by Cynthia Hand
Charlotte didn’t know the answer.
Mr. Blackwood returned with a silver tea tray loaded with a pot and the appropriate amount of cups, which he placed on the end table. Charlotte went to help him serve the tea, pouring and passing a cup to Bran, who took his without comment. They slurped quietly for several moments. Then Charlotte asked, “So what are we to do now?”
“We should go to Westminster and report our findings to the Society.”
“Of course,” Charlotte said. Nervous butterflies flapped about her stomach. The Society. At last. But now she felt that her opportunity to be a part of the Society had slipped away. “When shall we leave?”
Charlotte had never been to London before. She’d read the best descriptions from books, of course, but nothing had prepared her for the bustling grandeur of the city, especially of Westminster. She kept poking her head out of the carriage window, spectacles planted firmly in front of her nose to take in the smaller details—the flocks of birds that winged their way from space to space above them with a great clap of wings, the stone and marble majesty of the buildings, the miles upon miles of gleaming windows, the jostling people walking and talking and all manner of carriages rattling by on the cobblestone streets, the slightly putrid smell of the river, and the tinge of oily smoke that hung in the air. Her fingers itched to write—to document all of her impressions, but the carriage was much too bouncy. Their party (which still consisted of herself, Mr. Blackwood looking slightly cross, and Bran still looking downcast) had been quiet on the journey. Mr. Blackwood in particular seemed impatient to reach their destination.
Abruptly they came to a stop. Mr. Blackwood leapt down from the carriage and held out a hand to help Charlotte disembark.
“This way,” he said, and went briskly up the stairs. Bran followed close behind, while Charlotte hung back for a moment to gawk at the sheer magnificence of the building. In that moment she wished that she could be a painter like Jane, so that she could attempt to capture the way the light caught the stone. Words were good. But sometimes they were simply inadequate.
“Come along,” said Mr. Blackwood from the doorway.
Charlotte quickened her pace to catch up. She followed Bran and Mr. Blackwood to the main corridor of the House of Lords and then off to a far hallway, where a discrete set of stairs descended into the undercroft of what had once been the chapel. It was a bit musty down there, but still beautifully decorated, with arching ceilings and shining wooden floors.
“Why does the Society meet in the Parliament building?” Charlotte asked as they walked on.
“Because, once upon a time, before the rift with the king, so many non-seer members of the Society were also members of Parliament,” Mr. Blackwood replied with a shrug. “For the sake of convenience.”
At the end of the undercroft they reached a large oak door. Mr. Blackwood rapped upon it twice.
“What is your intention on this earth?” came a voice from the other side.
Charlotte thought that was a surprisingly personal question.
Mr. Blackwood gave a tight, embarrassed smile. “To investigate the great mysteries of the world and to serve the welfare of humankind, both living and departed,” he said quickly.
The door creaked open. A gigantic orange-haired man was standing on the other side. “Good day to you, Mr. Blackwood. Branwell.” His eyes flickered over to Charlotte. “Miss.”
“Stephen,” Mr. Blackwood acknowledged. “We’re here to see the duke.”
“He’s expecting you.” The man stepped back to allow them passage through the door.
They traversed another long hallway, went down another short set of stairs, and stopped outside yet another door. Mr. Blackwood didn’t knock this time. He threw open the door and strode inside, Bran and Charlotte trailing behind. The room turned out to be a library, lined wall to wall with bookshelves, each shelf sagging under the weight of heavy, official-looking books. Books! But Charlotte’s attention was then immediately caught by the large desk in the center of the room, at which sat a slender, impeccably dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair.
She knew him at once. Arthur Wellesley. Who had been, according to Charlotte’s father, almost single-handedly responsible for the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo. The world’s keenest military mind, some said. The world’s most corrupt politician, others said—especially if those others were of the Whig party, so of course they couldn’t be trusted in their opinions. The Iron Duke, some called him. The Duke of Wellington.
(She was a bit starstruck, truth be told. She’d never been up close to someone famous before.)
And then the duke rose to embrace Mr. Blackwood as warmly as if he were his son.
“Alex, my boy,” he said. “I am so pleased to see you. You’re later than I expected.”
“I was delayed,” replied Mr. Blackwood. “I have much to tell you.”
The duke turned to gaze at Charlotte. “But first . . . She’s quite small of stature, just as you said. But lovely. The spectacles are . . . a nice touch.”
Charlotte felt herself smiling and blushing. So Mr. Blackwood had written to Wellington about her. And favorably, it seemed. “Your Grace.” She attempted an awkward curtsy. “How do you do?”
“My dear.” The duke crossed to her and took her small hand between his large ones. He was smiling, too. “It is an honor to meet you at last. Alexander has told me of your many impressive abilities.”
Her abilities? Well, yes, she definitely had abilities. At the moment she couldn’t quite recall what they were, but she knew she possessed them. “Thank you, sir. It is an honor to meet you as well.”
“I am delighted that you have decided to join our austere organization.”
She glanced at Mr. Blackwood, then Bran, her spirits soaring. “So you wish me to be inducted into the Society,” she said eagerly. “I knew it.”
“Of course. It’s highly unorthodox for us to initiate a woman,” said the duke. “We hire female employees very rarely. We had a case with a female agent some years ago that did not end particularly well, but I am willing to credit that failure to the unsuitable constitution of that particular woman, rather than assign blame to the gender as a whole.”
The duke was quite a reasonable man, Charlotte concluded.
“So with that I would bid you welcome to the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits,” finished the duke. “We are so very glad to have you, Miss Eyre.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
“Your Grace . . .” she began, her stomach plummeting.
“There’s been a mistake, sir.” Mr. Blackwood stepped in. “This is not Miss Eyre.”
The duke frowned and backed away from her. “What? Not Miss Eyre? Well, then who the devil is it?”
“This is Charlotte Brontë,” Mr. Blackwood said stiffly, pronouncing the Brontë part of Charlotte’s name as though it had a strange significance. “She has proven herself vitally useful in my current assignment.”
“She is my sister, Your Grace,” Bran added helpfully.
Charlotte lifted her glasses. The duke was staring at her with an expression that Charlotte found completely unreadable. A mixture of annoyance and curiosity, perhaps?
“But what about Miss Eyre?” he asked. “Are you not still convinced that she is a Beacon?”
“Miss Eyre is definitely a Beacon.”
“Then why do you bring me Miss Brontë, instead? Is she a Beacon? Or a seer, at the very least?”
“No, sir.” Alexander cleared his throat lightly. “But as she is a relative of Mr. Bran—of Branwell Brontë’s, perhaps the trait is also in her blood. I do not believe that Miss Brontë has ever experienced death or resurrection, so it is impossible to know for sure.”
The duke gazed at Charlotte again, like it might be worthwhile to temporarily kill her, just to find out. She swallowed.
“Miss Brontë possesses a rare wit and a suitable disposition for the type of work that is done within the Society,” Mr. Blackwood added quickly
. “I would unreservedly recommend her for induction into our ranks.”
“Oh, you would?” The duke looked from Mr. Blackwood to Charlotte and sighed. “And what do you do, Miss Brontë?”
“Well, sir, I—” Write things had been what she had been about to say, but then she thought better of it. “I excel in matters of observation. And I could use these powers of observation to solve mysteries.”
“What mysteries?”
Well. She hadn’t actually solved any mysteries yet. She glanced at the floor. “I am also very good at making plans. Strategy. When Mr. Blackwood needed to make an entrance to Thornfield Hall, for instance, I—”
“I see.” The duke looked less than impressed. He kept staring at her glasses, which she’d had to hold to her face for the duration of this entire conversation in order to see what was going on. She supposed she did appear rather silly.
She lifted her chin. “Sir, I would consider it the greatest honor to be of use to the Society.”
“Of course you would,” he said. “It is the greatest honor, and not to be bestowed on a whim.” He turned abruptly back to Mr. Blackwood. “But what of Miss Eyre? If you still believe her to be a Beacon, why did you not return with her?”
“Miss Eyre is one of the most astute seers of the otherworldly persuasion that I have yet to come across,” Mr. Blackwood said. “And yes, I believe her to be a Beacon.”
“What’s a Beacon?” Bran piped up.
Poor Bran, thought Charlotte. Nobody tells him anything. “A Beacon is a special type of seer, dear, who attracts the ghosts and can even command them.”
“Command them?” Bran looked hurt that she would know such a thing, when he didn’t.
“Ghosts seem incapable of refusing a direct order from a Beacon,” said Alexander. “When a Beacon tells a ghost to do something, he must do it.”
“Oh, I see,” Bran said. “That would be very useful. So instead of having to chase a ghost about or ‘bop’ him—Miss Eyre could simply order the spirit to go into the talisman. And he would have no choice but to obey. I bet you wish that you were a Beacon, Mr. Blackwood. You’d be really good at it.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Blackwood’s eyes were not happy, Charlotte noticed. Because, she realized at once, Jane could be more efficient at the capture of ghosts than Mr. Blackwood would ever be. And she knew that he prided himself on being the very best agent in the Society.
And yet, he’d made Jane the offer of employment. He’d tried to bring her here. How very noble of him, Charlotte thought. To serve the interests of the Society above his own. And now he said gruffly, “I did my best to persuade Miss Eyre to become an agent, but she is simply uninterested in the position. She cannot be convinced.”
The duke seemed nonplussed by this information. “Everyone can be convinced, if you utilize the right incentive.”
“Not Jane.” Charlotte shook her head. “Her mind is made up. She wishes to stay at Thornfield.”
He scoffed. “What could possibly be at Thornfield Hall that is better than what we have to offer her here?”
“Yes, especially since we offered Miss Eyre a salary of five thousand pounds a year,” said Bran.
“What?” The duke swung about to look at Mr. Blackwood, whose face reddened.
“I thought we would recover the cost, once Miss Eyre helped us to restore the Society to its former glory,” he mumbled.
“I see,” said the duke. “And she still refused?”
Then the men were all looking at Charlotte, as if she represented all women and they expected her to know Jane’s reason exactly. And Charlotte did know the reason, but it was so indelicate to speak of such things. It was none of their business, really. It was Jane’s affair.
“Well,” she said slowly. “The food at Thornfield is very good, and plentiful. Jane is not accustomed to so much in the way of fine dining. Our fare was quite modest at school.”
“Five thousand pounds a year could provide Miss Eyre more delectable meals than she could possibly eat,” said the duke.
“She . . . um . . . has a fondness for the child she’s instructing.”
“The child she only met a few weeks ago? Tosh. If Miss Eyre were to serve in our employment, she’d be living a high life. Tasteful living quarters. Fine gowns. A greatly improved reputation.”
All things that Charlotte herself had pointed out to Jane, to no avail.
“Jane has no wish for a high life, sir,” Charlotte said. “And she has a negative impression of the Society, I’m afraid.”
The duke frowned. “Why?”
Mr. Blackwood stepped forward. “Perhaps it is my fault. The first time I encountered Miss Eyre, as you’ll recall from our discussion, I captured the ghost of Claire Doolittle in Miss Eyre’s presence. I—”
Charlotte gasped, quite forgetting herself. “You did? Whatever happened that night? I’ve been dying to know. How did you capture this ghost? Claire Doolittle, you say her name is? And where is she now?”
“Here.” Mr. Blackwood drew a wrapped handkerchief from his pocket. Upon unwrapping it was revealed to be a rather common-looking pocket watch.
“The pocket watch! Well, that’s one mystery solved!” Charlotte exclaimed, and because she could not help herself, she immediately pulled her notebook out of her pocket and started writing notes. When she looked up again they were all staring at her. “Er, Jane seems to doubt that the Society ‘relocates’ the spirits it captures in a manner that is entirely ethical.” Charlotte lifted her spectacles to gaze earnestly at the duke. “So what do you do with them? What will you do with this ghost in the pocket watch?”
The duke and Mr. Blackwood exchanged glances. Then the duke said, “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in showing you.”
He led them back through the darkened corridor to another set of stairs leading into a part of the undercroft that Charlotte hadn’t previously noticed, a small enclave filled with several ornately carved wooden shelves. On the shelves there was an assembly of various items: a fork, a comb, an accordion, a knight’s visor, a silk hair ribbon, each resting on a special cushion or placed in a series of long drawers, the way someone might display butterflies or pieces of art.
“Don’t touch anything,” Mr. Blackwood said to Bran in a low voice.
“Of course not, sir, I—” Bran couldn’t even finish his sentence, he was so ashamed. “Of course not, sir.”
The duke and Mr. Blackwood approached an empty set of shelves. Mr. Blackwood placed the pocket watch gently on a black velvet cushion. Charlotte’s arm began to tremble with the strain of holding up her blasted glasses, but she couldn’t lower them. She held her breath, keeping herself from blinking, because there was no way she was going to miss what happened next.
But for a moment, nothing happened.
And then for another moment, nothing happened.
And another moment. Nothing.
“So that’s it?” she asked. “You just keep it here?”
“We call this the Collection Room,” said the duke. “It is where we store all the artifacts we encounter.”
Charlotte felt a frown coming on. “So, you collect the ghosts and then hold them here indefinitely. That cannot be correct, can it?”
Mr. Blackwood shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not that simple.”
“So, you’re not ‘relocating’ them, per se. You’re ‘collecting’ them.”
“We’re doing a service to the people whom the ghosts are bothering.”
“But ghosts are people, too.” Charlotte’s frown had arrived in force now. “Perhaps Jane’s concern was warranted. It’s not right to imprison people, dead or alive.”
“There’s no other way,” Mr. Blackwood said, while at the same time, the duke replied, “There is another way.”
“What?” Mr. Blackwood looked confused.
“There’s a room I haven’t shown you,” the duke said. “Come.”
He led them only a short distance to yet another locked door. The duke took out a set of keys an
d unlocked it. Inside was a large chamber set with a series of candelabras and red velvet drapes. There was something that resembled an altar in the center of the room, and a strange, tingly feeling that immediately set Charlotte’s nerves jittering.
“This is what we used to call the Move-On Room,” said the duke. “Years ago, when the Society was at its peak, we would bring the collected ghost here, speak some words from the Book of the Dead, and compel said ghost to go over to the other world, the one beyond this one. Then the ghost was at peace. And our job was complete.”
“So why do you not bring them here now?” Charlotte wanted to know.
The duke was smiling again, which struck her as strange. “The ceremony requires a Beacon. Only a Beacon can read the book. Only a Beacon can help the wayward soul to move on.”
“A Beacon,” Mr. Blackwood murmured. “Why did I never know this?”
“There hasn’t been a Beacon in the Society since I took you under my wing,” Wellington explained. “So there was no need for you to know about it. But as there’s the possibility of obtaining a Beacon now—”
“What’s this about a book?” Charlotte asked. “What kind of book is a book of the dead? Is it Egyptian? Can I see this book?”
“You see now how important it is to procure Miss Eyre,” continued the duke to Mr. Blackwood as if Charlotte hadn’t spoken. “If she is indeed a Beacon, she could set all these poor, unfortunate souls free.”
Mr. Blackwood was nodding. “If we explained this to her, surely she’d see reason. She’s fond of ghosts. She’d want to help them. She’d come.”
“No, she still won’t leave Thornfield,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly.
“But . . .”
And here it was. She would have to tell them.
“Jane won’t leave Thornfield because—” Charlotte took a breath. “Because she’s in love.”
“In love?” Wellington, Bran, and Mr. Blackwood all said together.
“With whom?” Mr. Blackwood asked.
Charlotte bit her lip. “With Mr. Rochester.”
“Mr. Rochester?” Mr. Blackwood said incredulously. “But he’s . . .”
“Older. So much older. I know. But the heart wants what it wants.” She should not be discussing Jane’s relationship with Rochester. It was improper. Scandalous, even. But it was the reason why Jane would never leave Thornfield. They needed to know.
