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“Why, I wonder?”
    I watched the door swing shut. “I don’t know.”
    “There’s something about her that makes me quite uneasy,” Anne said.
    We ate our meal, then hurried back to the train. The window of our coach showed no sign of Isabel, but when I opened the coach door, a cry rang forth. Startled, we beheld Isabel lying curled on her seat, staring up at us.
    “Oh. It’s you.” Relief erased the panic from Isabel’s face.
    “Whom did you think it would be?” I asked.
    Isabel shook her head. “No one.”
    Anne and I exchanged glances as we took our seats. Soon after the train began moving, Anne dozed off. I tried to rest, but my mind seethed with questions about Isabel, who brooded in the seat opposite me. At last I slept, disturbed by dreams of unknown pursuers chasing me along railroad tracks, and of myself arriving naked at the offices of Smith, Elder & Company.

    I awakened to sunshine on my face. Stretching my cramped muscles, I yawned. Through the window, beyond the railroad tracks, spread miles of dingy shops, warehouses, and tenements. Smoke cast a grey pall over the cityscape. During the six years since I’d last seen London, it had grown tremendously. This was the great capital of England, bursting with mansions and slums, pleasure gardens and markets, factories and monuments, and some three million inhabitants. I recalled how Emily had hated it. But I loved the sense that anything could happen in London. I sat up, alert, my nerves tingling with dread and excitement. Anne was awake, too. Isabel White looked as if she’d not slept all night, her lovely face wan and haunted.
    “Good morning,” I said.
    My companions murmured in reply. Isabel said, “Miss Brontë, I must express my gratitude for your assistance and the pleasure of your company.”
    “The pleasure was mine.” I was disappointed that our acquaintance must end and that I would never know more about the mysterious Miss White.
    Soon the train drew into Euston Station and screeched to a halt beneath the iron roofs that sheltered multiple tracks. On one side stood inns, taverns, and a street filled with horse-drawn wagons, carriages, and omnibuses. Along the other extended the terminal building, fronted by the platform. There, a huge crowd milled. Gentlemen in tall black hats and ladies in fashionable gowns mingled with children and common tradesmen amidst piled trunks, bundles, and hampers. Vendors sold refreshments from trolleys; beggarboys roamed. The pandemonium daunted me, and I hesitated to leave the coach, but Isabel flung open the door, hefted her carpetbag, and quickly stepped onto the platform. Anne and I picked up our satchels and followed. Steam and smoke from chugging locomotive engines assailed us as we huddled together in the rushing crowds. Other passengers alit and greeted waiting friends; railway guards climbed on the train’s roof and unloaded baggage. Whistles shrieked and voices clamored. Isabel stood near me, her worried gaze scanning the chaos.
    “Have you a place to go?” I asked, feeling a certain responsibility towards her.
    Clutching her bag, Isabel nodded vaguely, looking past me.
    On impulse I said, “Anne and I will be staying at the Chapter Coffee House in Paternoster Row. If you desire company, please do visit us there.”
    The guards pulled our trunk off the train and dropped it on the platform. Anne and I hurried over to claim our property, and when I again looked towards Isabel White, she had vanished.

4

    B Y EIGHT O’CLOCK THAT MORNING, ANNE AND I MADE OUR WAY TO the Chapter Coffee House. We washed ourselves, breakfasted, then set off for the premises of Smith, Elder & Company.
    London engulfed us in its overwhelming turmoil. Horse-drawn carriages manned by red-coated coachmen rattled through the crammed streets. Costermongers hawked fruits and vegetables; female peddlers sold matches and needles. Crude laborers trudged along every thoroughfare; ragged children armed with brooms begged to