Alexander
“She’s gone.” Alexander stared at Branwell, who’d just burst into his room in the dead of night.
“That’s what I said, sir. Miss Eyre has left the building.” He cocked his head. “Sir, do you sleep in your mask?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Alexander slumped back to the foot of his bed, still trying to wake up, and still trying to comprehend those words: she’s gone. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “Why would she leave?”
“To fulfill her life’s dream of becoming a governess?” Branwell cocked his head the other way, as though trying to remember if he’d said that already. (He had, but poor Branwell wasn’t used to Alexander having a hard time keeping up, so he had to question everything now.)
Alexander nodded slowly. “Do you know where Miss Eyre has gone?”
Branwell sagged a little. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwood, I forgot to ask.”
“But we must go after her.” Alexander rubbed his temples.
“I suppose I could go back to Lowood. . . .”
“Wait.” Alexander shook off the last of his sleepiness. “Why were you at an all-girls school?”
Branwell startled. “Um.”
This was terribly improper. If anyone found out that a member of the Society had been so inappropriate as to sneak into a girls’ charity school in the middle of the night, the crown would never even consider reinstating their funding. The association alone was enough to not only destroy Alexander’s career, but Wellington’s as well, if it ever got out that Branwell was in fact Wellington’s nephew. (Alexander still couldn’t quite believe this fact.)
Branwell’s face had turned bright red. “Sir, I—”
“Say no more!” Alexander grabbed his luggage out from under the bed and opened the lid. “Return to your room. As soon as it’s dawn”—which wasn’t far off—“I’ll go to the school and request Miss Eyre’s forwarding address. You’re to remain here and gather your things. As soon as I’ve interviewed every girl and ghost in Lowood and know where Miss Eyre has gone, we’ll go after her.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Blackwood. I thought—”
“Not now, Mr. Branwell. Return to your room and get some rest. I’ll fetch you when it’s time.” How would he explain Branwell’s behavior to Wellington? It was bad enough to tell the duke that Branwell was a mediocre agent with no potential for advancement, but to tell the duke that his nephew might have caused a scandal?
But oh, what fire his return would add to the girls’ theories of romance. He shuddered, remembering his previous visits.
Was it worth it to discover the whereabouts of Jane Eyre?
Probably.
Maybe.
Branwell slouched toward the door, pulled it open, and stopped short. “Oh. Charlie. Hello?”
And now someone named Charlie was here?
This was why Alexander preferred to work alone.
He dropped his clothes back into his suitcase and looked up to find Branwell throwing his arms around a young woman in the corridor.
And worse, she returned the embrace.
Beneath his mask, his face flushed. A young lady was hugging his apprentice. Of all people. Such a blatant display of affection! At this hour! In the hallway!! (In pre-Victorian times, and also Victorian times, and for quite some time later, even hugging was considered Too Much. And yes, Hallway Hugging definitely deserved two exclamation points.)
Even when they finished hugging, the two stepped back to hold hands. That’s when Alexander saw that the young woman was Charlotte Brontë, from Lowood.
“Why did you come here?” Branwell asked, grinning at her.
“And how long have you been standing outside the door?” Alexander crossed his arms, rather wishing he’d slept in his shirt and trousers, too. His long nightshirt felt awfully revealing at the moment.
“A short while.” She broke away from Branwell and lifted her glasses back to her face to peer down at her notebook. “Just long enough to overhear you’re going to interview every girl and ghost in Lowood school in order to find out where Jane Eyre has gone. And here I am, ready to be interviewed.”
Alexander frowned, first at Miss Brontë, then at Branwell. “You two know each other?”
“Of course!” Branwell grinned. “I’ve known Charlie—”
“Don’t call me Charlie.”
“—my whole life!”
Wellington was going to kill Alexander for this.
“Charlotte is my sister, Mr. Blackwood.”
Alexander’s mouth dropped open. “But how?”
“Well, sir, when two consenting adults—”
“Stop!” Alexander could see the resemblance now, though. They were both small of stature but big in excitement. They had similar noses and skin tones, and wide eyes that tried to take in everything. “What I meant was, Mr. Branwell—”
Miss Brontë burst with laughter. “Mr. Branwell? Really?”
“Isn’t that your last name?” Alexander glared at Branwell. “Everyone calls you Branwell, and Branwell is a last name.”
“My name is Branwell Brontë, sir.”
Well, this was just embarrassing. First, that Branwell Brontë had a last name as a first name. Might as well call him Smith Smith. But even more, why had no one ever told Alexander? “Lord,” he muttered. “There are two of you.”
“Four, actually,” Branwell said. “You saw our sisters Emily and Annie at the school.”
“I’m so glad. Let’s try to get back on track.” Alexander shifted his glare to Miss Brontë. “Why are you here?”
“To help you, of course!” She smiled brightly. “You don’t have to go to the school again. I know it makes you uncomfortable.”
Oh, no.
“And I’ve realized,” she went on, “that if I’m to be your assistant, I must show initiative.”
Alexander scowled. “I already have an assistant.” Unfortunately.
“Right!” Miss Brontë pointed a finger at him, then turned to Branwell. “I’m going to be your assistant’s assistant.”
“I’d really rather you not.” His frown deepened, but Miss Brontë didn’t seem to notice.
“And when Jane is recruited and becomes a full agent, she’ll probably need an assistant, too, and I think she and I would make an excellent team.”
“We don’t even know where Miss Eyre has gone,” Alexander said.
“But, oh,” Miss Brontë said, “I do know.”
“Then tell me.”
“Let me come with you.” She stuffed her notebook and pen into her pocket. That was when he noticed the carpetbag resting at her feet. Packed for adventure, no doubt. “I’ll be an asset. You’ll see.”
“You’re definitely not coming with us,” Alexander said. “Not a chance.”
Reader, Miss Brontë definitely went with them.
Not that it had been easy for her. On their way downstairs and then out to the carriage, Alexander ran through the same few phrases several times:
“Go home, Miss Brontë.”
“I can’t afford any more delays, Miss Brontë.”
“Please stop talking, Miss Brontë.”
Nevertheless, she persisted.
She followed along as he and Branwell prepared to depart, and was about to step into the carriage when Alexander held out a hand to stop her. “Go home, Miss Brontë.”
“I don’t have a home, Mr. Blackwood,” she argued. “I mean, my place of residence is Lowood, but I’ve never considered it my true home. How could it be? It’s a place as lacking for any person with imagination as . . . well, as one can imagine. And I suppose I could consider my family’s house in Haworth as home. . . . It’s where I was born and where my father still lives. . . .”
Ah, yes. Now he could see how she and Branwell were related.
“I’m going to help you, whether you like it or not.”
“You can’t help me,” he sighed. “You’re just a girl.”
But she refused to step down from the carriage. “That makes no sense. My gender has nothing to do with my helpfulness in this situation.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “You’re only sixteen.”
“You’re eighteen,” she shot back. “And Bran is fifteen. What’s your point?”
Alexander turned sharply to Branwell. “You’re fifteen? You said you were seventeen when you were inducted.”
Branwell’s cheeks were red as his hair. “I may have exaggerated my age a bit.”
“Miss Brontë . . .” Alexander dragged his hand down the front of his face.
“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.”