“We do not,” Charlotte conceded, wondering for a moment how much she might tell Lady Hartley. Everything about her was drawn to the other woman. From her neat and gentle manner to her clear green eyes and corn gold hair, she had an air of decency about her that was rather comforting, like a lantern in the dark. It would feel like a burden lifted to confide her thoughts to such a woman. “The skeleton was small in stature, and we thought it a child of about ten, but it seems it was more likely to be between twelve and fourteen.”

“Oh, my dear,” said Lady Hartley, reaching for Charlotte’s hand, tears brimming in her soft green eyes once more. “Oh dear, I am so distressed to hear that. If you know anything of my work, Miss Brontë, then you will know that my husband and I invest a great deal of our charitable efforts in improving the lives of impoverished children. Leonard and I were not blessed with children ourselves, and so we have made it our mission to try to provide safe haven, education and comfort for as many children in need as we are able, setting up our own establishments and funding those that already exist. Do you know how the child died?”

“No,” Charlotte admitted. “There are no signs of violence on the bones, but we are able to determine that the child was sickly and malnourished.”

“Poor dear.” Lady Hartley bent her head in sorrow. “Poor, dear soul.” Her hand tightened on Charlotte’s as she drifted into silence.

“It is indeed very troubling,” Charlotte said. “All of us at the parsonage have not been quite the same since the bones were found. It is as if a great sadness and . . . well, a kind of darkness were released along with the bones.”

“Yes, that makes perfect sense,” Lady Hartley said. “You do have a wonderful way with words, Miss Brontë. I suppose that the poor child may have lain there decades. There are houses round these parts that are hundreds of years old, and past times were so barbaric and cruel.”

“They were,” Charlotte said hesitantly. “However, it seems that it was probably as little as thirteen years ago that the child was placed there.”

“Thirteen years only?” Lady Hartley’s hand rose to her chest. “How can you be sure?”

Charlotte knew that she should temporise, that she should say something vague and uncertain so as not to shock the lady or draw her further in, but she seemed so very moved by the plight of the lost child, and she was looking at Charlotte with such an open and benevolent expression, that Charlotte found she wanted to impress her very much.