The floorboards creaked mournfully as the group followed Ned’s directions along several corridors toward the secret garden. Cecilia had a flash of memory—Morvath pulling up the floor tiles, having old warped boards laid instead. She despised him all over again.

Miss Brown and Bloodhound Bess were in the lead, jagged bottles at the ready, with Miss Darlington and Cecilia directing the rear. Suddenly Miss Brown came to a halt, holding up her fisted hand. Everyone stopped. She pointed at the corner ahead, then spun her finger. The group turned around—

“Eek!” Frederick squealed.

Morvath was striding along the corridor, a long-handled pistol in his hand, several grim-faced men accompanying him. His black greatcoat swooped as he walked. His eyes flared with dark fire. Half the Wisteria Society turned to flee but were stopped by another group of armed men appearing around the corner.

“Well met, Mother,” Morvath said as he came to a halt, raising his pistol. Astonished, Cecilia looked around to see whom he meant. Miss Brown, long widowed and happy to pull up her skirts behind some bushes? Bloodhound Bess with her luring scar-smile? Millie the Monster because you just never knew with some people?

“Son,” Miss Darlington replied impassively.

Cecilia stepped back as if the revelation had physically struck her. Aunt Darlington was her grandmother?

Life seemed to both expand and implode all in one astonishing moment. She collided with Ned and he put a steadying arm around her.

“Life is a downward journey, madam,” Morvath said, “and you are about to reach the bottom.”

“The words of Branwell Brontë, I believe,” Miss Darlington responded. “But intelligence is an upward curve and does not involve plagiarizing one’s supposed father.”

“Rather my father’s words than my mother’s regard!” Morvath retorted. “Rather the echo of a man than the living breath of any woman! Our sex will always be superior to yours!”

“Tell that to the publishers of Jane Eyre.”

The captain’s face burned scarlet. “Had my father lived, he would have far surpassed his sisters in greatness. But women dragged him low. And you broke his heart, refusing to marry him.”

Miss Darlington shrugged. “I would gladly have broken his heart, or even better put a sword through it, had I been able to find him.”

“Question,” Essie said, raising her hand. “What do you mean by ‘supposed father,’ Jem?”

Miss Darlington lifted her chin with a surfeit of dignity. “A lady does not lower herself to mathematics. Branwell Brontë might have been his father.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Or Chubber Darwin.”

“What?” exclaimed the entire company.

She shrugged. “Chubber Darwin. Nice chap, rather bookish; I think he went on to do something with animals.”

“You don’t mean Charles Darwin, do you?” Ned asked.

“Yes indeed,” Miss Darlington replied.

Morvath choked on a cry. He swallowed it with difficulty, his mouth twisting. “My father was a scientist?”

“Or Branwell,” Miss Darlington added. “Who really knows?”

The captain growled incoherently.

“I would have married either of them, but Chubber had just become engaged to his cousin and Branwell disappeared. I had no choice but to adopt you out.”