Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Read Free Page A

crowd. Concern showed in his hazel eyes. He procured a glass of wine from a nearby table and gave it to me.
    â€œDrink this,” he said with a quiet authority hard to resist.
    I drank, and my spirits rose somewhat. I felt oddly safer, as if the crowds around us would not trouble me while I was in his presence. “Thank you, Mr. . . . ?”
    â€œDr. John Forbes,” he said. “We’ve never met, but we’ve corresponded. Perhaps you remember?”
    â€œYes, of course. I wrote to you concerning my sister’s illness.” Dr. Forbes was one of Britain’s foremost experts on consumptive disease. He was also a personal friend of George Smith, who had suggested I consult him about Anne during her illness. “Please allow me to thank you in person for replying so quickly.”
    â€œYou’re quite welcome.” Dr. Forbes’s somber air deepened. “I was sorry to hear that your sister did not recover. Please accept my condolences.”
    I did, with heartfelt gratitude. Usually, when someone mentions my sisters, I break down, but his presence was so steadying that this time I remained composed.
    â€œHow are you?” he said. “I hope that your writing has been a comfort to you?”
    I told him that I had not been able to write. “If only I could manage to find a subject that was fascinating enough.” Then I inquired about his work.
    â€œI have been treating consumptive patients at Bedlam,” Dr. Forbes said.
    Bedlam. Hearing the popular name for the Bethlem Royal Hospital caused me a shiver of morbid curiosity: London’s insane asylum was notorious. But I had more than a prurient interest in madness. I had firsthand experience with it, and I eagerly questioned Dr. Forbes about the patients he treated.
    â€œThey suffer from delusions, paranoia, mania, and dementia, among other things,” he said, and described a few cases.
    I recognized symptoms exhibited by my brother Branwell, and by a murderous villain I’d encountered during my adventures of 1848. “What causes these conditions?”
    â€œMost experts say they’re a result of physical defects or spiritual disturbances,” Dr. Forbes said. “But there is a new school of thought which suggests that madness originates from experiences in early life.”
    I expressed such fascination that he said, “Would you like to visit Bedlam? I’d be glad to escort you. Perhaps it would furnish a subject for your new book.”
    â€œYes, I would like that very much,” I said, so eager that I forgot to be shy.
    George Smith and his mother came hurrying up to us. “Ah, Charlotte,” he said. “I see you’ve met my friend Forbes.” He and the doctor greeted one another.
    â€œWe were just leaving,” Mrs. Smith said, tired of having so much fuss made over me in public. She turned to me and said, “It’s time to go home.”
    â€œI’ve just invited Miss Brontë to visit Bedlam with me,” said Dr. Forbes, “and she has accepted.”
    â€œVisit Bedlam?” As George looked from Dr. Forbes to me, concern flickered over his smooth features. “But you might see disturbing things.”
    â€œMiss Brontë has a taste for disturbing things,” Mrs. Smith said. “Her novels are full of them.” She smiled kindly at me.
    I seethed, but I could not retort: she was my hostess, and I owed her courtesy even if she didn’t deserve it. “I daresay I can cope.”
    â€œI won’t show Miss Brontë the parts of the asylum that an outsider shouldn’t see,” Dr. Forbes promised.
    â€œI still think it’s unwise,” George said with a frown.
    â€œI agree,” his mother said. “Miss Brontë, it might be construed as unseemly for a lady to visit such a place.” Her tone hinted that I was no lady. Her smile remained bright and kind.
    â€œLadies visit Bedlam every day,” Dr.