Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë by Laura Joh Rowland

me. I viewed the hippopotamus, submerged in his tub, only his eyes above the water; he resembled a fat black hog in a farm wallow. The herd of elephants included a baby—a darling creature. I went into the house where lions and tigers prowled in cages. I listened to them roar and the children shriek in fright. By the time I entered the aviary, I was more at peace than I’d been since my visit to Bedlam, even though I knew not what my next course of action should be.
    Brightly colored birds flitted between the palm trees under the glass roof. As I listened to parrots squawk and watched plumed cranes strut, I felt a sudden prickling sensation. I knew that sensation from my years as a schoolteacher. I’d felt it whenever I’d turned my back to my pupils. It was the feeling of unfriendly eyes on me. I turned and saw a man holding his little boy up to feed a macaw perched on a branch. A group of people admired a peacock spreading his brilliant tail feathers. Two women laughed as they wiped bird dung off the head of a bald man. No one appeared to be watching me, but my pulse quickened. I knew the scent of danger. I smelled it now.
    I fled the aviary and mingled with a crowd gathered around a lemonade stand. Here I was safe among numbers, but I could not shed the certainty that someone was following me, someone with malice in mind. As to who, I knew not. As to why, I could only speculate that the reason must involve Slade and our past relationship.
    â€œMiss Brontë,” said a voice startlingly close to me.
    I yelped and almost jumped out of my shoes. I whirled to face the young man who’d spoken. He smiled an earnest smile, his protuberant brown eyes shining. His pink, boyish face was familiar, although I couldn’t place him. He said, “It’s Oliver Heald.”
    He was the man who had made me so uncomfortable at the Great Exhibition with his questions about my marital status. I said, “You frightened me half to death!”
    His smile faltered; he tilted his head, a habit I recognized. “I’m terribly sorry.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I said, forgetting that he had as much right to be at the zoo as I did.
    â€œI—I was hoping you would inscribe your book for me,” he said, disconcerted by my harsh manner. He held out a copy of Jane Eyre .
    I stared at the book, then at his nervous, blushing face. How odd that Mr. Heald should happen to have the book with him at the same moment we ran into each other! It seemed too much of a coincidence. “Have you been following me?” I demanded.
    â€œWell, yes,” he admitted sheepishly. “I saw you, and I remembered how gracious you were the last time we met, and I thought, ‘Here’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get my favorite author’s signature.’”
    I ignored his compliments. My temper, already strained by the events of the past two days, found in him a handy target. “How dare you intrude on my privacy?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Mr. Heald said, alarmed by his own breach of manners, hurt by my reaction. “Will you please forgive me?”
    â€œGo away.” I shooed him as if he were a buzzing fly. “Leave me alone!”
    â€œYes, Miss Brontë. I’m sorry.” Mr. Heald turned and ran, holding Jane Eyre against his heart.
    I belatedly felt relieved that my pursuer had turned out to be the innocuous Mr. Heald. I also calmed down enough to regret how cruelly I’d treated him. “Wait, Mr. Heald,” I called, “I would be honored to sign your book.”
    He’d gone into a wooded area that bordered the zoo. So guilty did I feel toward him, and so eager to make amends, that I didn’t stop to think about the possible danger of following a man I barely knew into what looked to be an isolated area. Instead, I did what every witless heroine in every second-rate romance novel would have done: I hastened after Mr. Heald, following