My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(62)

Mr. Blackwood cleared his throat. “I’ll see about that tea.”

He strode off into another room. Charlotte went to Bran and put her arm around him. “Chin up,” she instructed. “All is not lost, dear brother.” Although as she said this, she thought about how, with Mason gone, they couldn’t definitively prove that Rochester was of shady character, or gather any substantial evidence in the case of the murder of Mr. Blackwood’s father. Plus, they had returned to London without Jane Eyre. And now Jane was apparently in love with a nefarious villain.

It did, indeed, feel as though pretty much all was lost.

“I have ruined everything,” sighed Bran.

“We’ll put things right somehow.”

“How?”

Charlotte didn’t know the answer.

Mr. Blackwood returned with a silver tea tray loaded with a pot and the appropriate amount of cups, which he placed on the end table. Charlotte went to help him serve the tea, pouring and passing a cup to Bran, who took his without comment. They slurped quietly for several moments. Then Charlotte asked, “So what are we to do now?”

“We should go to Westminster and report our findings to the Society.”

“Of course,” Charlotte said. Nervous butterflies flapped about her stomach. The Society. At last. But now she felt that her opportunity to be a part of the Society had slipped away. “When shall we leave?”

Charlotte had never been to London before. She’d read the best descriptions from books, of course, but nothing had prepared her for the bustling grandeur of the city, especially of Westminster. She kept poking her head out of the carriage window, spectacles planted firmly in front of her nose to take in the smaller details—the flocks of birds that winged their way from space to space above them with a great clap of wings, the stone and marble majesty of the buildings, the miles upon miles of gleaming windows, the jostling people walking and talking and all manner of carriages rattling by on the cobblestone streets, the slightly putrid smell of the river, and the tinge of oily smoke that hung in the air. Her fingers itched to write—to document all of her impressions, but the carriage was much too bouncy. Their party (which still consisted of herself, Mr. Blackwood looking slightly cross, and Bran still looking downcast) had been quiet on the journey. Mr. Blackwood in particular seemed impatient to reach their destination.

Abruptly they came to a stop. Mr. Blackwood leapt down from the carriage and held out a hand to help Charlotte disembark.

“This way,” he said, and went briskly up the stairs. Bran followed close behind, while Charlotte hung back for a moment to gawk at the sheer magnificence of the building. In that moment she wished that she could be a painter like Jane, so that she could attempt to capture the way the light caught the stone. Words were good. But sometimes they were simply inadequate.

“Come along,” said Mr. Blackwood from the doorway.

Charlotte quickened her pace to catch up. She followed Bran and Mr. Blackwood to the main corridor of the House of Lords and then off to a far hallway, where a discrete set of stairs descended into the undercroft of what had once been the chapel. It was a bit musty down there, but still beautifully decorated, with arching ceilings and shining wooden floors.

“Why does the Society meet in the Parliament building?” Charlotte asked as they walked on.

“Because, once upon a time, before the rift with the king, so many non-seer members of the Society were also members of Parliament,” Mr. Blackwood replied with a shrug. “For the sake of convenience.”

At the end of the undercroft they reached a large oak door. Mr. Blackwood rapped upon it twice.

“What is your intention on this earth?” came a voice from the other side.

Charlotte thought that was a surprisingly personal question.

Mr. Blackwood gave a tight, embarrassed smile. “To investigate the great mysteries of the world and to serve the welfare of humankind, both living and departed,” he said quickly.

The door creaked open. A gigantic orange-haired man was standing on the other side. “Good day to you, Mr. Blackwood. Branwell.” His eyes flickered over to Charlotte. “Miss.”

“Stephen,” Mr. Blackwood acknowledged. “We’re here to see the duke.”

“He’s expecting you.” The man stepped back to allow them passage through the door.

They traversed another long hallway, went down another short set of stairs, and stopped outside yet another door. Mr. Blackwood didn’t knock this time. He threw open the door and strode inside, Bran and Charlotte trailing behind. The room turned out to be a library, lined wall to wall with bookshelves, each shelf sagging under the weight of heavy, official-looking books. Books! But Charlotte’s attention was then immediately caught by the large desk in the center of the room, at which sat a slender, impeccably dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair.

She knew him at once. Arthur Wellesley. Who had been, according to Charlotte’s father, almost single-handedly responsible for the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo. The world’s keenest military mind, some said. The world’s most corrupt politician, others said—especially if those others were of the Whig party, so of course they couldn’t be trusted in their opinions. The Iron Duke, some called him. The Duke of Wellington.

(She was a bit starstruck, truth be told. She’d never been up close to someone famous before.)