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sweep our path clean for a penny. We walked rapidly, clutching our pocketbooks, fearful of thieves. Sharp London accents colored the voices around us. And everywhere was filth even worse than I remembered. We sidestepped garbage and horse droppings upon which flies swarmed; we forded streams of black, malodorous water in open gutters. A foul stench of decay emanated from the nearby Thames River. The air tasted of cholera.
    Breathless and perspiring in the heat, our clothes grimy with dust, we at last reached Cornhill, a broad avenue in London’s financial district. Around us towered the Royal Exchange, the Bank of England, and other examples of classical architecture. London is the world’s richest city, and we were in its mercantile heart. Foreign languages buzzed through the district. Wealthy traders congregated in coffeehouses and jostled humble black-coated clerks.
    Number 65 Cornhill turned out to be a large bookseller’s shop in an imposing row of four-story buildings. Above its display windows, the legend “Smith, Elder, & Company” was engraved in stone. I swallowed hard, looked at Anne, and said, “The sooner done, the better.”
    We entered the shop and found inside a spacious room with bookshelves lining the walls. Customers browsed while lads bustled about wrapping books in paper and string, hauling stacks in and out, calling remarks to one another. Everyone had an intimidating air of sophistication. After some hesitancy, Anne and I crept up to the counter.
    “May I help you?” said a clerk.
    He was a distinguished-looking gentleman with a brisk manner, and my nerve almost failed me. I cleared my throat and said, “May I see Mr. Smith?”
    “Is Mr. Smith expecting you?”
    “No,” I said. “But it’s quite important.”
    “Very well,” said the clerk. “Please wait a moment.”
    He went through a door at the rear of the shop. Anne and I huddled together. I regretted that we, in our simple country frocks, looked not at all like famous authors. I wished I resembled Isabel White, and I momentarily wondered what had become of her. Just as I experienced an overwhelming impulse to run, the clerk returned, followed by a tall man.
    “Did you wish to see me, ma’am?” the man said in a well bred, dubious tone.
    Stricken by terror, I peered up at him through my spectacles. He was lithe and clean shaven with smooth brown hair and sideburns; he wore a dark grey summer coat, pale trousers, a crisp white shirt, and blue silk stock. “Is it Mr. Smith?” I quavered.
    “It is.” A touch of impatience colored his polite manner.
    George Smith was younger than I had expected—not above twenty-five years of age—and quite handsome. He had dark, shrewd eyes, regular features, a dimple in his strong chin, and a fair complexion. I grew all the more flustered because I am uncomfortable in the presence of attractive men. That they care not for me was a painful lesson learned early in life. I fumbled in my handbag, took out the letter that had brought me to London, and handed it to Mr. Smith. He examined it, and I saw confusion on his face.
    “Where did you get this?” he said, regarding Anne and me with sharp suspicion.
    “You sent it to me,” I blurted, then lowered my voice so that no one else in the shop would hear. “I am Currer Bell.”
    George Smith’s jaw dropped. “You?” he exclaimed in amazement. “You are—”
    “Charlotte Brontë,” I said, suppressing a wild urge to laugh. “And this is my sister Anne Brontë, who writes under the name Acton Bell. We’ve come so that you might have ocular proof that there are at least two of us.”
    My forthrightness must have convinced Mr. Smith, because an incredulous smile lit up his face. “How wonderful to meet you at last!” He shook hands with me, then Anne. “This is an honor.”
    If he was disappointed by the sight of the notorious Bells in the flesh, it did not show. Light-headed with relief, I heard myself and Anne making polite replies. Mr.