My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(22)

“Good day, sir.”

He shut the door, and Jane walked slowly on.

“Are you all right?” Helen asked.

“I am more than all right. I feel as though I have just had the most exciting day of my life.”

Helen frowned. “You didn’t find him to be—”

“Quite possibly the most intriguing person I’ve ever met?” Jane interrupted. “Yes, my dearest friend. I did.”





SIX


Alexander

“You are quite possibly the most annoying person I’ve ever met,” Alexander shouted above the beating hooves as the carriage careened wildly along the road. He and his assistant were not currently riding in the carriage, as normal people are meant to do, but clinging to the back as a ghost in a top hat laughed maniacally from the driver’s seat, spooking the already spooked horses.

It had been a bad day. A bad week, really.

“I’m sorry, sir,” shouted Mr. Branwell. “Please don’t tell Mr. Wellesley. I didn’t know he was a ghost.”

Alexander cursed as a rock flew past his head. “How could you not know? He was transparent. You could practically see through him.”

“My vision’s not the best, sir.” At the moment, Mr. Branwell’s spectacles were dangling from his nose upside down, snagged on his mask.

“Fine. I’ll take care of it.” Alexander struggled to lift himself to the roof of the carriage, but then fell back again. They were moving too fast. The wind was blowing. The moon was in his eyes. Otherwise, he could have climbed up no problem.

And then it started to rain.

Things had been going wrong for Alexander since the mysterious Miss Eyre had rejected him at Lowood. First, his bumbling new assistant had contracted a man cold (which in pre-Victorian England they believed to be far worse than a lady cold). Then Mr. Branwell had proceeded to share said cold with Alexander. His nose was still red. And it hurt. He resented this.

Then Branwell had almost burned down the inn in a misguided attempt to make Alexander a bowl of chicken soup.

After that the innkeeper had understandably wanted them to leave. So Alexander had decided they should return to London and report to Wellington.

And oh, yes, he meant to report all of this to Wellington.

They’d been going along just fine toward London, when the carriage driver had stopped to rest the horses and water the shrubbery. That was when Branwell had noticed the figure standing on the side of the road: a somber-looking elderly gentleman with a top hat and a cane.

Alexander, of course, had known immediately that the man was a ghost. But squinting out into the foggy night, Branwell had called out, “Oh, hello, sir. It’s quite cold tonight. Would you like to come inside the carriage to warm yourself?”

The ghost floated in and sat across from Branwell. (Which, unfortunately, was right next to Alexander. He considered saying something then and there. He should have, really. But by then Branwell was already engaged in a one-sided conversation with the ghost.)

“I work for the Society. Normally it’s all very hush-hush, but you look trustworthy,” said Branwell.

Alexander dragged his hand down his face.

“I don’t know if you’re aware,” Branwell continued. “But you are in the presence of the star agent of the Society, Mr. Alexander Blackwood himself!”

Perhaps Branwell wasn’t so bad.

Branwell pointed at Alexander and grinned. “He’s a ghost hunter extraordinaire. No ghost is safe around this guy!”

And that’s when, as they used to say, the dung hit the crosswind.

The ghost stood, his translucent body expanding to fill the carriage.

“Um, sir, are you all right?” inquired Branwell.

The ghost opened his mouth and a stream of flies buzzed out. Alexander had to confess he’d never seen that before. Then the ghost sprang through the roof of the carriage and into the driver’s seat. He let out a bone-chilling cackle. The horses reared and bolted, taking the carriage with them. Alexander and Branwell attempted to climb around to the driver’s seat, but then they hit a pre-Victorian pothole. And that’s how they ended up clinging to the back of the carriage. And now you’re caught up.

“I can help you, sir,” offered Branwell even as his fingers began to slip off the railing one by one. “I can give you a boost.”

“No! God, no! Under no circumstances are you to ever give me a boost.” With renewed determination, Alexander tried again (by himself) to get to the roof of the carriage. This time he succeeded, only to crash through the fabric that was stretched over the top. Now he was in the runaway carriage. Which was only slightly better than hanging off the back of it.

But how to stop the ghost? Good question.

At that moment, the carriage struck a pre-Victorian speed bump, and an object from the floor of the carriage smacked Alexander in the head.

It was a cane, he ascertained when he woke up moments later. Oh, how embarrassing. He was never going to tell Branwell about this.

A cane. Neither he nor Branwell used a cane. What was it doing here? It had come in with the old man. But it was obviously real. He could only hope it would work as a talisman.

Alexander grasped the cane and climbed through the hole he’d so conveniently made for himself in the top of the carriage. He glanced back. Branwell was still dangling from the rail.