Mr. Slade beheld me as if astounded. “That isn’t why I came. What are you talking about?”
“You said you were in love with me, but I should have known better.” I didn’t care that my voice rose loud and now the funeral party was watching us. “Especially since you told me that you require beauty and vivacity in a woman and could never form an attachment to one who lacks them.”
“What nonsense is this?” Mr. Slade demanded in confusion. “When did I say that?”
“On the train to London,” I said, “when we were discussing Jane Eyre. ”
Mr. Slade looked flabbergasted by recollection. “I was speaking of the characters in the book, not of you and myself.” He uttered a laugh. “Women be damned! They’re always taking personally the things men say, reading into them meanings that were never intended. They never forget the most casual passing remark that we might make. You fool, I meant every word I said to you on that ship.”
As I stared, blank and speechless, Mr. Slade grasped my shoulders. “And I’m not here to tell you goodbye.” His gaze was intense with passion. “I’m here to ask you to come to Russia with me-as my wife.”
It was my turn to be flabbergasted. He wasn’t brushing me off; he was proposing marriage! He, who had spurned romantic attachments since his wife’s death, now sought to attach himself to me! Our experiences together had swept away the past and turned him towards the future, which he wanted us to share.
“Well? Do you accept my offer?” The beginnings of disappointment contended with hope on Mr. Slade’s face. “Or am I to find out that you were playing at romance with me?”
I understood why he’d acted so coolly towards me at first: He’d been working himself up to this proposal and hiding his fear that I might refuse. Now my spirits soared on the sweet euphoria I’d felt when he’d kissed me. I thought back to the time when we first met, in the National Gallery, and the shock of recognition we’d felt. Our instincts must have sensed that we would one day be husband and wife.
“Good God, don’t keep me in suspense!” Mr. Slade said. “Is your answer yes or no?”
With all my heart I cried, “Yes!”
I thought I’d wept all my tears when Branwell died, but now they flowed anew, from the same radiant gladness that I saw on Mr. Slade’s face. He drew me close, but as he bent to kiss me and seal our pledge, I felt a misgiving so powerful that I stiffened in his embrace.
“What is it?” Mr. Slade said, drawing back from me in concern. “You’re not having doubts about marrying me?”
Amazingly, I was. Here I had gained what I’d thought all my life was the ultimate prize-a marriage proposal from a man I loved, and who loved me. But I felt as if I had opened a beautiful gift package only to discover that its contents, although exactly what I’d wished for, were somehow wrong.
“Not about marrying you,” I said, “but perhaps about what would happen afterward. We would live in Russia for the foreseeable future?”
“Yes.” Mr. Slade’s eyes shone with his relish of exploring new, foreign territory.
I had a vague notion of czars, Cossacks, and frozen steppes. Three months ago this would have stirred a pleasant thrill in me, but now. .. “Russia is so far away.”
“Well, yes,” Mr. Slade said, chastened by my hesitation. “But wouldn’t you like to see the world?” When I nodded, he said, “Here’s our chance to see it together.”
But I felt a strong resistance to leaving Papa, Emily, and Anne. My remaining kin were dearer to me than ever now. I also felt a strong attachment to Haworth, small and isolated though it be. This was the center of my universe, the haven to which I must always return, the thought of which had sustained me during my wanderings.
“I don’t know the Russian language,” I said.
“I’ll teach you,” said Mr. Slade.
Still I hesitated. “I don’t know anyone in Russia. I would be all alone while you’re busy working. What would I do?”
“You can write more books.”
But my books had deep roots in my own history. If I pulled up those roots, inspiration would vanish. My writing anchored me to Haworth as strongly as did my kin. My unfinished book, and other books yet to be written, had a claim on me stronger than Mr. Slade’s. Sorrowful wisdom filled my heart. I withdrew from Mr. Slade and leaned on a stone tomb.
“I cannot marry you,” I said, though tearful with regret and desolation.
“Why not?” Mr. Slade said. When I explained my reasons, he waved them away. “There are difficulties, to be sure, but together we can overcome them.”
I had once believed that love conquered all, but I knew the nature of his profession, and I knew we would be more apart than together if we married. I pictured myself alone and idle, waiting for him to come home, and affection turning to resentment because I’d given up everything for him. Once, everything I had in life had seemed so little, but now I recognized that it was too precious to lose-and that what I would lose upon sacrificing it was myself.
“No,” I said sadly. “We belong to different worlds. This is mine.” I gestured at the parsonage, the church, the village, and the moors. “Anywhere else, I would be lost.”
“Then I’ll quit the Foreign Office,” Mr. Slade said. “We’ll live here in Yorkshire.”
He renounced his profession with the rash impulse of a man in love. For only a moment was I tempted to allow it. I could see that his eyes were focused on distant horizons even as they watched me; I felt the restlessness in him that required the whole world to roam. His spirit, and his love for me, would die in the confines of my life here.
“I cannot accept such a sacrifice,” I said.
We argued long and fervently, he trying to sway me and I standing solid even while I ached with love for him. There was some talk of marrying even though I would remain at home while he went abroad, but a marriage in which we might never see each other seemed pointless to us both. At last Mr. Slade conceded.
“It seems I’ve come to say goodbye after all,” he said, his head bowed, his countenance shattered by despair.
I already regretted my decision, even though I knew it was right. My tears streamed as the funeral party filed past us. I thought Mr. Slade wept too, but I couldn’t be certain.
“If I should return to England,” he said in an unsteady voice, “may I call on you?”
“Yes,” I said, gladdened by the possibility, even as the thought of many years without him gave me pain.
“Then farewell,” Mr. Slade said.
He kissed me tenderly, and I clung to him. I memorized the taste and the warmth of him, the power of our desire; I didn’t care who saw. Then we released each other. After one last, longing look passed between us, Mr. Slade turned from me. Rain began to fall, and even as I watched him walk out of the graveyard, I sobbed. Mr. Slade paused at the gate. His gaze searched me. What an overwhelming urge I fought to call him back! Mr. Slade’s expression grew resigned. He mounted his horse. A desolate peace came over me: If I had to be alone, it was at least by my own choice.
Mr. Slade rode off. I watched until he disappeared from sight.
Reader, I let him go.
EPILOGUE
A year has passed since the day I received the letter that sent me to London and launched me into the adventures described herein. I have finished writing my account of them, and all that remains to be told is their aftermath.
The black chariot of death soon visited my family again following Branwell’s demise. Consumption took Emily on 19 December 1848, and Anne followed her shortly afterward, on 28 May 1849. Their suffering, and mine, do not bear description. Let my tears that fall on this page suffice. Now Papa and I are the sole survivors of the family Bronte. Light shines from his study where he sits working on a sermon. I am writing alone at the table where Emily, Anne, and I once read and discussed our manuscripts. The house is silent but for the crackling of the fire in the
