are strangers, accuse people of wrongdoing, and expect to be believed. I had to credit her objections, and my nerves were in such a grievous state that she had no difficulty persuading me to board a train that very day. We parted at Keighley, where she caught a train to Birstall, and I proceeded, with utmost caution, to Haworth.
When I arrived shortly after nine o’clock that evening, a misty rain veiled the moors. I was exhausted from traveling, tense from looking over my shoulder to see if anyone pursued me, and downhearted because I felt little the wiser than when I’d left. I found Papa, Emily, and Anne kneeling in the study, their heads bowed as they said their evening prayers.
“Ah, Charlotte,” said Papa. “How happy I am that you’ve come home.”
Anne looked at Emily. Emily met my gaze with cold indifference: My absence had not softened her ill feelings towards me. I knelt, and we all prayed. Afterward, Papa went to lock the doors. I followed Emily and Anne to the parlor.
“Don’t you want to hear about my journey?” I asked.
Emily gave a disdainful sniff. Anne murmured, “Perhaps later.”
Less angry than hurt by their response, I said, “How is Branwell?”
“See for yourself,” Emily said. “He’s upstairs.”
I mounted the stairs, pained by the memory of happier homecomings. I opened the door of Branwell’s room, and the sour stench of illness nauseated me. My brother lay in bed, the covers twisted around his emaciated body, his bloodshot eyes half closed and his lips parted. His chest slowly rose and fell with each faint breath. He had procured laudanum and dosed himself into stupefaction. I left the room, shut the door, sat on the stairs, and wept.
I wish I could write that Branwell improved in the days that followed, but this wish, too, is in vain. The soporific effects of the laudanum wore off the next morning, and what tremors, violent sickness, and agony assailed him! He pleaded for money to buy more, and when we refused him, he cursed us. Emily remained hostile towards me, and Anne silently grieved at our estrangement. While we were at church the following Sunday, Branwell sneaked out of the house. Two days later, he still was gone. Our fears for him drove all thought of the murder, my adventures, and even Gilbert White from my mind.
On the second day, I walked the moors, thinking perhaps he might have wandered there and lost his way. The afternoon was cool and blustery. As I trudged up the hills, Emily’s brown bulldog, Keeper, bounded alongside me, and the landscape began to restore my spirits. Those who do not know the moors think them dreary, but I find in them great beauty and comfort. The sky, animated by changeable weather, seems a living companion in my solitude. I watched billowy clouds race across a heavenly blue firmament, their shadows drifting on the sunlit land. The heather had begun blooming, and its purple blossoms misted the grey-brown hills. Swallows flitted between gnarled thorn trees; sheep grazed. Ivy and ferns grew on drystone walls; violets and primroses clustered in hedge bottoms. The wind breathed sweet flower scents, and Keeper chased butterflies.
We were heading for the waterfall that was a favorite place of my brother and sisters and myself, a place where Branwell might have sought refuge, when I heard a voice call my name. I saw a tall man striding towards me. He was dressed in black, with a white clerical collar; the wind whipped his tousled black hair. Terror struck ice into my bones. It was Gilbert White, the man who had deceived me, the man responsible for the attacks on myself, the murder of Isabel White, and a scheme that would bring disaster upon the kingdom. And I was alone on the moors with him.
“Miss Bronte,” he called, raising a hand in greeting.
I whirled and began running for my life. “Keeper! Come!” I shouted.
We raced up and down slopes. From behind me I heard the rustling of grass crushed under rapid footsteps. I looked over my shoulder and saw Gilbert White cresting the hill; his long legs carried him faster than I could run. As I scrambled over a wall, crows wheeled overhead, their caws mocking me. My heart hammered; breathless fatigue rendered my limbs awkward. I reached the birches and alders that bordered Sladen Beck. I plunged between the trees, stumbled down the bank, and crouched to hide. Below me, the stream’s clear, rushing water gurgled round the rocks where my brother and sisters and I had once played. The waterfall splashed down a staircase of boulders. But here I found no sanctuary, for Gilbert White burst through the trees and alighted on the bank above me.
“Miss Bronte, why did you run from me?” Hardly even winded, he spoke in surprise and bafflement.
I reared up, panic-stricken. Keeper growled. I was glad of his protection. “Don’t come any closer,” I said to Mr. White in a voice intended to warn.
He hesitated, glanced at Keeper, and said, “I must have startled you by coming suddenly upon you like that. Please forgive me.”
The very presence of him defiled this private place, and anger gave me courage. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I wondered if anything had happened to you,” Mr. White said.
“Having heard not a word from you, I came to visit, and I saw you walking up the hill, and I followed.” Now he seemed to realize that I felt something other than mere surprise at his unexpected visit. “I thought you would be glad to see me. Why do you look at me with such animosity?”
His eyes were as clear and brilliant as I remembered; his sharp features as compelling; the vigor of his body as masculine. I was ashamed that I had ever admired him or desired his regard. I was mortified to realize that I still did.
“You lied to me.” My voice quavered with hatred as well as fear. I recalled my dreams about him, and I experienced afresh the painful disillusionment I had suffered at his deceit. With great satisfaction did I see his dismay.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Your name is not Gilbert White,” I said. “You’re not Isabel White’s brother. I was taken in by you at first, but I know better now. I also know you’ve been spying on me.”
“Spying on you? Why, Miss Bronte, I’ve done no such thing.” He took a step towards me, but when Keeper snarled, he moved back up the bank. “How can you think I would deceive you?” He feigned incredulity. “Where did you get these ideas?”
“I received a package that Isabel sent me before she died, and I went to Bradford to give it to her mother,” I said. “She told me that Isabel was an only child.”
He frowned, suddenly disturbed. “A package from Isabel? Did you see what was in it?”
That he should care foremost about the package! “You killed Isabel,” I said. “It was you I saw struggling with her in that alley. Your accomplices tried to kidnap me. You rescued me only to cultivate my gratitude, such that I might then do whatever you asked.” I saw him stiffen and draw back, his face registering chagrin that he could no longer play me for a fool. “Who are you?” I demanded. “What do you want with me?”
Clouds gathered in the sky, and cold shadow doused the water’s sparkling light. My adversary clenched his fists, and terror gripped my heart, for I expected him to strike me dead. But instead, he half turned away from me, gazing at the water. I might then have fled, yet I did not. I felt myself part of a story whose ending I must know, even at the price of my life.
The rushing water sounded loud in the silence between us. The wind quickened across the moors; I smelled rain. Starlings twittered, agitated by the impending storm. Keeper whined. At last my companion turned to me, and I beheld a stranger. Gone was the polite, humble cleric Gilbert White. This man’s face was stern and formidable, his dark depths no longer masked by artifice. For the first time, I was seeing him as he really was.
“You have accused me of many evils, Miss Bronte, but I’m guilty of only one.” His voice had altered to match his true self; the false Northern accent dropped away. “I did not murder Isabel White. The only harm I’ve done you is to win your friendship by false pretenses. I hope that when I explain why, you’ll excuse my deception.”
I knew not what he could say to earn my forgiveness; but I waited, for his gaze compelled me to hear him.
“My real name is John Slade,” he said. “I’m a secret agent of Her Majesty’s Foreign Office.”
I stared, my mouth agape. I had heard of the Foreign Office, which managed the nation’s affairs abroad; I had heard tales of the men who spied behind enemy lines, consorted with savages, and lived by their wits. A thrill of excitement coursed through me, but my distrust of him prevailed.
“Why should I believe you,” I said, “after you’ve lied to me already? Why should I believe you’re not still lying?”
John Slade answered my scorn with cool composure: “You are a woman of rational mind. Listen to what I
