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Chapters (63)
  1. Cover
  2. BRONTË SISTERS MYSTERIES
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. Haworth Parsonage, April 1852
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. "Music on Christmas Morning"
  60. Author’s Note
  61. Acknowledgements
  62. About the Author
  63. What’s next onyour reading list?

“Well, luckily for Anne and me, she doesn’t want to talk to us—after all, we had nothing to do with bringing the bones down from Top Withens, so as the inconsequential personages that we are, we are free to go and visit with the Barracloughs without her.” Emily gave Charlotte one last look up and down as she repinned her hair and straightened her collar. “As for you, Charlotte Brontë, you’d better put your stockings on.”

25

Charlotte

Charlotte took a moment to compose herself before she opened the dining room door to find Lady Hartley seated at the table wearing a rather magnificent berry red cloak and hat. Feeling the blood in her veins wash cold with panic, Charlotte closed the door again and hurried back to the kitchen.

“Martha, please go and take Lady Hartley’s cloak and tell her I will be in directly,” Charlotte told the girl sharply as she began to repin her hair for the third time, trying hard not to notice her frayed cuffs.

“But . . .” Martha looked perplexed. “But you were just in there. You just went in, miss, and then came out again.”

“No, I did not,” Charlotte insisted, so overwhelmed with fluster that it seemed the only solution to her discomfort was to wind back the last few moments as if they had never happened at all. “I peeped in, and can you imagine my horror when I saw that no one had properly attended to Lady Hartley? Do you expect me, the mistress of this house, to do your work for you, Martha?”

“No, miss,” Martha said, her bottom lip quivering.

Charlotte knew she was being waspish and unfair to the poor girl, yet she went on, finding herself unable to turn back from the path she had set out on. And the fault was not Martha’s but her own heightened sense of inadequacy when confronted with a person of such quality.

“This is a respectable house,” she went on, “not the sort of house where we leave titled ladies sitting in damp cloaks, Martha. Now, go and do your duty, please, and try your best not to shame me any further.”

Martha sighed with the very particular melancholy that only a girl of her age possessed, and slumped off to do as she was told, even though it seemed she might have been on the verge of breaking into heartfelt sobs at any moment. Charlotte felt terrible.

“You’ve no need to be nervous of a fine lady simply because she is fine,” Tabby told her from the sink without turning around.