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.”
“Right.”
“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.”
“Can you keep a secret?” Bran asked.
Charlotte reached for her brother’s arm. “Bran—er, Louis,” she hissed near his ear.
He shook her off gently. “Well, can you?” he prompted Miss Ingram.
Her dark eyes flared with curiosity. “Of course.”
He bent his head closer to hers. “You’re not to tell anyone,” he murmured conspiratorially near her ear.
“I . . . I promise,” she agreed. She seemed almost frightened. “Is there something wrong with Mr. Rochester?”
“Can I have a word with you?” Mr. Blackwood said tightly.
Bran, incredibly, ignored him.
“No, nothing like that,” he said to Miss Ingram. “Nothing wrong with Mr. Rochester himself, that is. He has a ghost, is all.”
“A ghost?” She frowned. “You mean to say that there’s a ghost in Thornfield Hall?”
“That’s exactly what I mean to say,” Bran confirmed. “And Mr. Rochester is actually fond of this ghost, as it turns out, but it’s a disruptive ghost. A malevolent ghost, in fact.”
“That would explain a lot,” Miss Ingram mused. “Who is the ghost, did you say?”
“Uh . . .”
Bran had no idea. Charlotte looked to Mr. Blackwood. He had no idea. Charlotte lifted her chin.
“It’s the ghost of his brother,” she said. She’d heard, in her rumor-gathering session in the village, that Mr. Rochester had been at odds with his brother at the time of his death. Something about an unfortunate incident in the West Indies many years ago.
Miss Ingram’s large eyes were round as saucers. “Of course. His brother.”
“We’ve been sent to remove this apparition from Thornfield,” Mr. Blackwood filled in smoothly. “But we mustn’t let Rochester know that’s what we’re doing. And we mustn’t alert the ghost to our presence, either, because the more upset a ghost becomes, the more difficult it is to remove it.”
“I understand.” Miss Ingram shook her head. “You should have told me that from the start. I wouldn’t have made such a fuss. I’ll send word that I want to visit him as soon as possible.”
“Perfect,” Mr. Blackwood said. “Thank you.”
After Miss Ingram was gone, Bran sighed. “She smelled really good, didn’t she?”
Charlotte kicked him in the shin.
“Ow. She did, though.”
“You have no business smelling Miss Ingram.” She turned to Mr. Blackwood. “So it’s all turning out well, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he admitted grudgingly. “It seems to be.”
Charlotte thought about Jane, so close by, unaware of this great surprise that was about to befall her. She wondered what Jane was doing now, and if she was content in her place as the governess. Charlotte hoped for her own sake that Jane was not content. Charlotte had a great deal riding on the idea that she’d be able to waltz into Thornfield Hall, take Jane aside, and convince her friend to become an agent in the Society.
She’d been working on what she was going to say, but she wondered if it would be enough. If Jane turned them away again, then Charlotte knew that her own ambitions to become an agent—or if not an agent, exactly, an assistant or employee of some sort—would most likely fail.
That night she got on her knees beside her bed and sent up an earnest prayer.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered. “I’ve been thinking. Please, if it’s not too much to ask, could you cause something to happen to Jane at Thornfield—nothing too serious, mind you, but something, please, to cause her to rethink her position there.” She stopped. She’d never wished ill on anyone before. But this was serious. Both Jane’s and Charlotte’s futures were hanging in the balance. “Please,” she said again. “Could you send Jane just a bit of trouble?”