4

a ghostly distraction—when one door opens—cecilia loses her parasol—a mysterious envelope—trouble is afoot—miss darlington takes the wheel—measles and pertussis—tea and biscuits—onward!

There is nothing like the active employment of literature to console the afflicted, and so as Cecilia walked through Bath she gently restored the peace of her mind, which Captain Lightbourne had disturbed, by reading Mr. Lockwood’s encounter with the screaming ghost of Cathy Earnshaw. She was not particularly enjoying the novel, but her father had loved it with all the fervor he bore for his Brontë heritage, and so she studied it assiduously under the guise of being entertained. If Heathcliff and Cathy could give her any insight into the tragedy of Patrick and Cilla, her benighted parents, it was worth the toil. That she had to keep it secret from Miss Darlington only added a pleasant frisson of danger.

“You shouldn’t be asking questions about your father,” Miss Darlington said every time Cecilia attempted to do so. “He is not a subject fit for young ladies’ ears.”

“But—” Cecilia would argue, since she could not think of how she might track down the man if she knew nothing more about him than what she recollected from her childhood.

“But me no buts,” Miss Darlington replied, and there the conversation ended every time. So Cecilia had turned to literature instead.

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall provided some food for thought. Jane Eyre she found tolerable (although she herself would have bashed Mr. Rochester over the head with his pipe), and she recognized in Thornfield what had clearly been the inspiration for furnishing her dour childhood home, Northangerland Abbey. But the madness of Wuthering Heights informed her best of all the Brontë novels. She became so drawn into its pages as she walked up North Parade that she did not see Darlington House standing in the middle of the road, black pirate flag waving proudly from the roof, until she was almost upon its threshold.

People were inching a way around the house and then striding on as fast as their fashionable clothing would allow—not running, mind you, in case the house chased them.

“Be careful, miss!” a man called to her. “Best turn back! It’s a pirate house!”

Cecilia thanked him with a nod, but secretly she sighed. She did not understand landlubbers. They were polite enough until you mentioned you were a pirate, or swooped down in your weaponized house, or creatively acquired some little knickknack of theirs that they couldn’t possibly care about. Then they blanched or cried, called the police, or insisted you sit where they could see you at the tea party or opera. Cecilia had tried making friends among their ranks but ultimately came away with nothing more than a bruised heart, an arrest warrant, and several pretty bracelets.

Did they not understand that pirates only stole from the rich to give to the—er, to themselves? Not once had she or Miss Darlington used the house to attack a civilian. It simply wouldn’t be ladylike. Although they might insist upon acquiring the elegant cameo that young woman in green was wearing, Cecilia thought, eyeing it from beneath the shadow of her hat as the woman approached . . .