“Misses Brontë.” He gave them a half bow before greeting their brother with a growl. “Branwell.”

“Mr. Barraclough.” Branwell hastily tipped his hat and hurried down the hall.

Emily could not help noticing that Mr. Barraclough’s gaze followed her brother until he was out of sight, his eyes narrowing just enough to give her pause. Her brother had offended and enraged many local people in recent months, but what on earth could he have done to the clockmaker? Whatever it was, one got the sense that Mr. Barraclough was not a man to be trifled with, especially not when the motto he added to all of his clocks was so sinister: “Remember to Die.”

“Is there to be a new clock for Ponden Hall?” Charlotte asked brightly.

“I am engaged with some business here,” Mr. Barraclough replied, not exactly answering the question. “I trust your longcase is running well?”

“To perfection.” Charlotte smiled. “Papa winds it every evening, and it is always perfectly on time.”

“Good. Good day.” Mr. Barraclough nodded. “I will see you soon.”

“Odd fellow,” Charlotte said, once the door to Ponden Hall was closed firmly behind him. “Such a skilled craftsman but so very . . . unprepossessing.”

“I find him rather frightening,” Anne said. “His voice creaks like an open coffin.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Emily said. “I’m having that.”

—

“Shall I call for tea?” Robert asked, eagerly greeting them in the hallway that wound down towards the great hall, as it was known and had once been, but which these days was a large sitting room with a huge inglenook fireplace, tall enough for a man to stand in.

“I do believe tea would be most welcome,” Emily said, peeling off her gloves. “How is Moss? Is she delivered of her pups yet?”

“Not yet, but soon, I think,” Robert said, ignoring all his other guests as he directed Emily to the great dark oak dresser that had stood against the far wall of the room for as long as anyone remembered. “See how she has made a nest under here? I think that is where her brood will be born any day now.”

At once Emily plopped down onto the stone flags, sand and straw, her skirts billowing out around her as she let the mongrel hound sniff her hand, and gently stroked the ears of the expectant mother, who snoozled her in return. There was a considerable chance that the papa to the new arrivals was her very own Keeper, who had got out two months since, and had returned two days later after Robert had found him in the barn with Moss. As such, she felt a familial responsibility for their welfare.