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.
“He is a good man,” Isabel said, gazing out the window, “but kindness played little role in our association.” A frown shadowed her profile as she mused in silence for a moment. Then she said in an almost inaudible voice, “I was brought up to believe that we should do unto others as we would have others do unto us, but I-I have broken that rule, as well as many others. Is it futile to hope that I may escape punishment?”
This sounded to me like a confession, but of what sins? I guessed that Isabel’s troubles involved Mr. Lock, and I pondered what might happen between a man and a beautiful woman living in his house. I blushed again, ashamed of entertaining thoughts about subjects that were none of my business; yet my curiosity persisted.
“Are you going to Birmingham, then?” I asked, because that city lay on our route.
“No!” A shudder accompanied Isabel’s violent negative. Then she turned to me and said, “I am on leave from my post and traveling to London.” The frosty look had returned to her eyes. “Where do you and your sister go, Miss Bronte?” she said, abruptly steering the conversation away from herself.
“We are also traveling to London.” I fervently hoped Isabel wouldn’t ask why.
Isabel only asked, “And how long do you stay?”
“A few days,” I said, glad that I need not fabricate a lie to conceal my private purpose.
“Will you be taking up employment soon?” Again, Isabel studied me with close scrutiny, as if genuinely curious.
Since I couldn’t discuss my current occupation as a writer, lest I give away my identity as Currer Bell, I said, “At present, I’m between positions and living at home.”
Isabel nodded, and I had the disconcerting sense that she was making note of this information for later reference. After a while, Anne awakened, and I introduced her to Isabel, and the three of us made trifling conversation. Whenever the train stopped at a station, Isabel cowered in her seat, seeming to avoid the window for fear that someone would see her. Anne and I left the carriage several times, but not she. Still, I doubted that Isabel could pass the whole night without leaving the train, and when we reached Nottingham just before midnight, she accepted my invitation to go into the station.
The platform was dimly lit by gas lamps; a few passengers and station officials awaited the train. Exiting the coach, Anne and I left our satchels inside, but Isabel lugged her carpetbag with her. This was large, bulky, and patterned with red roses. I wondered what was in the bag, and why Isabel would not let it out of her sight. Did it contain something valuable, perhaps stolen? Was it the law that she feared so?
As the three of us walked towards the privies, I watched Isabel dart wary glances at the other passengers. Her fright was contagious. I found myself peering across the dark train yard in search of pursuers, and seeing malevolence in the faces of the railway guards. Isabel stuck close by Anne and me as we entered the station’s
