Charlotte’s sisters had told her she looked so depleted, and so frail, as they met in the shadowy hallway before dawn that morning, that Emily insisted Branwell accompany her to Bradford rather than go with them to Top Withens Hall.

“I am perfectly capable of going alone,” Charlotte insisted firmly. “I have lived my life as an independent woman of independent will. My physical appearance is not the sum of all my parts.”

“Of course it is not,” Emily said. “But you are very short and small. I fear you might be carried away by rogues or highwaymen. A particularly sturdy one could tuck you under his arm or pop you in his pocket, and none would be the wiser.”

Charlotte did not seem unduly concerned by such a prospect. “I am travelling to civilisation, to the home of a friend, in the company of people,” Charlotte replied.

“And that is why you should take Branwell,” Emily insisted. “People are terrible. At least Branwell is the devil you know, as is Clifton Bradshaw. We will have Liston at our side, and Bradshaw is no match for our Anne since she became opinionated. So it is settled. You will take Branwell.”

“Very well,” Charlotte sighed. “But you can be the ones to drag him out of bed.”

—

Branwell had not ceased complaining about his eviction from the warm haven of sleep since they had departed, so when at last they had made their frozen way to Celia Prescott’s doorstep, Charlotte was exceedingly relieved.

“Why, Hattie, good day to you.” Charlotte smiled warmly at Celia’s housekeeper, who returned her greeting with a stone-cold and highly suspicious glare.

“And I thought it was cold on the coach,” Branwell muttered. “Did Mary Shelley write this character?”

“You might remember me,” Charlotte ventured. “I visited with my sisters last summer? Mrs. Prescott and I remain correspondents? Perhaps she speaks of me from time to time.”

Hattie’s demeanour didn’t alter one notch.

“Dear lady,” Branwell said, stepping forward, “please, would you be good enough to invite us inside before we are frozen to death?”

At that, Hattie stepped aside, watching Branwell closely as he entered, quite possibly surmising, Charlotte thought by the foul look on her face, that if it came to it, she could best Branwell in a fight.

“Be patient and let me talk,” Charlotte murmured to her brother before turning to Hattie. “Mrs. Prescott might not be expecting us, I’m afraid,” Charlotte told Hattie. “I did write yesterday, but perhaps the weather delayed the post? If she is at home, I would be very grateful if we might speak with her.”

Hattie thought for a moment and then shrugged. “Missus!” Hattie yelled into the house, her eyes still fixed on Branwell and Charlotte. “That small lady from Haworth is here to see you, and she has a sort of man with her.”