“There may be.”
The Tsar turned to his companion. “Oh?” His eyes narrowed. His court was full of men who placated him with false assurances. “Have you a new idea?”
“I do. It arose from a message I’ve just received from our agents in London.” The Prussian related the contents of the message and told the Tsar how the information could be used to Russia’s advantage.
The hidden listener overheard everything. He knew he should make his escape before the men discovered him, but he lingered, rapt with horror. The details provided in the message were sketchy, but the Prussian built upon them a scenario of a battlefield that spread east as far as China, west over Europe and across the English Channel, of countries laid to waste and carnage on a scale greater than ever known in history. Yet the listener had more immediate, personal concerns: his own days were numbered.
All of this I learned about much later. By then I was already embroiled in the adventure, and it was too late to turn back. By then I had learned a lesson.
Lightning does strike twice.
Reader, I am proof.
Herein is my story. CHARLOTTE BRONTE
Haworth, England, 1852 June
1
When I was young, I wished for adventure and romance, for travel to exciting locales far from Haworth, the tiny village where I have lived most of my life. I wished for success as an author, to be famous and sought after, to leave my mark on the world. Outrageous ambitions these were for the daughter of a Yorkshire parson! Little did I realize that when I achieved my ambitions, the reality would bear scant resemblance to the dream. Nor did I realize that I should have been careful what I wished for because I might get it.