been understanding and patient, but I couldn’t expect him-or the public-to wait forever. “I’m sorry,” was all I could think to say.
I escaped, only to be accosted by other folk asking the same questions. Once I would have given my life for such avid interest in my literary works. Now I only wanted to hide. Once I could have comforted myself with the knowledge that when I went home I would describe this evening to those I loved most. But they were gone.
My brother Branwell had died first, in 1848 September, of consumption. Too soon afterward, in December, did my sister Emily die of the same disease. I prayed to God that He would spare my youngest sister, Anne, but in the New Year she became ill with consumption. By 1849 May, she, too, was dead.
In our youth my siblings and I had encouraged one another in our artistic pursuits, and I’d believed that we would share a brilliant future together. My prediction came partially true when Emily and Anne and I all published novels. But Emily’s Wuthering Heights and Anne’s Agnes Grey and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall were not favored by the critics or the public. And never did I suspect that I would be the only one of us to achieve any fame and financial success, or that I would be left to experience it alone. Their deaths still haunt me; my grief is still raw. I am thankful that I still have my father, but the one other person who could have alleviated my sorrow is far away.
That person is, of course, John Slade, the spy with whom I fell in love during my adventures in 1848. He asked me to marry him, but I refused because he was due to leave for an assignment in Russia, and we could not count on seeing each other again. I love him yet, even though I have not heard from him in all these years and do not know whether he still loves me-or even if he is still alive.
The matter of what to call John Slade, in my mind as well as in this narrative, has required some thought. “Mr. Slade” would be most proper, but in view of our relations it seems too formal. “John” seems too familiar because we didn’t know each other long enough to progress to first names. Therefore, I think of him as “Slade,” a compromise. But no matter how I refer to him, he is always in my heart. I miss him daily, keenly.
My longing for my lost loved ones still overcomes me at unpredictable, inconvenient times. Now, in the midst of gay society, I felt tears sting my eyes. Groping toward the door, I bumped smack into a gentleman.
“Miss Bronte,” he said. “May I be of service?”
His voice had a calming quality; it soothed my nerves so unexpectedly that I looked up at him instead of continuing on my way. He was not above average height, with not more than average good looks. His graying hair receded from his high forehead, and his somber air made him seem less superficial than the rest of the crowd. Concern showed in his hazel eyes. He procured a glass of wine from a nearby table and gave it to me.
“Drink this,” he said with a quiet authority hard to resist.
I drank, and my spirits rose somewhat. I felt oddly safer, as if the crowds around us would not trouble me while I was in his presence. “Thank you, Mr…?”
“Dr. John Forbes,” he said. “We’ve never met, but we’ve corresponded. Perhaps you remember?”
“Yes, of course. I wrote to you concerning my sister’s illness.” Dr. Forbes was one of Britain’s foremost experts on consumptive disease. He was also a personal friend of George Smith, who had suggested I consult him about Anne during her illness. “Please allow me to thank you in person for replying so quickly.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Dr. Forbes’s somber air deepened. “I was sorry to hear that your sister did not recover. Please accept my condolences.”
I did, with heartfelt gratitude. Usually, when someone mentions my sisters, I break down, but his presence was so steadying that this time I remained composed.
“How are you?” he said. “I hope that your writing has been a comfort to you?”
I told him that I had not been able to write. “If only I could manage to find a subject that was fascinating enough.” Then I inquired about his work.
“I have been treating consumptive patients at Bedlam,” Dr. Forbes said.
Bedlam. Hearing the popular name for the Bethlem Royal Hospital caused me a shiver of morbid curiosity: London’s insane asylum was notorious. But I had more than a prurient interest in madness. I had firsthand experience with it, and I eagerly questioned Dr. Forbes about the patients he treated.
“They suffer from delusions, paranoia, mania, and dementia, among other things,” he said, and described a few cases.
I recognized symptoms exhibited by my brother Branwell, and by a murderous villain I’d encountered during my adventures of 1848. “What causes these conditions?”
“Most experts say they’re a result of physical defects or spiritual disturbances,” Dr. Forbes said. “But there is a new school of thought which suggests that madness originates from experiences in early life.”
I expressed such fascination that he said, “Would you like to visit Bedlam? I’d be glad to escort you. Perhaps it would furnish a subject for your new book.”
“Yes, I would like that very much,” I said, so eager that I forgot to be shy.
George Smith and his mother came hurrying up to us. “Ah, Charlotte,” he said. “I see you’ve met my friend Forbes.” He and the doctor greeted one another.
“We were just leaving,” Mrs. Smith said, tired of having so much fuss made over me in public. She turned to me and said, “It’s time to go home.”
“I’ve just invited Miss Bronte to visit Bedlam with me,” said Dr. Forbes, “and she has accepted.”
“Visit Bedlam?” As George looked from Dr. Forbes to me, concern flickered over his smooth features. “But you might see disturbing things.”
“Miss Bronte has a taste for disturbing things,” Mrs. Smith said. “Her novels are full of them.” She smiled kindly at me.
I seethed, but I could not retort: she was my hostess, and I owed her courtesy even if she didn’t deserve it. “I daresay I can cope.”
“I won’t show Miss Bronte the parts of the asylum that an outsider shouldn’t see,” Dr. Forbes promised.
“I still think it’s unwise,” George said with a frown.
“I agree,” his mother said. “Miss Bronte, it might be construed as unseemly for a lady to visit such a place.” Her tone hinted that I was no lady. Her smile remained bright and kind.
“Ladies visit Bedlam every day,” Dr. Forbes said. “The public is always welcome.”
Mrs. Smith pretended not to hear. “If you don’t care about yourself, at least have a thought for my poor son. What if it were to distress you so much that you became unable to write your next book?”
She wanted me to think that my next book, and not me, was all George cared about. George exclaimed, “Never mind the book, Charlotte.” His mother winced. She disliked that he and I were on first-name terms. “My fear is that you’ll be attacked by a lunatic.”
“That might please some people,” I couldn’t resist saying. Before his mother could think of a rejoinder, Dr. Forbes assured George, “Patients who are dangerous are kept away from the public. And I promise to protect Miss Bronte. But of course,” he said to me, “if you would like to change your mind…?”
Once I would have bowed to the will of the people to whom I felt obligated. But I am stubborn by nature, and another unexpected thing that my fame had brought me was the backbone to resist coercion.
“I am determined to visit Bedlam,” I said. “Shall I meet you there at ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“That would be fine,” Dr. Forbes said.
George Smith looked resigned, his mother distinctly put out. None of us knew at the time that my innocent trip to the insane asylum would ultimately bring peril to us all.
2
Life abounds with chance encounters. Most leave no residue, but some have consequences that are serious and far-reaching. Such was my encounter with a woman named Isabel White, whom I met during the summer of 1848. Such was my meeting with Dr. John Forbes. Chance encounters such as these send us down one path instead of another, and we cannot know until much later that they have changed the course of our lives.
However, I had no intimation of this on the morning I was engaged to visit Bedlam. As I sat in the parlor of the Smiths’ house at Number 76 Gloucester Terrace in Hyde Park Gardens and waited for the carriage, I thought only of the interesting material for my long-overdue book.
I heard wheels rattle and horses’ hooves clop outside. I hurried to the door and opened it. In the sun-
