“You take them up there,” Bradshaw instructed his son. “I’m occupied with”—he gestured at a pile of ledgers on the table—“business.”

Charlotte noted the shift in his demeanour with interest. Suddenly there was a shadow of something else that haunted his expression—a wariness, perhaps even guilt. Was it possible that Bradshaw had some scrap of conscience that they would be able to appeal to?

Liston’s pleasure and surprise at seeing Branwell and his sisters fled the moment his father mentioned taking them to see the bones, and a great mantle of visible misery settled over him at once.

“Branwell,” he said in quiet appeal, “this is no sight for ladies.”

“Nor is it a sight any of us seeks, friend,” Branwell murmured just loud enough for Charlotte to hear. “We have come to offer refuge to the lost and may need your help.”

Liston’s dark eyes went from Branwell to Charlotte, who nodded once.

“You shall have it,” he whispered. “For in truth I cannot stand to know that the poor soul lies up there all alone a moment longer.”

“Sisters?” Charlotte called Anne and Emily, who had gathered near the fire. “The matter is at hand.”

6

Anne

Anne felt no small amount of apprehension as she followed the rest of the party, led by Liston Bradshaw, into the oldest and, until recently, locked-away part of Top Withens Hall.

It was the dense and sorrowful atmosphere that weighed the heaviest on her slender shoulders, for there were ghosts in every corner—not the spectral sort that Mr. Dickens liked to write about, but rather the remnants of memories that told of a distant, happier life. A group portrait of Clifton, his wife, and Liston, even from beneath the veil of cobwebs and dust shrouding it, showed a close family full of pride in and warmth for one another. On a windowsill a vase was placed, surrounded by scattered desiccated petals; a shawl was draped over the end of the bannister as if it had been left there only a few moments before, its owner expecting to return to gather it up at any moment.

It seemed to Anne that the moment Mary had died thirteen years ago, Clifton Bradshaw had locked away every trace of the cordial family life that had lived there and buried it along with his wife. How sad it was, Anne thought, especially for Liston, who would have been aged only twelve when his mother passed away, on the brink of manhood, but still young enough to need his mama. Anne barely remembered her own mother, but at least their papa never sought to erase her memory, or how much they had all loved her and longed for her. In this way, at least, Maria Brontë was present every single day.