“Of course not, not when curates are all so utterly hopeless,” Emily muttered, catching the eye of Anne, who repressed a small smile in return. Despite the sadness of their mission, there had been a kind of camaraderie between the four of them today that was almost as it had once been when they were children: all of them together, even Liston, as they made their way home with his stout pony at their sides. They had been a band of confederates and adventurers: it had given them purpose and solidarity anew.

“What I should very much like to see you do, Emily Jane, is lend your musical talent to the great lord and lady who requested your presence at their charitable musical evening at Oakhope.”

“How did you . . .” Emily began.

“I am rather well acquainted with Lady Hartley,” Mr. Nicholls said somewhat smugly. “It has been my great pleasure to assist her in distributing her charitable beneficence when she is in the county. Today I received a letter from her informing me of the invitation. You must be incredibly flattered, Miss Brontë. Not least because Lady Hartley has never met you.”

“That may well be a deciding factor in why the request was issued in the first place,” Charlotte muttered. “In any case, you agree, Papa? Emily must say yes, must she not? It would reflect very poorly upon our family name if she refused, would it not?”

“I am inclined to agree, Charlotte,” Papa said. “However, Emily is her own person, and the decision must be hers alone. I have always treated you each as agents of your own destiny. This matter is no different.”

Charlotte audibly harrumphed as the table fell into silence once more, a moment of quiet that Emily found most soothing. It had been such a day that she could no more think of regal ladies’ recitals than she could of writing of the strange events—at least not yet.

For now they were tasked with discovering who had concealed the death of the lost child behind the chimney breast in a room that was supposed to have been locked these past thirteen years.

In any event there was no way that Mr. Arthur Bell Nicholls, with his heavy brows sheltering earnest eyes and his straight, sensible nose would have seen the mystery in the bones. Emily was sure that he was a man who lacked even the smallest morsel of imagination. If his face was a true reflection of his mind, then he surely must have been the very dullest creature on this earth. God forbid that Charlotte should ever think of reciprocating the fellow’s adoration for her, for if she did marry the man, Charlotte would surely be dead of boredom within the year, though Emily supposed her sister would get access to Lady Hartley’s drawing room.