This detection had cost her a great deal of her spirit. At Chester Grange there had been a terrible sickness: an infestation of unhappiness and discontent that had inhabited the hallways and stalked the bedrooms, born out of betrayal and loss from generations before. If Charlotte had learnt anything from that particular adventure, it was that all we do, every action we take, every word we speak, has a consequence, perhaps not that very day, but one day, and it might be far beyond what one could ever imagine.

When it came to the monster, she could discover no human reason for its cruelty, at least not one she understood. The vast chasm of howling fury that must occupy that fiend terrified her beyond measure. It weakened her to know that such pure evil could be all too real. To her shame Charlotte discovered she did not have the strength to face such a creature. So she had let her dear family, Mr. Nicholls, and those from the village who had joined them in the cart take that stand without her.

Bowing her head as the carriage rattled up the driveway to the grand entrance of Oakhope Hall, Charlotte examined her conscience and found herself wanting. All her life she had battled to do what she believed was right, to make a path and place in the world that was better and more promising than any expected of her. Each day she did her best to be good and decent. Yet now, facing the greatest test of her faith she had ever encountered, she had retreated as fast as she could to the safety of a well-appointed parlour and a roaring fireside.

If Emily and Anne brought Joseph home safe and well and caged the monster successfully, then in time Charlotte would find a way to reconcile herself with such bitter disappointment. But if they did not, then she would never be able to forgive her own failings.

“Miss?”

A gust of freezing air billowed inward as the coachman opened the door and offered her his hand as she stepped down. Oakhope Hall was ablaze with light. Lamps shone in seemingly every one of the dozens of windows, and even the pillared portico boasted a pair of burning torches that stood as tall as she did.

“Miss Brontë?” A maid seemed to be waiting for her by the door and took her cloak and bonnet at once, eyes lowered all the while as if she expected to be admonished at any moment.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said warmly, afraid she must seem terribly aloof and unpleasant.

“My mistress is waiting for you in the red room, miss,” the girl said. “Please follow me.”