by Cynthia Hand
“Mr. Blackwood,” she returned. “I’m coming.”
“But why?”
“Because, quite simply, you need me.”
“Why would I possibly need you?” he asked wearily.
“Answer me this, Mr. Blackwood. What was your plan?”
“My plan?”
“Exactly. You don’t know where Jane is. I do.”
He frowned. “I could just go to Lowood and ask them.”
“If you do,” she said, “I shall tell everyone you’re there to arrest Miss Eyre for murder and then they’ll never tell you.”
He dragged his other hand down his face. “Miss Brontë.”
“Anyway”—Miss Brontë lifted her chin—“were you going to try recruiting her the same way you have three times already? Because none of those times have ended with success.”
“But I’ve been authorized to offer her better accommodations. A grocery budget.”
“I didn’t know those were options,” said Branwell from inside the carriage.
Miss Brontë was shaking her head. “Not to be rude, Mr. Blackwood, but what could you possibly know about a girl like Jane Eyre? Perhaps the request would be better coming from a woman who she knows has her best interests at heart.”
Alexander couldn’t really say anything to that.
“Jane is my best friend,” Miss Brontë went on. “If anyone can persuade her to accept your offer, I can.”
“So you need to go,” he said. “To persuade her.”
She nodded. “And because I’m not going to even tell you where she is unless you let me get into that carriage.”
There was a long moment while he thought about it. Then he sighed again and stepped back, leaving the door to the carriage open so she could pass. Miss Brontë bounced down onto the seat next to her brother. Alexander settled carefully across from them and called out the window.
“Where to?” asked the driver.
Alexander sent a pointed look at Miss Brontë. Maybe once she told the driver, he could stop by Lowood and deposit her back at school first.
“Head south.” And then she sent a pointed look to him. “You’d leave me behind if I said where she was.”
“Would not,” Alexander said.
“Would too,” Miss Brontë said.
“Absolutely would,” Branwell muttered.
Alexander would never admit to sulking, but that’s probably the most accurate description of what he did the first hour of the drive. Branwell had gone to sleep (not having slept yet), and Miss Brontë was happily writing in her notebook.
“I’m excited to work with such a distinguished organization,” Miss Brontë said. “I heard that decades ago, there was a gang of ghosts terrorizing the shopkeepers of London. They kept robbing the shops and singing ‘God Save the Queen’ so loudly that even normal people could hear it. Then a single Society agent chased the entire gang through the Tower of London and tricked them into being relocated. Is that true?” Her pen was poised over the paper, though how she could write in the bouncing carriage, Alexander could not begin to guess.
“It’s true,” he said. “But it’s unlikely we will ever be able to accomplish such feats again. At least now that the king has cut funding. I don’t see how we can continue for much longer unless we can persuade him of our usefulness. Our importance.”
Branwell cracked open an eye—not asleep after all—and said, “The Society is doomed.”
“I’d read that the king’s cut funding.” Miss Brontë lowered her pen. “And just as I come on as an assistant. This is terrible. Please explain.”
Alexander most certainly didn’t have to explain anything. Society agents never explained themselves. But the determination on Miss Brontë’s face was so genuine, just as real as her eagerness to work for the SRWS.
He sighed. “Very well. I’ll tell you what’s going on, but you must swear to keep it to yourself.”
“And my notes,” she said, lifting her pen again. “Go on, Mr. Blackwood. If that is your real name.”
“Of course it’s my real name! Why wouldn’t it be?”
She blinked at him. “I was only joking.”
“Right.” Alexander leaned back in his seat. “Earlier this year, His Majesty decided to balance the royal budget.”
“He kept Meals on Wheels and the National Endowment for the Arts,” Branwell said, “because we aren’t animals, for pity’s sake. But the Society . . .”
“The Society had to go,” Alexander said. “Arthur Wellesley fought hard to keep the program funded. But King William doesn’t believe in ghosts, or the need for our services. He cut the program, saying that Wellington could find alternative funding for the Society if he wished. He suggested we ask France to pay for it.”
“What did France say?” Miss Brontë’s pen skittered across the page.
“They said no,” Alexander said. “That’s when we started charging for our services, but I still believe ghost relocation should be free for everyone, not just the wealthy.”
“So what you’re saying,” Miss Brontë said, “is that the Society can’t pay assistants well, but it does pay some.”
How was this the main thing she’d managed to take away from the Society’s money problems? “Wellington has sworn he’ll do whatever it takes to keep the Society running,” Alexander said. “No matter the cost. But it may be futile if we can’t recruit more seers.”
Miss Brontë lifted her glasses and studied him with that keen gaze of hers. Then she made a few more notes and shut her notebook.
“What are you working on?” Alexander asked. “The story about murder from before?”
“Not this time.” She patted the leather cover. “This one is about ghosts and the people who bust them.”
“I don’t want to be a character in a novel,” he said.
“Of course not.” She smiled slyly. “The hero of this novel is taller.”
TEN
Charlotte
They arrived in a town called Bakewell, where Mr. Blackwood paid for three rooms for the night. Charlotte could tell that he had every intention of sending her back to school in the morning. She, of course, was determined not to go. But now she had no choice except to disclose Jane’s whereabouts at the nearby estate called Thornfield Hall.
After an afternoon of snooping about town and speaking with the locals, Charlotte discovered the master of the house was a man by the name of Mr. Rochester. With that information in hand, Mr. Blackwood’s first order of business was to send a letter.
The communication between Mr. Blackwood and Mr. Rochester went as follows:
Dear Mr. Rochester,
I’m writing to inquire about the governess you recently hired, a certain Miss Eyre. I believe she may be of great importance to the RWS Society, and I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with her.
Sincerely,
A. Black
A reply was delivered rather quickly:
Dear Mr. Black,
No.
Edward Rochester
Mr. Blackwood would not be deterred so easily, so naturally he tried again:
Dear Mr. Rochester,
Please. It’s important.
A. Black
Only one word came in return:
No.
What this meant was that they needed a plan.
Not just any plan, but a good plan. A smart plan. A plan that would guarantee success and end happily for everyone. Mr. Blackwood clearly needed one of Charlotte’s plans.
“You must get into Thornfield Hall,” she mused, turning this last one-word response over in her hand. “But the master of the house has denied you.”
“Twice,” Bran added.
Mr. Blackwood sighed. “How very observant of you.” They were all sitting in a sectioned-off space of the inn’s dining room, where they could speak privately, but still in public so that no one would think anything untoward was happening, given the two masked men sitting with a young lady. Mr. Blackwood, Charlotte was coming
to learn, was quite the stickler for such things.
“Perhaps Charlotte could write Jane a letter?” Bran suggested.
Charlotte tapped her pen on the edge of the table. “Who’s to say she would get it, especially since Mr. Blackwood has been asking about her? It’d be suspicious. And clearly we can’t just stroll up to the house and call on her. We’ll have to be smarter. Sneakier.”
Both men were looking at her, and finally Bran said, “You have a plan, don’t you, Charlie?”
“Branwell. Dear. I have asked you repeatedly not to call me Charlie. Please try to remember.” She turned back to Mr. Blackwood and infused her voice with confidence. He would see her value. He would. She lifted her glasses and found the part of her notes she was searching for. “Ah, yes, here it is. There is a lady currently residing in the Leas, a Miss Blanche Ingram, who is said to be a possible match for Mr. Rochester.”
“A possible match?”
“Everyone in town is talking about how the two of them—Mr. Rochester and Miss Ingram”—she enunciated carefully—“are probably going to be married. It is likely that, within a fortnight, they say, she will go to Thornfield Hall to pass the time with him and to see if he will, indeed, ask for her hand—that much is well known in the village.”
“What does this have to do with our mission?” Mr. Blackwood asked. “Why do I care who Mr. Rochester intends to marry?”
“Because she’s our ticket to Thornfield Hall. We’ll request the Ingrams’ help on the matter. We’ll say we’re members of the Society on a secret mission, and ask if they might allow three people to join their ensemble for a short time, stay at Millcote and accompany them when they go calling on Mr. Rochester.”
“Three people?”
“Yourself, Bran, and me, of course. But I’m going to need a mask.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Mr. Blackwood was frowning again. “Why would you need a mask?”
“Because I’m going to pose as a member of the Society along with you. Until I can become an official member of the Society, later.”
“No. No mask.” Mr. Blackwood folded his arms.
Miss Brontë looked at him coolly.
He looked back.
She didn’t blink.
His mouth twisted unhappily.
“It actually does sound somewhat brilliant, as plans go,” piped up Branwell.
Charlotte smiled at her brother gratefully.
Mr. Blackwood sighed yet again. (With all that sighing, air might soon be in short supply inside the inn.) “All right,” he said at last. “I do have an extra mask.”
Everything turned out exactly as Charlotte had planned. (Just kidding. As skilled as Charlotte was at concocting wild-but-ingenious schemes, they almost never turned out as she planned. Remember this for future reference, dear reader.)
The first snag they hit was that Mrs. Ingram was not at home. Upon their arrival they were allowed into the parlor for receiving but informed that the mistress of the house was out for the entirety of the afternoon. Would they like to wait for her? It was uncertain when she would return.
“We would,” Charlotte answered just as Mr. Blackwood asked, “Is there anyone else we can converse with?”
So they were presented to the young Miss Ingram, the daughter, the one Charlotte had understood to be marrying Mr. Rochester sometime soon.
“Well, isn’t this a droll little circus troupe,” the young lady drawled from where she was reclining on a satin-upholstered chaise in the drawing room. She looked Charlotte up and down with an expression of utter disdain in her large black eyes. She was beautiful, Miss Ingram—that much was undeniable. Charlotte had probably never seen a more attractive person. Her crown of carefully braided hair was glossy and black, her bust was tall and fine, her neck swanlike, her complexion perfect—any part of Miss Ingram could have inspired poetry. Charlotte immediately jotted down a few notes for a future character sketch. But she also found Miss Ingram unkind in the way she glanced over at Bran wearing his glasses over his mask and smirked at how silly and nervous he looked. Then her gaze landed on Mr. Blackwood, and she smiled more brightly.
“Who are you, exactly?” she asked.
Charlotte started to answer, but Bran cleared his throat. Which meant allow Mr. Blackwood to speak for us, please, which she knew was the proper thing to do. So she clamped her teeth together and listened to Mr. Blackwood explain that they were members of the Society, who had been tasked with a secret mission of the utmost importance.
“What kind of mission?” Miss Ingram wanted to know.
“The secret kind,” Bran said.
Charlotte flashed him a warning glance.
Miss Ingram gave a hard laugh. “Oh. The secret kind. Which would involve you staying in our home and helping yourselves to our food and being part of our company.” She stared at Mr. Blackwood again. “Although I don’t suppose I’d mind if you stayed.”
“The Society would be willing to compensate you for any expenses we might incur.” Mr. Blackwood’s jaw was tight, Charlotte noticed. He didn’t like Miss Ingram, either. A show of his good character.
“Would you always wear the masks?” Miss Ingram asked.
“No,” Alexander explained patiently. “We’d like to be introduced as new acquaintances of yours who are visiting at your request. We’d use false identities. And again, as I mentioned, it would only be for a short time.”
“It sounds rather scandalous,” she said.
“We’d act in perfect civility,” he promised. “We’d only be present—for a short time, as I said—to listen and participate in certain group excursions. You will hardly notice we’re here.”
Miss Ingram wasn’t convinced. “This is just so strange a request.”
“The Society would be most grateful for your cooperation. They would never send us here on such a task if it weren’t imperative.”
“I’d agree if it was only you, perhaps,” Miss Ingram said, staring up at his face again. “You’re charming enough.”
He shook his head. “No. It must be all three of us.”
She sighed. “Then I’m afraid I must refuse. We don’t allow strange individuals the run of our home. We are a very prestigious family, and can’t afford any little slip that might tarnish our reputation.”
They would have been sunk, but just then the dowager Mrs. Ingram swept into the room in a flurry of black satin and pearls.
“Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed when she saw the three masked persons standing there. “Are you members of the Society, by chance?”
“We are, madam.” Mr. Blackwood gave a short, graceful bow, followed by an awkward bow from Bran and an even more awkward curtsy from Charlotte.
“We don’t have any ghosts here at the moment,” Mrs. Ingram said, coming to stand beside her haughty daughter. “But several years ago we had quite a problem with the spirit of Mr. Ingram’s grandfather. He refused to leave the house—caused us all kinds of humiliation before the Society was kind enough to relocate him. Honestly, I can’t thank the Society enough. What can I do for you, sir?”
Alexander smiled. “Madam, I am so glad you asked.”
Within the hour, it had been agreed upon that they would accompany the Ingrams on their visit to Thornfield Hall. It’d also been decided that they were to be introduced as the “Eshtons,” a family who had only recently moved to the Leas.
Charlotte was wearing a new dress. It was white and gauzy with voluminous, puffy sleeves and a blue sash. She’d never worn something so fine in all her life, and she could not help lifting her spectacles to stare at her reflection in the mirror. If only she didn’t need the blasted glasses, she might have considered herself attractive.
“You look pretty,” Bran said when she came out to present herself. “What’s your name supposed to be, again?”
She held out a hand to him. “Amy. Amy Eshton, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“And I’m your dear brother, Louisa,” he said.
“Louis.”
“This is so exciting,” declared Mrs. Ingram from her grand chair in the corner. “My late husband would have been so pleased. He adored keeping up with what the Society was doing.”
Miss Ingram sniffed conspicuously from her place at the piano. “I think the Society is entirely odd, what with their focus on the supernatural and those distasteful ghosts and the like. This whole thing seems very questionable, if you ask me.”
“Nobody asked you, dear,” Mrs. Ingram said.
Charlotte lowered herself carefully into a chaise. In order to fit her into this lovely gown, they’d had to cinch her corset extra tightly. She couldn’t exactly breathe. In some ways, she might have preferred burlap.
Mr. Blackwood entered the room briskly. He looked uncomfortable, too, as if he’d prefer to be wearing his mask. This was the first time Charlotte had ever seen him without his mask, in fact. He had a nice face, she decided, lifting her glasses up to her eyes, almost like one of those classic Greek statues in the angles of his cheekbones and nose, with large dark eyes and neatly combed black hair.
He saw her and approached.
“Amy, is that correct?” He seemed flustered to call her by her first name, even this false one.
She nodded. “And you’re my dear cousin, Mr. Eshton. The new magistrate.”
“And I’m Louis,” reminded Bran.
Miss Ingram sniffed again.
“So when do you think we might go to Thornfield Hall?” Mr. Blackwood turned to ask Mrs. Ingram, the senior. “We’re most eager.”
Mr. Blackwood—Mr. Eshton, Charlotte tried to rename him in her mind—looked a bit pale. The idea of bamboozling Mr. Rochester still didn’t sit well with him. For someone who lived his life so shrouded in secrecy, he seemed surprisingly unaccustomed to deceit.
Miss Ingram stood up. “Tell me exactly what your business is at Thornfield. Does this have to do with Mr. Rochester?”
Bran turned to Miss Ingram with a sympathetic expression. “You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”
Mr. Blackwood and Charlotte exchanged looks of alarm. What was Bran up to?
“Yes,” Miss Ingram said stiffly. “One could say that.”