My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(64)

“Oh, I see,” Bran said. “That would be very useful. So instead of having to chase a ghost about or ‘bop’ him—Miss Eyre could simply order the spirit to go into the talisman. And he would have no choice but to obey. I bet you wish that you were a Beacon, Mr. Blackwood. You’d be really good at it.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Blackwood’s eyes were not happy, Charlotte noticed. Because, she realized at once, Jane could be more efficient at the capture of ghosts than Mr. Blackwood would ever be. And she knew that he prided himself on being the very best agent in the Society.

And yet, he’d made Jane the offer of employment. He’d tried to bring her here. How very noble of him, Charlotte thought. To serve the interests of the Society above his own. And now he said gruffly, “I did my best to persuade Miss Eyre to become an agent, but she is simply uninterested in the position. She cannot be convinced.”

The duke seemed nonplussed by this information. “Everyone can be convinced, if you utilize the right incentive.”

“Not Jane.” Charlotte shook her head. “Her mind is made up. She wishes to stay at Thornfield.”

He scoffed. “What could possibly be at Thornfield Hall that is better than what we have to offer her here?”

“Yes, especially since we offered Miss Eyre a salary of five thousand pounds a year,” said Bran.

“What?” The duke swung about to look at Mr. Blackwood, whose face reddened.

“I thought we would recover the cost, once Miss Eyre helped us to restore the Society to its former glory,” he mumbled.

“I see,” said the duke. “And she still refused?”

Then the men were all looking at Charlotte, as if she represented all women and they expected her to know Jane’s reason exactly. And Charlotte did know the reason, but it was so indelicate to speak of such things. It was none of their business, really. It was Jane’s affair.

“Well,” she said slowly. “The food at Thornfield is very good, and plentiful. Jane is not accustomed to so much in the way of fine dining. Our fare was quite modest at school.”

“Five thousand pounds a year could provide Miss Eyre more delectable meals than she could possibly eat,” said the duke.

“She . . . um . . . has a fondness for the child she’s instructing.”

“The child she only met a few weeks ago? Tosh. If Miss Eyre were to serve in our employment, she’d be living a high life. Tasteful living quarters. Fine gowns. A greatly improved reputation.”

All things that Charlotte herself had pointed out to Jane, to no avail.

“Jane has no wish for a high life, sir,” Charlotte said. “And she has a negative impression of the Society, I’m afraid.”

The duke frowned. “Why?”

Mr. Blackwood stepped forward. “Perhaps it is my fault. The first time I encountered Miss Eyre, as you’ll recall from our discussion, I captured the ghost of Claire Doolittle in Miss Eyre’s presence. I—”

Charlotte gasped, quite forgetting herself. “You did? Whatever happened that night? I’ve been dying to know. How did you capture this ghost? Claire Doolittle, you say her name is? And where is she now?”

“Here.” Mr. Blackwood drew a wrapped handkerchief from his pocket. Upon unwrapping it was revealed to be a rather common-looking pocket watch.

“The pocket watch! Well, that’s one mystery solved!” Charlotte exclaimed, and because she could not help herself, she immediately pulled her notebook out of her pocket and started writing notes. When she looked up again they were all staring at her. “Er, Jane seems to doubt that the Society ‘relocates’ the spirits it captures in a manner that is entirely ethical.” Charlotte lifted her spectacles to gaze earnestly at the duke. “So what do you do with them? What will you do with this ghost in the pocket watch?”

The duke and Mr. Blackwood exchanged glances. Then the duke said, “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in showing you.”

He led them back through the darkened corridor to another set of stairs leading into a part of the undercroft that Charlotte hadn’t previously noticed, a small enclave filled with several ornately carved wooden shelves. On the shelves there was an assembly of various items: a fork, a comb, an accordion, a knight’s visor, a silk hair ribbon, each resting on a special cushion or placed in a series of long drawers, the way someone might display butterflies or pieces of art.

“Don’t touch anything,” Mr. Blackwood said to Bran in a low voice.

“Of course not, sir, I—” Bran couldn’t even finish his sentence, he was so ashamed. “Of course not, sir.”

The duke and Mr. Blackwood approached an empty set of shelves. Mr. Blackwood placed the pocket watch gently on a black velvet cushion. Charlotte’s arm began to tremble with the strain of holding up her blasted glasses, but she couldn’t lower them. She held her breath, keeping herself from blinking, because there was no way she was going to miss what happened next.

But for a moment, nothing happened.

And then for another moment, nothing happened.

And another moment. Nothing.

“So that’s it?” she asked. “You just keep it here?”

“We call this the Collection Room,” said the duke. “It is where we store all the artifacts we encounter.”