The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Read Online Free PDF Page A

roared and the departure bell rang. Suddenly the coach door opened, and a woman stepped inside. She set a large bag on the floor. Before seating herself opposite Anne and me, she gave us a polite bow. I returned the bow; then a closer look at her arrested my attention.
    She was tall and slender, with pale gold hair and a face so pure of line and complexion that it seemed modeled from rosy alabaster by a great artist. Dark lashes shaded eyes of deep, clear aquamarine. Her mouth was full yet sensitive, the lips a natural pink. Although she wasn’t young—indeed, she appeared near my own age—her features constituted a striking beauty. A troubled air shadowed her aspect. She glanced out the windows, as if looking for someone.
    The whistle sounded, and the engine chugged; the train moved forward with a laborious turning of wheels, through smoke and steam. The woman gave a sigh of relief. She and Anne soon fell asleep, despite the train’s jolting, clamorous progress through the moonlit countryside. I cast furtive, envious glances at the stranger. My own plain, puny appearance has been a lifelong source of grief to me. As a young girl I wrote stories featuring heroines variously named Mary Percy, Zenobia Ellrington, or Augusta Romana di Segovia, all beautiful and much desired by their heroes; I created in fantasy what reality had denied me. As I now beheld all my heroines embodied in the stranger seated opposite me, awe gave way to curiosity.
    Who was she? Her clothes appeared of decent quality but were neither new nor expensive. Her straw bonnet was unadorned; the grey pelisse hid whatever she wore beneath it. Was she married or a spinster? A gentlewoman of modest origins, or royalty in disguise? More speculation occupied me for many miles. On what business did she travel alone?
    A sudden moan issued from the woman. Her eyelids fluttered; her head tossed from side to side, and she cried, “No! No!” Bolting to her feet, she lurched against me.
    “Madam!” I exclaimed in alarm. “What is it?”
    The woman’s arms flailed; her eyes were blank with terror. I recoiled backwards in panic. Anne stirred but slept on. Was the woman having a fit? Trapped in the coach with her, miles from the next station, what should I do?
    “Help, please, help!” the woman shrilled.
    I considered waking Anne, then decided she would be of little use. Rising, I seized the woman by the wrists, pressed her into her seat, and sat beside her.
    “Tell me what’s wrong,” I urged, “so I may assist you.”
    The woman was trembling, her breath a rapid wheezing. She lunged towards the door.
    “No!” I held tight to the woman to prevent her jumping from the train. “Calm yourself: It was surely just a bad dream that frightened you.”
    “A dream.” The woman’s gaze cleared, and her voice conveyed grateful relief, but her complexion turned ashen in the moonlight. Her hand clutched her chest.
    Quickly I rummaged through my satchel and brought out a vial of sal volatile . The woman inhaled the powerful fumes and coughed; her breathing slowed and deepened, and color returned to her cheeks. Lying back in her seat, she smiled weakly at me.
    “Thank you,” she murmured. “You are so kind. I must have disturbed you terribly.” She spoke in a melodious, wellbred voice tinged with a North Country accent. “I do apologize.”
    “There’s no need. I’m glad to be of service,” I said. Conversation with strangers is contrary to my habit—I am usually tongue-tied in their presence—but the incident had fostered a sort of intimacy between the woman and myself. “What could have frightened you so?”
    “I hardly know. Nightmares are so often forgotten upon waking.” The woman’s gaze darted, and I suspected that she, in fact, did recall but preferred not to say. Then, apparently feeling that she owed me some courtesy, she said, “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Isabel White.”
    “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance,” I