by Cynthia Hand
So that meant the king might have given the ring to the Society, but wouldn’t he expect it back? How would that work, what with a ghost trapped in it?
And why hadn’t Wellington said it was only Mr. Mitten?
And why was Mr. Mitten behaving so badly (allegedly)?
And what was the deal with the slime?
“Well,” said Mr. Mitten. “Get on with it. I’m ready.”
“To go in here?” Alexander held the ring between his index finger and thumb.
Mr. Mitten nodded transparently.
“All right.” But Alexander hesitated, because this was all so strange and he’d really have liked answers, but the clock chimed six and he knew Wellington was surely waiting. Plus, the slime was gross. “Well,” Alexander said. “Hold still.”
Cautiously, he approached the ghost, half expecting some sort of fight. But Mr. Mitten held perfectly still while Alexander tapped the signet ring on his head.
Immediately, the ghost was sucked in. The gold trembled and glowed, and that was that. David Mitten was trapped in the ring, ready to deliver to Wellington.
“Good work, as always.” The duke placed the signet ring on his desk, then put the handkerchief he’d used while inspecting the ring back into his pocket. “You’ve done England a great service.”
It had hardly seemed like anything at all. Capturing Mr. Mitten had been easy. “You didn’t tell me it was Mr. Mitten, sir.”
Wellington gasped. “Mr. Mitten. Dead.” He shook his head, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I wasn’t aware of the ghost’s identity. If I’d known, I would have told you. Of course, I’m as sorry to hear about David Mitten’s demise as anyone. It’s a real tragedy what happened to him.”
“He said he slipped and fell.”
“It’s just awful, isn’t it? Life is so brief. It can end in an instant. You never know when your time is up, I suppose.”
“I suppose.” Alexander frowned. Members of the Society were dropping at an alarming rate. “What about the king?”
“What do you mean?”
“We can’t give the ring back to the king. Not with Mr. Mitten trapped inside it.
“You’re right, of course. It wouldn’t be safe. The king is aware of the issue, and he’s already commissioned a new ring. It should be ready by Thursday.”
“How nice that His Majesty could put aside his dislike of the Society to help us with Mr. Mitten,” Alexander said. Maybe the king did (sort of) believe in ghosts after all? Or, more likely, he didn’t want to cause a huge public fuss with the Society, figuring it would be on its way out shortly and this was as good an excuse as any to get a new ring.
Alexander would have to ask to know for sure, but he wasn’t the type of agent to question his superior. Asking nosy questions was Miss Brontë’s job. She wouldn’t have hesitated to ask why the king was suddenly so cooperative. Or why the signet ring was the talisman, or . . .
Wellington crossed his arms. “What is it?”
“It’s just . . . you seemed in such a rush to get the ghost.”
Wellington folded his hands together. “The family of the deceased—”
Mr. Mitten.
“—wanted to sell the house immediately. They couldn’t afford to wait.”
“But he worked for both the Society and the king. Surely he left them plenty of money. Why not wait until Thursday when the king’s new signet ring arrived?” Alexander slipped his hands behind his back and dug his fingernails into his palms.
“You’re very curious tonight, Alexander.”
“It was Mr. Mitten,” Alexander said. “It feels personal. We all cared about him.”
“Of course we did,” Wellington agreed.
(Never mind that Alexander—and most people—regularly forgot that David Mitten existed. He was practically invisible in life, already ghostlike. It seemed like it was only in death that anyone cared about him at all. A true tragedy.)
“So why not wait?” Blast Miss Brontë’s influence, her contagious questions.
“You’ve always been a solid agent,” Wellington said. “The star agent.”
Alexander sensed a but.
“But that’s because of your willingness to do your job without asking too many questions. We who can’t see ghosts can only put our minds to work. We rely on you to take action, to investigate and capture because we cannot. You’re so busy with the work you’ve been dealt. I wish you trusted that we all have thought of every possibility and that we make the best plans we can make. We are the mind, Alexander. You are the sword.”
“I see. I’m sorry if I caused you any upset, sir.”
Wellington waved him toward the door. “Get some rest. You’ve had an eventful month, and I’m sure you’d like some time alone after the constant company you’ve kept.”
“Thank you, sir.” Alexander headed out of the Society headquarters and walked toward his flat. Was this what it felt like to be reprimanded? The sensation was so unfamiliar he wasn’t quite sure if it was disappointment in himself, or confusion over Wellington’s words, or something else entirely.
But the duke was right. Maybe it would do him good to finally have some time to himself, some space to stretch his legs without worrying about the others, some freedom to walk around his home with his tie loosened, so to speak.
So he went home. Alone.
And he made tea. Alone.
And he sat in his parlor. Alone.
Just days ago, Miss Brontë had perched on that uncomfortable chair, and Branwell had sulked by the door. He hadn’t minded their company.
But now he was alone.
He liked being alone.
Tea for one.
His flat was just . . . so quiet. There were no ghosts around tonight. And there wasn’t even the sound of a pencil scratching on paper as Miss Brontë recorded everything that happened. Not that there was anything to record here, because nothing was happening.
“Hello?” He tested his voice to make sure it still had substance.
Not even an echo answered.
Yes, he was definitely alone. And, for the first time ever, maybe he was lonely, too. No one had ever been so lonely.
TWENTY-FIVE
Charlotte
Charlotte shifted the carpetbag with the broken handle to her other shoulder and sighed. A train pulled into the station, but it was not her train. Her train would not arrive for a good fifteen minutes yet. Charlotte generally liked to be early—to allow herself time to locate the places she was supposed to go, given her poor eyesight and her terrible sense of direction. But being early also meant being left with time to think. Normally she didn’t mind—thinking was what Charlotte considered herself best at, after all. This afternoon, however, the thoughts swirling about her brain were dreadfully glum. She was out of options: she had to return to Lowood. Where she would probably end up starving to death or succumbing to the Graveyard Disease, she thought. Or at the very least she’d be cold and hungry and utterly bored.
Conditions at Lowood had been markedly better since Mr. Brocklehurst was murdered, she reminded herself. But the thought didn’t cheer her as it should have. Brocklehurst’s name only called to mind a bittersweet memory: Mr. Blackwood chasing about the drawing room waving a teacup in the air, the very first day they’d met. And then the teacup made her think of Bran.
Sigh. Bran. For two weeks she’d watched her brother stumble about his room, packing his meager belongings to return to their father and the parsonage. He’d tried to act cheerful for her sake.
“I find I’ve been missing home,” he’d mused as he’d folded his nightclothes into a trunk. “I’ll be glad to sleep in my own bed again. This bed never truly felt like mine.
“So I’ve been sacked. It could be worse,” he’d murmured as they sat in the middle of the empty floor, drinking lukewarm, sugarless tea. But Bran didn’t elaborate on how it could be worse.
“I know I’m likely to be a terrible parson,” he’d sighed as he’d climbed onto his
northbound train just a few moments ago. “But I don’t need to be the parson right now, do I? Father’s the parson, and Father is a paragon of good health. I have years and years before I’m needed in Father’s place. So I can just keep up with my studies and maybe do a bit of drawing.” Bran liked to draw, almost as much as Charlotte liked to write. In that way he was much like Jane.
Jane. They had parted so poorly. Charlotte didn’t even know what to think about Jane’s situation. Jane was in love, and part of Charlotte was keenly envious and part of her was happy for her friend. To fall in love, even in less than convenient circumstances, must be a marvelous thing. But then Mr. Rochester was, some might say, a flawed man. That much was clear. And there was also the great possibility that Mr. Rochester was a murderer.
What would become of Jane?
Charlotte sighed again. The non-broken half of the handle of her carpetbag bit into her flesh. The train that was not hers was about to depart. The conductor leaned out and shouted, “All aboard for Canterbury! Last call for Canterbury!”
After a few moments, the train began to chug slowly forward. And then a voice cried, “Wait! Wait for me! Stop!” and Charlotte was nearly thrown to the ground as someone bashed into her from behind.
That did it for the carpetbag. The other handle snapped at her shoulder, and her clothes and books and bottles of ink and pencils spilled out everywhere. Charlotte said a rather unladylike word under her breath and scrambled to pick up her things. The man who had crashed into her watched helplessly as the train departed without him. Then he turned and stooped to help her.
“That’s quite all right,” she said a bit snappishly. “I can manage.”
“I’m so terribly sorry.” He held up a pair of her pantaloons, and then dropped them like they were on fire. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
There was something familiar about his voice. She lifted her spectacles. And then gasped.
“Mr. Mason!”
He cocked his head to one side and frowned at her. “Are we acquainted, Miss . . . ?”
“Brontë,” she filled in, then shook her head wildly. “You would know me as Miss Eshton, of course. But that wasn’t my real name. But that’s not important now, because you are Mr. Mason! But how? You were on a ship bound for the West Indies! But you weren’t on the ship!”
“No,” he agreed. “I was—”
“This is wonderful!” She pressed her hands to her face as if to keep her head from exploding. “We must tell Mr. Blackwood!”
“Mr. Blackwood?” Mr. Mason still looked very confused.
“Mr. Eshton, to you. Don’t you remember? Oh, Mr. Blackwood will be so pleased we haven’t lost you.” She grasped Mr. Mason firmly by the hand. “Come. We must go speak to him immediately.”
Mr. Mason opened his mouth as if to protest, but she shook her head again. “You have plenty of time. You just missed your train, and the next train to Canterbury doesn’t arrive until six o’clock. So you will accompany me to Mr. Blackwood’s.”
And so it was decided.
“What does . . . Mr. Eshton . . . wish to . . . speak to me . . . regarding?” Mr. Mason panted after Charlotte dragged him to the nearest carriage for hire, thrust him into it, and then ordered the driver to take them to Baker Street posthaste.
“Mr. Rochester, of course!”
Mr. Mason looked suddenly green. But it could have been the rocking of the carriage. They were proceeding at a rather breakneck speed toward Mr. Blackwood’s flat.
Charlotte, on the other hand, was smiling.
She was going to be useful, after all.
When they reached Baker Street, Charlotte took the stairs to Mr. Blackwood’s flat two at a time—an impressive feat considering the volume of her skirts. She couldn’t wait to see his expression when she presented Mr. Mason. The man was the key to Rochester’s mystery—she could feel it in her very bones.
It was getting late, nearly suppertime. Surely Mr. Blackwood would be home at this hour, she thought as she reached the top of the stairs, and then she barreled through the door without thinking to knock.
“Mr. Blackwood!” she cried. “Alexander!”
At her scream, he came running from a back room. “Charlotte—I mean, Miss Brontë! Are you all right? What’s wrong?” His gaze swept over her from head to foot, searching for injury. “What’s happened?”
“I found . . .” She shouldn’t have taken the stairs quite so quickly. In a corset. She bent at the waist and focused on breathing for several moments. Then she straightened. “I found Mr. . . .” She lifted her spectacles to her face so she could catch his expression when she told him.
“Oh dear,” she said. “You’re not dressed.”
He was wearing trousers, thank heavens. But she’d obviously interrupted him in the middle of shaving—there were still traces of shaving cream on his face. His hair was wet and gleaming, dripping onto his bare shoulders. His bare shoulders. Because he was not wearing a shirt. Which meant that, by pre-Victorian standards, anyway, he was more or less completely naked.
A blush glowed on his cheeks. “Miss Brontë.”
She could feel her own blush heating her face. “Oh dear.” She dropped the spectacles. “I should have knocked.”
At that very moment a knock sounded at the door. Mr. Blackwood swiveled to look at it. Charlotte was glad for the interruption.
“That would be Mr. Mason,” she said.
“Mr. Mason?” Mr. Blackwood looked incredulous.
She nodded. “I came across him at the train station.”
“But he was supposed to be on that ship headed for the West Indies,” Mr. Blackwood said, frowning as if, more than anything else, he couldn’t believe he’d been given faulty information.
“I know.”
“But why wasn’t he?”
“Because he . . .” She stopped. “Actually, I don’t know. We should ask him.”
She went to open the door. On the other side stood, predictably, Mr. Mason. He immediately looked from Charlotte to Mr. Blackwood in his unclothed state and gave a small, scandalized gasp. Because pre-Victorians.
“Oh, it’s quite all right. I can’t see a thing without my glasses,” Charlotte felt compelled to explain.
Mr. Blackwood cleared his throat. “Mr. Mason. I am surprised to see you.”
“And I, you,” Mr. Mason said. “Mr. Blackwood? I thought you were Mr. Eshton. A magistrate, correct?”
Oh, so he remembered Alexander, Charlotte observed a little bitterly. She’d obviously just been furniture dressing to the man.
“I’m an agent in the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits,” Mr. Blackwood clarified. “I was at Thornfield on assignment.”
“I see,” Mr. Mason said, but he clearly did not. “What kind of assignment?”
“Society business,” Mr. Blackwood said tightly. “But while we were at Thornfield, we came to believe that Mr. Rochester was . . .” Charlotte lifted her spectacles. His brow was furrowed. He was thinking about his poor father. Then she was reminded again that he wasn’t dressed and dropped the spectacles again. “Guilty of certain crimes,” he concluded.
Mr. Mason nodded. “I would believe almost anything of Mr. Rochester. After this recent encounter with him I think him to be nothing short of a nefarious villain.”
“That’s what we think!” Charlotte exclaimed. “The most nefarious!”
“But why do you think him so?” Mr. Blackwood asked. “What harm has he caused you?”
“Not to me, sir,” Mr. Mason said. “Outside of the harm of keeping me from someone I dearly love.”
Charlotte couldn’t help but lift her glasses to her face. “Someone you love?”
“My sister,” Mr. Mason said.
“Who’s your sister?” Mr. Blackwood demanded to know. He was practically quivering with the excitement of it all, every muscle in his back tensed like he was preparing to confront Mr. Rochester at this very moment.
“Mr. Blackwood!” Charlotte burst out. �
�Would you please put on a shirt!”
Mr. Blackwood’s face colored again. “Mr. Mason, Miss Brontë, please forgive my lack of appropriate dress. Won’t you be seated in the parlor until I can rectify the situation?”
“Of course,” Mr. Mason said.
“Thank heavens!” Charlotte agreed.
Mr. Blackwood nodded briskly. “Please make yourselves comfortable,” he directed, and hurried out of the room. Charlotte led Mr. Mason to the two less-than-comfortable chairs in the corner. They sat. Mr. Mason crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. He glanced around at the walls, but there were no paintings to examine, no decorations. He glanced at Charlotte and then looked away. Then he spotted a newspaper on the small table next to him. Relieved to have found something to occupy himself, he snatched it up and began to read.
They waited. Mr. Blackwood did not appear. A clock on the opposing wall ticked oppressively, counting the seconds of his absence. Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. (These chairs were, truly, the most uncomfortable chairs in all of England. We checked.) If Mr. Mason was a gentleman, she thought, he should offer her a part of the newspaper. Still, it would not be proper to suggest such a thing. She could get up and make them a cup of tea. Tea would be very calming. But to make the tea herself would have to assume some scandalous level of familiarity with Mr. Blackwood’s kitchen. As usual, Charlotte found herself hopelessly penned in by etiquette.
“Would you like to read?” Mr. Mason offered a section of the paper. She almost sighed in relief. He was a gentleman, after all.
But what he handed her was the weddings and obituaries page. It was, to say the least, not the most enthralling reading.
She sighed and lifted her spectacles.
Mr. and Mrs. Charles Durst, Esquire, are pleased to announce the engagement of their daughter, Miss Cecilia Cecily Durst, to the esteemed Earl of Lancaster, Jonathan Fraser Northrop, the wedding to take place at their country estate on the fifteenth of September, 1834.
Charlotte’s nose wrinkled. She amused herself for the next several minutes rewording the wedding announcements to liven up the stories they told.
