My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(73)

Alexander would have to ask to know for sure, but he wasn’t the type of agent to question his superior. Asking nosy questions was Miss Bront?’s job. She wouldn’t have hesitated to ask why the king was suddenly so cooperative. Or why the signet ring was the talisman, or . . .

Wellington crossed his arms. “What is it?”

“It’s just . . . you seemed in such a rush to get the ghost.”

Wellington folded his hands together. “The family of the deceased—”

Mr. Mitten.

“—wanted to sell the house immediately. They couldn’t afford to wait.”

“But he worked for both the Society and the king. Surely he left them plenty of money. Why not wait until Thursday when the king’s new signet ring arrived?” Alexander slipped his hands behind his back and dug his fingernails into his palms.

“You’re very curious tonight, Alexander.”

“It was Mr. Mitten,” Alexander said. “It feels personal. We all cared about him.”

“Of course we did,” Wellington agreed.

(Never mind that Alexander—and most people—regularly forgot that David Mitten existed. He was practically invisible in life, already ghostlike. It seemed like it was only in death that anyone cared about him at all. A true tragedy.) “So why not wait?” Blast Miss Bront?’s influence, her contagious questions.

“You’ve always been a solid agent,” Wellington said. “The star agent.”

Alexander sensed a but.

“But that’s because of your willingness to do your job without asking too many questions. We who can’t see ghosts can only put our minds to work. We rely on you to take action, to investigate and capture because we cannot. You’re so busy with the work you’ve been dealt. I wish you trusted that we all have thought of every possibility and that we make the best plans we can make. We are the mind, Alexander. You are the sword.”

“I see. I’m sorry if I caused you any upset, sir.”

Wellington waved him toward the door. “Get some rest. You’ve had an eventful month, and I’m sure you’d like some time alone after the constant company you’ve kept.”

“Thank you, sir.” Alexander headed out of the Society headquarters and walked toward his flat. Was this what it felt like to be reprimanded? The sensation was so unfamiliar he wasn’t quite sure if it was disappointment in himself, or confusion over Wellington’s words, or something else entirely.

But the duke was right. Maybe it would do him good to finally have some time to himself, some space to stretch his legs without worrying about the others, some freedom to walk around his home with his tie loosened, so to speak.

So he went home. Alone.

And he made tea. Alone.

And he sat in his parlor. Alone.

Just days ago, Miss Bront? had perched on that uncomfortable chair, and Branwell had sulked by the door. He hadn’t minded their company.

But now he was alone.

He liked being alone.

Tea for one.

His flat was just . . . so quiet. There were no ghosts around tonight. And there wasn’t even the sound of a pencil scratching on paper as Miss Bront? recorded everything that happened. Not that there was anything to record here, because nothing was happening.

“Hello?” He tested his voice to make sure it still had substance.

Not even an echo answered.

Yes, he was definitely alone. And, for the first time ever, maybe he was lonely, too. No one had ever been so lonely.





TWENTY-FIVE


Charlotte

Charlotte shifted the carpetbag with the broken handle to her other shoulder and sighed. A train pulled into the station, but it was not her train. Her train would not arrive for a good fifteen minutes yet. Charlotte generally liked to be early—to allow herself time to locate the places she was supposed to go, given her poor eyesight and her terrible sense of direction. But being early also meant being left with time to think. Normally she didn’t mind—thinking was what Charlotte considered herself best at, after all. This afternoon, however, the thoughts swirling about her brain were dreadfully glum. She was out of options: she had to return to Lowood. Where she would probably end up starving to death or succumbing to the Graveyard Disease, she thought. Or at the very least she’d be cold and hungry and utterly bored.

Conditions at Lowood had been markedly better since Mr. Brocklehurst was murdered, she reminded herself. But the thought didn’t cheer her as it should have. Brocklehurst’s name only called to mind a bittersweet memory: Mr. Blackwood chasing about the drawing room waving a teacup in the air, the very first day they’d met. And then the teacup made her think of Bran.

Sigh. Bran. For two weeks she’d watched her brother stumble about his room, packing his meager belongings to return to their father and the parsonage. He’d tried to act cheerful for her sake.

“I find I’ve been missing home,” he’d mused as he’d folded his nightclothes into a trunk. “I’ll be glad to sleep in my own bed again. This bed never truly felt like mine.

“So I’ve been sacked. It could be worse,” he’d murmured as they sat in the middle of the empty floor, drinking lukewarm, sugarless tea. But Bran didn’t elaborate on how it could be worse.

“I know I’m likely to be a terrible parson,” he’d sighed as he’d climbed onto his northbound train just a few moments ago. “But I don’t need to be the parson right now, do I? Father’s the parson, and Father is a paragon of good health. I have years and years before I’m needed in Father’s place. So I can just keep up with my studies and maybe do a bit of drawing.” Bran liked to draw, almost as much as Charlotte liked to write. In that way he was much like Jane.