“It is the English who are a curse to Ireland—what Christian nation would let people starve in their own homes?” she said, igniting a collective gasp from the would-be attackers, who were fed what little they knew about the Irish famine by the screaming headlines of the gutter press. “In any event, this young man was not even on these shores when the Top Withens child was murdered. He cannot be guilty of these crimes.”

“They all huddle together as one, don’t they?” another voice called. This time Emily could not discern its owner. “Breeding and keeping one another’s secrets, like rats in a nest.”

One moment passed, and in that single beat of silence, all gathered there saw the lightning ignite in Emily’s eyes, and each of them cowered.

“Your own parson, your own curate are both Irish.” Emily did not shout. She did not roar with all the burning fury and injustice she felt within her chest. And yet her voice rang out so firmly and so clearly that all there shrank back even further. “My papa, who serves you tirelessly, day and night, though he can barely see his hand ahead of his face, who has never wavered, even at the death of his daughters, my sisters, or our dearest mama—he has always been your faithful protector. My papa, who has taught you by his example kindness, justice and decency. My papa, a near helpless old man whom you pin into a corner as though he is a fox and you a pack of hounds. And Branwell who . . .” Emily looked down at her brother. “Well, let he that is without sin cast the first stone. Shame on you. Shame on you for treating those who are not able to stay in their homes, if they want to survive, like animals. Shame on you for pouring scorn on those who are not able to stay in their country and find shelter or safety for their children. Shame on you all. You think yourselves good Christian people, and yet it would have been you who turned Mary and Joseph away from the inn. It would have been you who told Herod where to find the Christ child!” She balled her fists on her hips and advanced towards the now subdued crowd. “You presume a man a killer because he is an Irishman? Or you presume him to know and harbour a killer for the same reason? You, who are all sinners, every one of you. We know who killed the Top Withens child, and now we have proof. You will depart to your houses or else keep looking for Joseph and caring for his family, and we, the Irish Brontës, will resolve the matter this very night.”

There was a moment’s hesitation—a moment, no more—and then one by one all who had gathered peeled slowly away, at which moment Keeper found his voice and began barking most ferociously.