My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(34)

“We are, madam.” Mr. Blackwood gave a short, graceful bow, followed by an awkward bow from Bran and an even more awkward curtsy from Charlotte.

“We don’t have any ghosts here at the moment,” Mrs. Ingram said, coming to stand beside her haughty daughter. “But several years ago we had quite a problem with the spirit of Mr. Ingram’s grandfather. He refused to leave the house—caused us all kinds of humiliation before the Society was kind enough to relocate him. Honestly, I can’t thank the Society enough. What can I do for you, sir?”

Alexander smiled. “Madam, I am so glad you asked.”

Within the hour, it had been agreed upon that they would accompany the Ingrams on their visit to Thornfield Hall. It’d also been decided that they were to be introduced as the “Eshtons,” a family who had only recently moved to the Leas.

Charlotte was wearing a new dress. It was white and gauzy with voluminous, puffy sleeves and a blue sash. She’d never worn something so fine in all her life, and she could not help lifting her spectacles to stare at her reflection in the mirror. If only she didn’t need the blasted glasses, she might have considered herself attractive.

“You look pretty,” Bran said when she came out to present herself. “What’s your name supposed to be, again?”

She held out a hand to him. “Amy. Amy Eshton, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“And I’m your dear brother, Louisa,” he said.

“Louis.”

“Right.”

“This is so exciting,” declared Mrs. Ingram from her grand chair in the corner. “My late husband would have been so pleased. He adored keeping up with what the Society was doing.”

Miss Ingram sniffed conspicuously from her place at the piano. “I think the Society is entirely odd, what with their focus on the supernatural and those distasteful ghosts and the like. This whole thing seems very questionable, if you ask me.”

“Nobody asked you, dear,” Mrs. Ingram said.

Charlotte lowered herself carefully into a chaise. In order to fit her into this lovely gown, they’d had to cinch her corset extra tightly. She couldn’t exactly breathe. In some ways, she might have preferred burlap.

Mr. Blackwood entered the room briskly. He looked uncomfortable, too, as if he’d prefer to be wearing his mask. This was the first time Charlotte had ever seen him without his mask, in fact. He had a nice face, she decided, lifting her glasses up to her eyes, almost like one of those classic Greek statues in the angles of his cheekbones and nose, with large dark eyes and neatly combed black hair.

He saw her and approached.

“Amy, is that correct?” He seemed flustered to call her by her first name, even this false one.

She nodded. “And you’re my dear cousin, Mr. Eshton. The new magistrate.”

“And I’m Louis,” reminded Bran.

Miss Ingram sniffed again.

“So when do you think we might go to Thornfield Hall?” Mr. Blackwood turned to ask Mrs. Ingram, the senior. “We’re most eager.”

Mr. Blackwood—Mr. Eshton, Charlotte tried to rename him in her mind—looked a bit pale. The idea of bamboozling Mr. Rochester still didn’t sit well with him. For someone who lived his life so shrouded in secrecy, he seemed surprisingly unaccustomed to deceit.

Miss Ingram stood up. “Tell me exactly what your business is at Thornfield. Does this have to do with Mr. Rochester?”

Bran turned to Miss Ingram with a sympathetic expression. “You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”

Mr. Blackwood and Charlotte exchanged looks of alarm. What was Bran up to?

“Yes,” Miss Ingram said stiffly. “One could say that.”

“Can you keep a secret?” Bran asked.

Charlotte reached for her brother’s arm. “Bran—er, Louis,” she hissed near his ear.

He shook her off gently. “Well, can you?” he prompted Miss Ingram.

Her dark eyes flared with curiosity. “Of course.”

He bent his head closer to hers. “You’re not to tell anyone,” he murmured conspiratorially near her ear.

“I . . . I promise,” she agreed. She seemed almost frightened. “Is there something wrong with Mr. Rochester?”

“Can I have a word with you?” Mr. Blackwood said tightly.

Bran, incredibly, ignored him.

“No, nothing like that,” he said to Miss Ingram. “Nothing wrong with Mr. Rochester himself, that is. He has a ghost, is all.”

“A ghost?” She frowned. “You mean to say that there’s a ghost in Thornfield Hall?”

“That’s exactly what I mean to say,” Bran confirmed. “And Mr. Rochester is actually fond of this ghost, as it turns out, but it’s a disruptive ghost. A malevolent ghost, in fact.”

“That would explain a lot,” Miss Ingram mused. “Who is the ghost, did you say?”

“Uh . . .”

Bran had no idea. Charlotte looked to Mr. Blackwood. He had no idea. Charlotte lifted her chin.

“It’s the ghost of his brother,” she said. She’d heard, in her rumor-gathering session in the village, that Mr. Rochester had been at odds with his brother at the time of his death. Something about an unfortunate incident in the West Indies many years ago.