The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë by Laura Joh Rowland Page B

in Anne’s eyes. Averting her face, she said, “I wish we were not.”
    Now I was ashamed because I had hurt Anne. The murder must have been as upsetting to her as to me, but while I had collapsed, she had nursed me. She also had stood loyally by me during our expedition to Smith, Elder & Company. I felt guilty that I often gave Anne short shrift because she had never been my favorite sister. I loved Anne dearly, of course, but compared to Emily, brilliant and original of mind, Anne seemed dully inferior. I was suddenly horrified at how we had turned against each other. The rift between my sisters and me was growing. I climbed off the bed and hobbled over to Anne, who stood, head bowed, beside the window.
    “I’m so sorry,” I said, taking her hand. “I shouldn’t have spoken as I did. Can you forgive me?”
    Anne sniffed, managed a tremulous smile, and nodded. “If you will forgive me for speaking harshly to you.”
    We embraced in mutual relief. Still, I harbored a need to learn the truth about Isabel White’s murder. A persistent curiosity gnawed at my mind, as though I’d been reading an engrossing book and had it snatched away from me before I could reach the end. I desired to obtain justice for this stranger who had engaged my interest and my sympathy. I could only hope that somehow an opportunity would present itself.
    “Mr. Smith and his sisters will be coming to call soon,” I said. “We’d better prepare ourselves.”
    After another hour’s rest, we washed, then dressed in fresh clothes. My sickness abated, though I still felt very shaky. When I peered in the mirror, my face looked as though it had aged ten years. Turning away from my ghastly reflection, I went with Anne downstairs to meet George Smith and two young ladies, whom he introduced as his sisters. They were brown-haired, fair, and lively like himself. They were very elegantly dressed in white silk gowns.
    “I am pleased to present Miss Charlotte Brown and Miss Anne Brown, my friends from Yorkshire,” George Smith said, keeping his promise to conceal the our true identities.
    He looked quite handsome and distinguished in tailcoat and white gloves, carrying a tall black hat. I experienced a stir of feelings long repressed. It had been years since I had permitted myself to admire a man.
    “We should be on our way,” Mr. Smith said. “The opera will begin soon.”
    “The opera?” I had by no means understood that we had agreed upon a trip to the opera, though it explained the Smiths’ formal dress. Panic struck me, for Anne and I were inappropriately attired. But if we refused to go, we would disappoint and offend the Smiths. Forcing a smile, I said, “Yes, let us go.”
    In the carriage, I sat between Anne and Mr. Smith in the forward-facing seat, while the Misses Smith sat opposite us. As we clattered down the dark street, I experienced a thrill in spite of my illness and my shame at my poor appearance. Was an evening outing in London not the sort of adventure I had craved? The presence of George Smith, so near that I could smell his clean, manly scent of shaving soap, intensified my excitement. Inside me awakened, against my will, an old yearning. Twice in the past I had fallen in love. The first object of my affection had been William Weightman, my father’s curate nine years ago. Bonny and charming, he had flirted with me, but I eventually realized that he flirted with all the unattached ladies and preferred those prettier than I. As for my second love—how disgracefully I had humiliated myself! Now I willed my heart to calm its quickening rhythm.
    “How did you spend your afternoon in town?” Mr. Smith asked.
    “I’m afraid I had a most disturbing experience,” I said.
    As I described Isabel White’s murder, his sisters exclaimed in shock. Mr. Smith said, “I wish I’d convinced you to stay with me, so that you needn’t have witnessed such a terrible crime. You and Anne shouldn’t return to Paternoster Row; you must