17
John Slade returned to Haworth on 30 July.
My family rose early that Sunday for church. As Emily, Anne, and I took our seats in our pew, villagers filed into the galleries, and the sonorous music of the organ echoed. Papa preached while the sexton walked the aisles and awakened slumberers with a tap of his long staff. A sudden stir arose in the congregation; I turned and saw the man who had entered the church.
Although a letter from him had prepared me for his arrival, it did not lessen my shock at seeing Mr. Slade again. My heart began to pound. Mr. Slade, wearing black clerical garb, paused and looked around while curious villagers scrutinized him. His gaze lit on me, and I felt that all the world had acquired a new life. The sunlit arched windows and the flowers on the altar seemed brighter; Papa’s voice reading the Gospels sounded more melodious. I breathed intoxication from the very air. Mr. Slade bowed slightly, then seated himself in an empty pew. I averted my face, overwhelmed by shame that I would experience profane sensations in church. In the wake of my shame galloped fear. What had I done by agreeing that Mr. Slade should come?
When the service ended, my sisters and I rose. Mr. Slade walked up the aisle to meet Papa. “Greetings, Uncle Patrick,” said Mr. Slade. “ ’Tis I, John Brunty, your nephew from Ireland.”
I recognized the story that his letter had said would disguise his true identity and explain his presence among us. He spoke in an Irish brogue so perfect that I would easily have believed his ruse, had I not known better.
“Welcome,” Papa said, shaking Mr. Slade’s hand. He studied his “nephew” and seemed to approve of what he saw. As Emily, Anne, and I approached, he called, “Girls, meet your cousin.”
Papa introduced me first, and so flustered was I that I looked up at Mr. Slade barely long enough to see the conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. He said, “Hello, Cousin Charlotte.” I felt my hand gripped by his, and a fresh onslaught of emotion. Now that my rage at his deceit had passed, my other feelings towards him had become unbridled. The strange intimacy fostered by our encounter on the moors, and my newfound knowledge of him, had increased my desire for his regard. And without my anger to shield me from him, I was defenseless.
Next Papa presented Emily, who stared at the floor and bobbed a silent curtsy at Mr. Slade. Anne met him as calmly and pleasantly as if he were really our cousin. “Please come with us to the house,” she invited.
Exiting the church, we greeted villagers and walked up the hill. The church bells sang across the village, the sun turned the moors golden, and all was peaceful except my heart.
The Reverend Arthur Nicholls hovered near us, eyeing Mr. Slade with alarm and me with concern. “Is there adequate room at the parsonage for your nephew?” he asked Papa. “Maybe he would be more comfortable at the Black Bull Inn.”
I supposed Mr. Nicholls felt possessive towards my family and jealous of the newcomer. “We’ll manage,” I said tartly, though I quaked at the idea of having Mr. Slade under my roof.
It was strange to see him drinking tea in the parsonage. He sat in a chair beside Papa’s, opposite the sofa occupied by Anne and me. Emily and Keeper sat on the floor. Keeper eyed Mr. Slade with distrust.
Mr. Slade got right to business: “We must lose no time. The sooner we apprehend the villain, the sooner you will all be safe. Please tell me what you’ve learned about Isabel White.”
I described my visits to Isabel’s mother and the Charity School. I nearly quailed under his intent gaze. Discovering the truth about Mr. Slade had rendered him even more handsome, and although he was now friend instead of foe, I knew that my feelings must remain unrequited, for what could a man of his accomplishments want with a dreary spinster? As I told Mr. Slade about Isabel’s diary, I realized that after he knew everything I did, I would be of no more value to him.
“May I see your transcript of the diary?” Mr. Slade asked, upon learning that the diary itself had been stolen.
“First tell me what you know of this business that we do not,” I said, deliberately withholding information.
He obliged, and his account furnished the facts that I have previously related about his actions while we were apart. After he finished I said, “Now what is your plan?”
Slade raised an eyebrow at my reluctance to cooperate, but he said, “Agents from the Foreign Office will spy on the Charity School and attempt to identify the men from the train. They’ll also keep watch on the household of Joseph Lock, the gun maker, and look for clues regarding the evil scheme that Isabel mentioned in her diary and the identity of her master.” He turned to Papa. “In the meantime, I shall stay here and guard your family. I believe the villain will eventually try to attack your daughter again. When he comes, I shall capture him.”
Papa nodded, but I did not like Mr. Slade’s idea; nor did Anne, as I could tell by her perturbed expression. He said, “Is something wrong? Do you object to my plan?”
“It gives me nothing to do except wait, like cheese in a mouse-trap,” I said. “I can’t bear to sit idle until the trap springs.” Nor did I like to think I was useless to him except as bait.
“There must be something we can do,” Anne added.
Mr. Slade frowned. “These matters are best left to professionals.”
I observed that he disliked opposition; yet pride forbade me to let him govern my behavior as well as torment my heart. “If you are going to live in our home, you must respect our right to help ourselves.”
“I respect every right of yours.” Mr. Slade spoke cautiously, aware that we were on new, untested footing. “But I don’t see what you could do for this investigation, except what I’ve proposed.”
I have always hated to be underestimated, especially by those for whom I care more than I should. “How will your agents get inside the school or Mr. Lock’s house to gather clues? Someone with good reason to be there would be more likely to discover something worthwhile.”
“Surely you don’t mean yourself?”
Mr. Slade’s incredulity encouraged my contrariness. “I do. Mightn’t the Lock family need a new governess now that Isabel White is gone? And the Charity School needs a teacher.” The housekeeper had indicated as much when she’d answered the door. “I am qualified to fill either post.”
“That is out of the question,” Mr. Slade said, adamant. “Even if you were to be hired, I could not protect you. And if the villain should discover you snooping, you would be in great trouble. You cannot go.”
“I could,” said Anne.
“You mustn’t,” I exclaimed. “There’s no telling what would happen if you were found to be a spy.” I was afraid for her safety, if not my own. “It’s too dangerous.”
“It’s too dangerous for either of you,” Mr. Slade said.
Ignoring him, Anne turned to me. “Are you saying you wouldn’t get caught, but I would? I, too, am an experienced governess; do you not trust me to play the part?”
“I don’t doubt your competence,” I said, although I did. “I just prefer to risk myself rather than you.”
Anne could see that I thought her weak and ineffectual. “Dear Charlotte, this is my chance to show you that I’m capable of more than you believe.”
A critical choice lay before me: I must either recognize her as my equal by letting her prevail over me, or override her and permanently damage our sisterhood. “Then you’d better go to Mr. Lock’s house,” I said reluctantly, “because if the men who attacked us on the train return to the school, they might see you and recognize you.”
“They wouldn’t recognize me,” said Emily.
Anne and I beheld her with surprise. Keeping her face averted, she went on: “Those men have never seen me. Neither they nor anyone else associated with Isabel White would know of my connection to Charlotte.” Emily paused, gathering breath and courage. “I’ve been a teacher. I look the part of a destitute gentlewoman. I daresay the Charity School would hire me.”
Imagine my shock! “Do you mean you would go away and live among strangers?” I stared at Emily in disbelief, as did Anne and Papa. Mr. Slade, unaware of Emily’s disinclination to leave Haworth, merely looked puzzled.
Emily swung her gaze to me. “I can’t hide at home while your life is in peril,” she said bravely, though she hugged Keeper the way a person lost at sea clings to a raft.
My earlier narrative portrays Emily as self-centered and unlikable; yet she had a generous spirit that surfaced
