“What could those men have wanted with me?” I said to Anne. “Did they steal anything from us?”
“Before they left the carriage, they looked through our books and emptied our satchels, but everything is here.” Anne gestured towards our trunk, atop which lay our other possessions.
“They wanted only me,” I said, even more disturbed and puzzled. “But why?”
“I have heard that sometimes men abduct women for immoral reasons,” Anne murmured, lowering her eyes in aversion to the crimes at which she hinted.
“But I am inclined to think that my experience was another in a series of events stemming from the murder,” I said. “One of those men might have been the person who chased me at the opera, while the other ransacked our room at the Chapter Coffee House. Although I don’t possess whatever it is that they seek, perhaps they think I can lead them to it.”
“If so, then one of them must have killed my sister.” Gilbert White rose, his expression animated yet troubled; he paced the office restlessly. “Unless we discover the truth about these crimes and catch the criminals, these attacks on you will surely continue. The only way to obtain justice for Isabel and to protect you is to catch those men. I’ve reported the incident to the local police, but I didn’t get a good look at the men.” He faced me, his brilliant eyes eager. “Perhaps you could describe them?”
“I’m sorry to say that I paid them little attention until it was too late,” I said ruefully.
“As did I,” Anne said.
“But we must try to remember as much as possible about them,” I said.
Just then, the stationmaster entered the office. He was a florid-faced man dressed in a railway uniform. “Pardon me,” he said. “Just checking to see how the ladies are.”
Anne and I assured him that we both were well.
“It’s a pity that such a thing happened to you on this railway,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ve missed the last train to Keighley, but there’s another tomorrow morning. In the meantime, if you want lodging, I suggest the White Horse Inn.”
As I thanked him, my gaze alit on a framed picture on his desk. It was a miniature portrait of a woman and children who must be his family. Inspiration struck.
“Sir,” I said, “may I please have a pencil and paper?” To Mr. White I said, “I shall sketch the faces of the men who attacked us.”
Drawing is a favorite hobby of mine, although my talents are modest. As I sat at the desk and began to sketch, my hand was subject to a fearful trembling which had little to do with the events just past. My drawings-like my stories-are mirrors of my soul. When I draw for someone, or read aloud my writing, I hunger for praise and fear criticism. When my audience is a man, I feel most vulnerable. And when he is a man towards whom I have particular feelings, an intoxicating, shameful warmth spreads through my body, almost as if I were disrobing before him. I felt the warmth now as I drew the ginger-haired man. Anne offered suggestions, while Gilbert White stood beside me, watching.
“Such impressive talent you have,” he said.
“You are too generous, sir,” I said with an awkward laugh.
Yet his praise delighted me. Unexpected memories arose to increase my agitation. I saw myself in the parsonage nine years ago, sketching William Weightman. When he stepped over to view the portrait, he touched his lips to my cheek in a brief, daring kiss. How I burned for days afterward! I recalled a schoolroom in Belgium, where I read aloud a French essay I’d written. My professor-a man I once loved to distraction-hurled scathing criticisms at me until I wept. Then he was all sympathetic kindness. Such passions he roused in me! Never could I let him know how much I craved the touch of his hand.
Gilbert White’s hands now rested on the desk near me-those strong, clean hands which had wrested my life from the grip of peril. The thought of his carrying me to safety stirred me powerfully. I hazarded a glance up at him-and straight into the impenetrable depths of his eyes. Mightily embarrassed, I averted my gaze. I applied myself to drawing until the portraits were done.
“Very true and lifelike they are,” said Anne.
“I’m sure they will help locate the men,” Gilbert White said. “But for now, please let me take you and your sister to safe lodgings, Miss Bronte.”
I gladly agreed, for I welcomed his protection and company. He installed us in a carriage and rode with us to the White Horse Inn. As we disembarked, a sulfurous fog engulfed us. The chill penetrated my damp garments, yet I was warm as from a fire burning inside me.
“I apologize for disrupting your plans,” I said, in fear of the possibility that Mr. White was merely discharging what he saw as a duty.
“I’m glad to help you.” Mr. White paid the driver and lifted my trunk.
Heartened I was by his apparent sincerity; yet I thought to wonder how Gilbert White had happened to be on the same train as I. “May I ask what brought you to Leeds?” I asked.
“I’m on my way to Bradford, to inform my mother of Isabel’s death,” Gilbert White said as he opened the inn’s door.
I pitied him this sad task, and my distrust shamed me.
“I, too, have missed my train and must stop the night here,” he added.
Inside the inn, Anne and I engaged a room upstairs and Mr. White took one on the ground floor. He accompanied us to our room, to ensure that all was right. I heard him test the lock on the door-but avoided watching him; I pretended to study the white curtains and flowered wallpaper. His presence in the room where I would sleep caused me shameful thoughts.
“You should be safe tonight,” Mr. White said. “I’m a light sleeper, and if anyone approaches you, I’ll hear.”
His words, meant to reassure, divided my emotions. Glad though I was to have him near, might our inhabiting the same house violate propriety? I recalled my unease when he had asked me if Isabel had given me anything. What did I know about him other than what he himself had told me?
Hesitantly I followed him into the corridor, while Anne remained in the room. “Sir,” I began, seeking a way to dispel uncertainty without offending him.
I had only his word for what had happened between him and my attackers after he caught up with them. Could he be their accomplice? The ghastly notion stifled my voice as we stood facing each other. Mr. White waited for me to speak, his expression turning suddenly cautious. The narrow corridor confined us; a single lamp cast a fitful, smoky light. The inn’s staff and other guests had retired, and in the silence I heard my rapid breathing-and his. My back was pressed against the wall; my heart thumped with an uncomfortable fusion of fear and an awareness of the improper feelings that had arisen in me towards this man I couldn’t quite trust.
At last he spoke. “May I escort you to Keighley tomorrow?” His voice was soft, his gaze compelling. “After what happened tonight, you shouldn’t travel alone.”
That moment reminded me how fear can enhance attraction. I felt an almost irresistible urge to touch his bruised cheek. “But it would inconvenience you,” I stammered.
“It would be my pleasure,” he said with somber emphasis.
I was quaking inside, every particle of my being alert to the implication that Gilbert White felt the same attraction as I. Alive with hope that rivaled fear, I nodded wordlessly.
His rare smile flashed. “Then good night until tomorrow, Miss Bronte,” he said, and descended the stairs.
Breathless and weak, I stood in the corridor, endeavoring to collect my thoughts. Likely, my recent mishaps had rendered me too leery of my fellow humans. If Gilbert White did have evil intentions regarding me, then he would not have saved me. We shared a mission as well as the potent alchemy that draws together a man and woman.
Thus I justified my good opinion of Mr. White; but later, while I lay in bed, I wondered more about him. Was I truly safe in the protection of my rescuer and possible suitor? Or was he a villain biding his time while scheming against me? Just before I finally slept, I recalled the premonition evoked during my first encounter with Gilbert White. What could it mean?
