“My name is Miss Charlotte Brontë—” But Charlotte was cut off before she could introduce Branwell.

“Miss Charlotte Brontë, she says!” Hattie yelled at the top of her voice.

“And my brother, Mr. Branwell Brontë.” Charlotte couldn’t help but finish her introduction, even though she knew what was coming next.

“And this other feller is her brother!” Hattie shouted.

There followed a short and intensely awkward silence as Hattie remained exactly where she was, staring at Branwell and Charlotte in turn as they waited for a response from within the house. Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief as an inner door was opened at last.

“Charlotte! My dear, I’m so delighted to see you,” Celia said as she emerged from the parlour. “I was just resting my eyes, as my dear husband would say, though in truth I was sleeping deeply, for Hattie and I were out quite late, offering aid and comfort to Bradford’s ladies of the night. Please forgive me. I must look a sight.”

“You look quite lovely, Celia,” Charlotte said, for save a stray curl here and there, it was the truth. Mrs. Prescott looked very well, her complexion good, her cheeks rosy and her dark eyes bright and alive. Branwell was almost certain to fall in love with her at once.

When Charlotte and her two sisters had first visited her last year, they could hardly have known just how closely Celia Prescott and her husband were involved with the dreadful circumstances at Chester Grange, but it was largely thanks to Celia’s medical expertise and forthright honesty that they had been able to resolve the matter. Charlotte felt confident that this would be the case again, and she was glad to call Celia a detector by association.

“My dear Celia”—Charlotte took her friend’s hands—“please forgive the intrusion and allow me to introduce you to my brother, Mr. Branwell Brontë. I did write to notify you of our visit, and I should have waited for you to confirm, but the matter in hand, though committed many years since, feels quite pressing.”

“Mr. Brontë,” Celia said, smiling at Branwell, who bowed, “Charlotte always writes so warmly of you.”

“Does she indeed?” Branwell sounded genuinely surprised. “Then I can only commend my sister for her determination to see the best in people.”

“Please, come through to the parlour.” Celia gestured for them to follow her. “Hattie, please bring tea, dear. And if you can refrain from bawling the names of our guests like a street-corner fishwife, then I shall consider myself most lucky.”

“Last time you was vexed because I didn’t call you when there were visitors,” Hattie said. “You should settle on an opinion and stick to it, madam.”

“You are quite right,” Celia said. “Tell me when we have visitors, but at a volume that cannot be heard three streets away. Perhaps if you came to where I am to relay the information?”