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

a trail under a canopy of trees. Their leaves filtered the sunlight into a cool, green shade. The voices, the children’s laughter, and the animals’ cries sounded far away. I saw no one. Pausing, I called, “Mr. Heald?”
    There was no answer. Leafy branches rustled behind me. I turned, glimpsed movement among the trees. Mr. Heald didn’t appear. Another rustle came, then soft footsteps. I felt a spurt of irritation. Was he teasing me? “Come out. Don’t play games,” I ordered.
    A figure materialized behind a screen of foliage. That it belonged to a man was all I could discern, but his silhouette radiated menace. Fear shot through me. I began to run. I tried to steer a course toward the open, populated area of the zoo, but every time I turned in that direction, I saw the man’s shadow moving through the trees, between me and safety.
    â€œHelp!” I cried.
    If he was Mr. Heald, would he hurt me? If he wasn’t, then who was he? A criminal who preyed on women he happened to meet? I thought of the women killed in Whitechapel. Fighting my way past low branches, I felt like a deer stalked by a tiger in a jungle. I panicked as I heard his footsteps moving faster, coming closer. I grew certain that this was no random encounter.
    Somehow I had once again stumbled into bad business that involved John Slade. I acknowledged the terrifying possibility that it was he—lunatic, traitor, and murderer—who pursued me. If he caught me, what would he do?
    I came abruptly upon a brick wall. From its other side I heard carriage wheels racketing and horses’ hooves plodding. This was the wall that separated the zoo from the street. It was too high for me to climb. I sought but found no gate. My back pressed against the wall, I watched with terror as swaying branches and rustling leaves heralded the arrival of my stalker.

11

    I HEARD A SUDDEN CRASH. A WILD THRASHING AND SCUFFLING ensued. It was the sound of men fighting. They flailed behind the bushes. Grunts punctuated thuds as blows landed. I could have taken the opportunity to escape, but I had to see who the men were. I crept toward them, but before I could gain a clear view, one jumped up and ran away. The other clambered to his feet. I tore through dangling vines and burst upon him. It was Slade.
    He stood, brushed dirt off his black coat and trousers, and faced me. I realized that I did not know who had stalked me and who had rescued me, Slade or the other man. My heart drummed a cadence of fear and desire.
    His expression was as distant as when I’d confronted him outside the Royal Pavilion Theater. “Go home, madam,” he said in the same Russian accent he’d used then. “From now on, do not wander by yourself. It is dangerous.”
    He turned to leave. I was suddenly furious. Whether he remembered me or not, I had gone to much trouble to help him whether he deserved it or not. And I knew this was Slade, no matter what he or anyone else said. His were the eyes that had once looked deep into mine; his the lips I had kissed; his the hands that had caressed me in places touched by no other man. The least I deserved from him was an explanation.
    â€œDon’t you walk away!” I shouted.
    I seized his arm. He stared at me, surprised by my temerity. He looked at my hand that clutched him, and I felt his tough, strong muscles stiffen in resistance. I also felt the warmth of his skin through his coat sleeve. A torrent of emotion weakened me. For three years I’d longed to touch Slade. Now I was touching him, but this was not how I’d wanted it to be. I’d yearned to have his arms around me, our bodies united in love. But he wrenched free of my grasp, as callously as if throwing off a stranger who’d begged him for a penny. Anger overrode my hurt feelings and restored my strength.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I demanded.
    â€œI see you go in woods and man follow.” Slade’s face