Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Read Online Free

sir!” I exclaimed with a passion. “It was in poor taste at best, and cruel at worst!”
    We faced off, I all in rage and Mr. Thackeray all haughty resentment. My fists were clenched, and I know not what I would have done if George Smith hadn’t heard us arguing and rushed in from his breakfast.
    â€œCharlotte, you have every right to be upset,” he said, “but I’m sure that Mr. Thackeray truly didn’t mean to cause you pain. Do give him a chance to apologize properly.”
    These reasonable words served to dash cold water onto the heat of battle. “I am sorry for offending you,” Mr. Thackeray said with genuine contrition. “Will you please forgive me?”
    â€œYes, of course.” I didn’t quite trust him, but felt better now that we’d had it out.
    â€œI’d like to make it up to you,” Mr. Thackeray said. “Please allow me to take you and a party of friends to the theater. You may choose the play.”
    The idea of another social occasion made my nerves quail, but I accepted rather than have him think me still angry. We made a date for the next evening. Then my carriage arrived, and I set out for Bedlam.

    As the carriage bore me away from the decorous streets of Hyde Park Gardens, I began to have misgivings. St. George’s Fields, in which Bedlam was located, contained some of London’s worst slums. Deteriorating tenements lined dirty, narrow streets filled with the poorest, most downtrodden of humanity. The stench of garbage and cesspits was sickening. But of course the city authorities would not have situated an insane asylum in a finer district.
    Bedlam was an imposing edifice, three stories high, crowned by a huge dome, with a classical portico and columns at the entrance, surrounded by a stone wall. Stately as a temple, it dominated the wide boulevard. Dr. Forbes was waiting for me at the gate. We exchanged pleasantries and he led me inside. A lawn bordered with flowering shrubs and shaded by tall trees seemed out of place amid the squalid slum. So did the folks who accompanied us up the wide staircase in an excited, chattering horde. Many were fashionable ladies and gentlemen, such as one might see in Pall Mall.
    â€œWho are all these people?” I asked.
    â€œVisitors,” replied Dr. Forbes. “Some are here to see family members who are patients. Most have come to tour the asylum.”
    To view the inmates as if they were wild animals in the zoo, I thought. I felt ashamed of my own curiosity, until Dr. Forbes pointed out a booth at the entrance, where an attendant was taking admission fees, and said, “The money paid by the visitors helps to defray the cost of caring for the patients.”
    Inside, the visitors’ footsteps and chatter echoed in a vast hall with high ceilings, lit by sunlight from many windows. So far Bedlam seemed a respectable institution, not the gloomy dungeon I’d imagined. It did not even smell any worse than other buildings in London, whose sewers taint the air everywhere. Dr. Forbes escorted me through a chapel, then the basement, which contained the kitchens, pantry, and laundry. There labored people I first took for servants.
    â€œThe patients who are well enough work to earn their keep,” Dr. Forbes said.
    I took a second look at the men cutting vegetables with sharp knives and the women pressing sheets with hot irons. I was glad to see attendants standing watch over them, for I’d not forgotten George Smith’s warning about dangerous lunatics. We inspected the kitchen gardens, where patients watered neat rows of plants, and the recreation grounds where they strolled. Dr. Forbes talked about the therapeutic benefits of fresh air and exercise. The crowds of visitors lent the place a holiday air. I could almost have thought myself on tour of some great country manor, if not for the howls and shrieks that periodically emanated from the asylum.
    â€œShall we proceed to