith. “Is Ellis Bell another of your sisters?”
Anne said in a nervous, strident tone, “Mr. Bell does not wish his identity revealed.”
Mr. Smith’s eyebrows rose, and I feared that Anne had offended him. However, he proved himself capable of tact and sympathy, for he shrugged, smiled, and said, “Perhaps it’s best that some mystery remains. How long are you in town?”
“I thought we might stay until Tuesday,” I replied.
“Splendid! I shall host a dinner at my house to introduce Currer and Acton Bell to literary society!”
I stared dumbstruck at him. Anne turned to me, face blanched, eyes terror-stricken.
George Smith rushed on, happily oblivious to our reaction. “Oh, how I look forward to settling the question of whether Currer Bell is a man or a woman!”
That question had been the subject of hot debate in the press. While my publisher named prospective guests, I had a dizzying sense of events carrying me further than I had intended to go. I yearned to meet distinguished persons I had admired from afar, but I was also terrified at the thought of exposure.
“Sir,” I said, “you mustn’t trouble yourself on our account, or present us in public. Anne and I are as resolved as ever to remain incognito-we confessed ourselves to you only in order to do away with the inconveniences that have arisen from the mystery of our identities.”
Enthusiasm flushed Mr. Smith’s face. “But this is a splendid opportunity for Currer Bell to increase her fame and astound the literary world.” His winning smile flashed.
I saw Anne’s pleading gaze fixed on me, and I knew I must resist Mr. Smith for the sake of Emily, whose privacy would be lost if the authors Bell became connected with the Brontes of Haworth. “I’m sorry that I must disappoint you,” I said. “To the rest of the world we must remain the unseen Currer and Acton Bell.”
George Smith looked chastened but said, “Of course I shall respect your wishes. I imagine this is all a bit overwhelming for you both, and you must be tired from traveling. Surely you would like a rest.”
I thanked him for his solicitude. Too much excitement and too little sleep had rendered me faint and weak, and my head had begun to ache.
“You must come and stay at my house, with my family,” Mr. Smith said.
Oh, the dismaying prospect of living on intimate terms with strangers! While working as a governess or even visiting friends, I had suffered much embarrassment when people had closer observation of me than I wished. The human body is ever a potential source of disgust, and I lived in terror of offending. “We mustn’t impose on you, and besides, we’ve already engaged lodgings at the Chapter Coffee House.”
“Well, at least allow me to bring my sisters to call on you.” Mr. Smith went on to suggest places he might take Anne and me during our stay.
His words blurred together in my aching head. Flattered by his attention, yet feeling fainter by the moment, I agreed to everything he suggested. At last he ushered us outside, summoned a hackney coach, helped Anne and me climb inside, and paid the driver. As we rode away, he called, “I look forward to seeing you tonight!”
The coach left us at the entrance to Paternoster Row, a narrow, flagged street. Paternoster Row had once contained shops where pilgrims and clergymen could buy rosaries and drink coffee, but now the street harbored the dingy warehouses and offices of printers, binders, and stationers. Above the roofs, the sun illuminated the vast dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, but the street lay in shadow. As Anne and I walked along the hot, deserted lane, our footsteps sounded loud against the muted roar of the city outside. The distant bellows of livestock emanated from the slaughterhouses at Newgate Street, and I could smell the odor of rotting flesh.
“I am very glad that events transpired as happily as they did,” I said, “but oh, so glad they are past!”
“I, too, am glad,” Anne said.