giving sympathy to those who need it. And sometimes his business requires him to endure people outside his usual circle.”
My heart contracted as if under the crushing pressure of a giant fist. The scent of roses turned sickening. The sad truth was now clear-George Smith’s attentions towards me stemmed from his interest in me as Currer Bell, not as Charlotte Bronte. At last I understood why he was so eager for me to leave London: He wanted Currer Bell safe from harm so that she could write more books for Smith, Elder amp; Company.
Mrs. Smith regarded me with an air of smug triumph. “Surely you understand me when I say that my dear George will neither disappoint his mother nor jeopardize his own prospects when he marries?”
When George Smith entered the parlor, I dared not even look his way.
The next morning Anne and I called on Thomas Cautley Newby, the publisher whose fraud had brought us to town. After an unpleasant talk during which we chastised him and he insisted that the problem was but a misunderstanding, I took Anne to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The firmament arched blue and cloudless above us as we walked by the monument to Admiral Horatio Nelson. The square impressed me as an apt symbol of England’s military power. I bethought myself a citizen of the great kingdom that had defeated Napoleon and ruled the seas unrivaled ever since, commanding an empire that extended across India, Australia, New Zealand, and Africa. While insurrections had shaken Europe time and again during our century, Britain had so far held firm-the army had quelled the Chartist demonstrations that had taken place in London this spring. Now vendors sold trinkets to sightseers streaming in and out of the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields; pigeons fluttered, chasing breadcrumbs tossed by children. All was tranquil.
Anne and I joined a throng heading into the gallery, whose massive Grecian facade dominated the square. The viewing of fine paintings has always given me great pleasure, and the gallery’s cool, echoing chambers contained works by my favorite artists; yet they could neither distract me from my shame over George Smith nor soothe the pain of hope denied yet again.
“Dear Charlotte, you seem unhappy,” Anne said as we strolled the gallery. “Is it Isabel White’s death that troubles you?”
“It is.” I would rather have died than admit how I had deluded myself about Mr. Smith, and Isabel White did still weigh heavily upon my mind. “I doubt that I can depend on Mr. Smith to help determine who killed Isabel. I fear that I can do nothing about the murder.”
“Perhaps it’s for the best.” Anne added, “I shall be glad to be home. There, no one will chase you or invade our rooms.”
The prospect of leaving London the next day depressed me all the more. Absently wandering the galleries, I lost Anne in the crowd and walked into a room of Italian paintings. In the deserted, shadowy chamber, medieval dukes, noblewomen, and Madonnas gazed down at me from their golden frames. Distant sounds echoed eerily like whispers from the past. A man appeared before me so suddenly that he seemed to have materialized from thin air.
“Miss Bronte?” he said.
The unexpected sound of my name halted me. Startled, I focused on the man’s black frock coat at my eye level. My gaze moved upward to the white collar and white cravat that identified him as a clergyman, then alit on his face. He had keen, intense features and an olive complexion shaded by a cleanshaven beard. Wavy black hair tumbled above grey eyes of striking clarity and brilliance. Staring into these, I experienced a peculiar, electrifying sense of recognition; yet the man was a stranger.
“Please excuse my accosting you in this rude manner,” he said. Fleeting confusion clouded his face, as if he noticed my reaction to him-or felt the same shock? “My name is Gilbert White. I’m the brother of Isabel White-I believe you’ve met her.”
“Isabel’s brother?” I felt dismay as I wondered whether the clergyman knew of his sister’s death, for I did not wish to have to break such news. Noticing his bleak, strained expression, however, I realized that he must know, and I felt a rush of sympathy.
“Please let me explain,” he said as a flock of chattering patrons streamed into the gallery. “I’m the vicar of a parish outside Canterbury.” His voice was quiet but resonant, with the same North Country accent as Isabel; he held a black hat in hands that were well shaped and clean. “Isabel and I had arranged to meet in London for a holiday together, but when I went to our rendezvous place yesterday, she never came. I didn’t know what else to do except go to the police. They told me Isabel had been killed.”
Gilbert White drew deep breaths; looking away from me, he blinked rapidly.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” I said, moved by his grief and wishing I had more to offer than condolences. As a parson’s daughter, I regularly have occasion to comfort the bereaved, but I always feel my helplessness.
“It is God’s will, and I must accept it,” he murmured. “Yet I shall have no peace until I know what happened to Isabel. Somehow I cannot believe she was killed by a common thief.” He turned on me a gaze filled with anguish and frustration. “The police told me you knew her and that you witnessed the murder. I decided that I must speak with you and learn as much as possible about my sister’s death, so I went to the Chapter Coffee House-the police said you had lodgings there. The proprietor told me where to find you.”
I did not recall telling the proprietor I was going to the National Gallery, but I supposed he had overheard Anne and me discussing our plans at breakfast. Neither did I think to wonder how Mr. White had recognized me, a stranger, in the crowd.
“Might I beg a few more moments of conversation with you, Miss Bronte?” His keen face alight with entreaty, Gilbert White said, “Would you let me buy you a cup of tea?”
Ordinarily I would have declined an invitation from a stranger, yet I could hardly refuse aid to a bereaved brother. He was a respectable man of the cloth, and drinking tea with him in public would harm neither my person nor my reputation. And perhaps he represented an opportunity to discharge the duty I felt towards Isabel White.
“Yes; I would be glad to tell you whatever I can,” I said.
Anne came looking for me then, and I introduced her to Gilbert White. We went to a coffee shop whose clientele consisted of modestly dressed ladies and a few clergymen. A maid in a frilled cap and apron served us tea. When I told Gilbert White about Isabel’s behavior on the train, he reacted with bewilderment.
“I had no idea that Isabel was in such a bad state,” he said. “Her recent letters to me indicated naught of the sort. Did you ever see the person she feared?”
“No,” I said. “I couldn’t be sure whether anyone was actually following her, or whether she just thought so.”
“Did she say who it was?”
Regretting to disappoint him, I again replied in the negative, then described what had happened to me at the opera and the Chapter Coffee House. “I suspect those incidents might be connected to Isabel’s murder, but unfortunately, I don’t know who was responsible.”
“That someone would attack innocent women!” Gilbert White exclaimed, clearly shaken. “The world has become a dangerous place.”
“I wondered if Isabel was in trouble of some kind.” I related Isabel’s strange remark about hoping to escape punishment. “I also wondered if her trouble stemmed from her employment with Mr. Lock of Birmingham.”
Gilbert White stirred sugar into his tea, his expression dazed as if he could make no sense of all he’d heard. Studying him covertly, I decided that most people would think him too dark, sharp-featured, and disheveled for fashion, but I found his looks oddly alluring. I couldn’t help comparing him to George Smith. He wasn’t as handsome, but I discerned in him a depth of character and feeling that George Smith lacked.
“I know my sister’s character, and I cannot believe she would deliberately do wrong,” Gilbert White said. “She must have somehow become associated with people who involved her in bad business.” Anger glinted in his grey eyes, and his hands clenched into fists on the tablecloth. “Surely they are responsible for her death.”
I sensed that he was capable of passions never experienced by my publisher. Intrigued by Gilbert White, I stole a glance at his left hand: He wore no wedding ring.
“I must learn who killed Isabel,” he declared. Leaning towards me, his slender, strong figure tense with purpose, he said, “I beg you to tell me everything she said during the journey, in the hope that her words to you contained some clue to the mystery of her death.”
Having failed to induce the police to search out the murderer, I desired to help Gilbert White achieve the same objective. I related what I remembered about my conversation with Isabel. As I spoke, Mr. White watched
