He expressed all the concern, horror, and woe that I’d expected, but he didn’t try to dissuade me from carrying out the plan I’d also confided to him. “You must do what you must to save Mr. Slade, yourself, and your nation.” He chuckled sadly. “Of all my children, you are the most like me. You were all intelligent, and you all inherited my love of reading and writing, but only you wanted to take on the world, as I once did. A father shouldn’t have a favorite among his children, but if I did, it would be you, Charlotte.”
Tears stung my eyes. I’d always thought he loved Branwell best; I thought he regretted that his only surviving child was I, the least satisfactory.
“Losing you would be the death of me,” Papa said. “But I will let you go on this mission of yours, with my blessing, if you will only promise me one thing.”
Beware of blessings with strings attached. “What is it, Papa?”
He held up his hand. “Promise first.”
Trapped by obligation and love, I said, “I promise.”
Papa rose, opened the door, and summoned Ellen and Mr. Nicholls. “Pack your bags,” he told them. “You are going with Charlotte. She has agreed to take you both.”
I had never seen them so flabbergasted. Ellen said, “It would be most improper for Mr. Nicholls to travel with us.” Mr. Nicholls looked amazed at his good fortune and stammered out his gratitude. I was horrified that Papa had saddled me with two guardians I didn’t want and whose safety I feared for. I began to protest.
Papa cut us short with the stern look he gives parishioners who talk in church. “You promised, Charlotte,” he said, then addressed Ellen and Mr. Nicholls: “Protect my daughter.” His stare at Mr. Nicholls said he hadn’t forgotten that his curate sought to woo his daughter away from him, but he would put that quarrel aside for now. “Should any harm come to her, I will hold you both responsible.”
23
The secret adventures of John Slade
1851 January. Slade barely managed to escape the Kremlin.
The call for his blood went out minutes after he slipped away from his listening post in the Tsar’s reception hall, where he’d heard the news that the British agents had been executed. As he raced through the palace, he heard the tread of boots, the soldiers searching for him. His fall from grace had been so swift that he couldn’t stop to think. All he could do was run.
Emerging into the frigid night, Slade saw lit torches carried by search parties moving around the palaces and cathedrals. He shivered in the cold; he hadn’t even had time to fetch his coat. Dogs barked. The army had brought out the wolfhounds to track him. The walls of the Kremlin stood between him and safety. His only hope of getting out alive was the escape route he’d installed in case of emergencies.
He headed for the strip of wooded parkland that extended alongside the wall from the Saviour Gate to the tower at the eastern corner of the Kremlin. As he neared it, he heard the cry: “There he is!”
Running footsteps clattered on the icy pavement behind him. The dogs bayed, too close. Slade leaped through the snow between the trees and fell against the wall. He ran his hands over it, searching in the dark for the iron spikes he’d driven into the mortar, one by one, during many nights. They formed a ladder up the wall. With the army thrashing through the woods in pursuit, Slade climbed.
His head cleared the trees. He pulled himself up onto the crenellated wall. Someone in the tower shouted, “He’s up there!”
Gunshots cracked. Bullets pinged off the wall around Slade. He dropped into the trees on the other side. Branches battered him all the way down. A snowdrift broke his fall. He scrambled up. As he ran along the promenade that bordered the river, he dodged gunfire from other watchtowers. Bonfires on the riverbank illuminated a skating party. Above the music from an orchestra Slade heard the furious stampede of horses’ hooves. Mounted soldiers rounded the corner of the Kremlin and charged toward him. He whirled. More horsemen came galloping from the other direction. He skidded down the riverbank and hid among the people gathered around a bonfire. They wore rich sable coats; they were members of the aristocracy. Up on the promenade, the troops halted, torches raised, looking for him, hesitant to fire into the crowd and risk killing somebody important. Slade waited, panting and freezing.
A group of merrymakers strolled toward a troika parked on the ice. Slade hurried along with them. When they climbed into the troika, neither they nor their driver noticed him sliding underneath. The horses pulled the troika across the ice while Slade clung to the bottom. The relief he felt was short-lived.
Nowhere in Moscow is safe for a man wanted by the Third Section.
In the morning Slade made his way through the back alleys of the city to his lodging house, only to find policemen loitering outside. He turned and hurried away. Even if the police hadn’t already confiscated the money he kept in his room, he couldn’t get to it without being caught. He mingled with the people who crowded the shops and outdoor markets. By sleight of hand he stole a coat, boots, and a fur hat. A loaf of bread and a string of sausages vanished under his coat. Warmly dressed, his hunger satisfied, he set out to find a way out of town.
Soldiers patrolled every road. Wilhelm Stieber had mounted a massive search for him. Slade didn’t know how Stieber had discovered his true identity, but Stieber must have had surveillance on him, even though he’d never spotted it. Now, every city gate he approached was heavily guarded. Slade watched the sentries stop, inspect, and question men who fit his description. He was trapped.
24
The town of Amblesideis located in the lake district in the far northwestern part of England, some fifty miles from Haworth. The journey was long and arduous, requiring us to change carriages three times. At first I was glad to have Ellen and Mr. Nicholls for company. If Wilhelm Stieber and his minions were following me, they would probably not attack all three of us and risk drawing attention to themselves. But Ellen made insulting comments to Mr. Nicholls, who lost his patience and snapped at her. They bickered in the station in Lancaster while we waited two hours for the train. On the train I pretended to sleep, but they argued in whispers until we alit at Windermere Station.
It was past seven o’clock in the evening. Here in these lofty altitudes, the air was thin, chilly, and moist. Breathing it cleansed my throat and lungs, which were parched by smoke and cinders from the train. The sun’s silvery rays glinted through indigo and violet clouds that floated over a landscape of green hills that rose to mountainous, mist-veiled heights.
“Mr. Nicholls, go fetch our trunks,” Ellen said.
He glowered because she’d spoken to him as if he were a dog, but he obeyed, and he hired a carriage for us. As we rode, Lake Windermere came into view, a long silver ribbon winding through lush woods. Here was the landscape that had inspired the great poets, Robert Southey and William Wordsworth. Lights sparkled like strewn golden beads from towns on shore. Above, flocks of geese winged, their calls plaintive and haunting.
“We’ll obtain lodgings at an inn by the lake,” Ellen said. “Charlotte likes the water.”
“A secluded place in the hills would be safer,” Mr. Nicholls said.
Ellen turned to me. “What do you think?”
I felt like a rope in a tug-of-war between two children. “By the lake.” In order that Ellen and Mr. Nicholls wouldn’t think I was taking sides, I added, “That’s where he is likely to be.”
“Where who is likely to be?” Ellen asked.
During the trip I’d refused to say why I wanted to go to the Lake District. “The man I’ve come to see. Dr. John Forbes. I consulted him about Anne’s illness, as you may remember.”
Fear showed on my companions’ faces. Ellen said, “Charlotte, are you ill?”
“Are you here to seek treatment from Dr. Forbes?” Mr. Nicholls asked.
“No, I’m perfectly healthy. All I seek from Dr. Forbes is information.”
My chance encounter with Dr. Forbes had led me to Bedlam and my fateful glimpse of John Slade. He had
