“I see,” Charlotte said. Though she longed for the respite of the fire, she stood her ground, determined that Clifton Bradshaw would hear her. Such a brutal man fascinated and repelled her in equal measure. His coarseness horrified and disgusted Charlotte, and yet in some slight way, she rather admired him too. Here was a man who let convention be damned.

“I’ll not take orders from any on my own land, not even the parson’s offspring,” Clifton told them before they could speak. “The bones are my property, and I shall bury them here at Top Withens as soon as the ground has thawed enough to dig. You may not take them, but you may see them if you wish. Then you can see they are being treated decent and tell the village folk to cease mithering on about what is none of their concern.”

“Sir,” Charlotte said, “every soul deserves a Christian burial, and surely—”

“Will you see the bones or not?” Bradshaw cut across her, unmoved. “Those apartments have been shut up these last thirteen years, and I have no care to venture there again until I must. But Liston will take you.”

“We will,” Branwell said. “Yes, we would like to see the bones.”

Charlotte glanced up at her brother, but he shook his head imperceptibly, warning her to remain silent, to be patient and wait. Knowing that on this occasion Branwell was right, Charlotte complied, though it was very hard to do so.

Clifton went to the foot of the central staircase and hollered up it. “Liston, get down here—people want to see the bones!”

Instantly the timbers above their heads creaked, and the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard as Liston Bradshaw half walked, half tumbled down the stairs to answer his father’s call, still wrapped in the blanket in which he had presumably been sleeping, his long, dark hair a wild and tangled mess, his cheeks ruddy from slumber. The moment he saw the ladies in his home, however, he stopped midstair, hastily tucking in his loose shirt, and combing his wild mane back from his face.

“Misses Brontë,” he said, two bright spots of pink appearing on his cheeks as he took in the sight of polite company. “And, Branwell, old friend, forgive me—I did not expect visitors on such an afternoon as this!”

“They’ve come to see the bones, not you, you fool,” Bradshaw growled at his son. “They cannot leave well enough alone down there—always sticking their noses in where they are not wanted, nor needed.”

Liston seemed to make a determined effort to ignore his father, clapping Branwell on the upper arm. Branwell returned the gesture before they shook each other’s hand enthusiastically, like two young stags playing at being fully grown, while Molly watched on like a wide-eyed doe.