My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(75)

“I know.”

“But why wasn’t he?”

“Because he . . .” She stopped. “Actually, I don’t know. We should ask him.”

She went to open the door. On the other side stood, predictably, Mr. Mason. He immediately looked from Charlotte to Mr. Blackwood in his unclothed state and gave a small, scandalized gasp. Because pre-Victorians.

“Oh, it’s quite all right. I can’t see a thing without my glasses,” Charlotte felt compelled to explain.

Mr. Blackwood cleared his throat. “Mr. Mason. I am surprised to see you.”

“And I, you,” Mr. Mason said. “Mr. Blackwood? I thought you were Mr. Eshton. A magistrate, correct?”

Oh, so he remembered Alexander, Charlotte observed a little bitterly. She’d obviously just been furniture dressing to the man.

“I’m an agent in the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits,” Mr. Blackwood clarified. “I was at Thornfield on assignment.”

“I see,” Mr. Mason said, but he clearly did not. “What kind of assignment?”

“Society business,” Mr. Blackwood said tightly. “But while we were at Thornfield, we came to believe that Mr. Rochester was . . .” Charlotte lifted her spectacles. His brow was furrowed. He was thinking about his poor father. Then she was reminded again that he wasn’t dressed and dropped the spectacles again. “Guilty of certain crimes,” he concluded.

Mr. Mason nodded. “I would believe almost anything of Mr. Rochester. After this recent encounter with him I think him to be nothing short of a nefarious villain.”

“That’s what we think!” Charlotte exclaimed. “The most nefarious!”

“But why do you think him so?” Mr. Blackwood asked. “What harm has he caused you?”

“Not to me, sir,” Mr. Mason said. “Outside of the harm of keeping me from someone I dearly love.”

Charlotte couldn’t help but lift her glasses to her face. “Someone you love?”

“My sister,” Mr. Mason said.

“Who’s your sister?” Mr. Blackwood demanded to know. He was practically quivering with the excitement of it all, every muscle in his back tensed like he was preparing to confront Mr. Rochester at this very moment.

“Mr. Blackwood!” Charlotte burst out. “Would you please put on a shirt!”

Mr. Blackwood’s face colored again. “Mr. Mason, Miss Bront?, please forgive my lack of appropriate dress. Won’t you be seated in the parlor until I can rectify the situation?”

“Of course,” Mr. Mason said.

“Thank heavens!” Charlotte agreed.

Mr. Blackwood nodded briskly. “Please make yourselves comfortable,” he directed, and hurried out of the room. Charlotte led Mr. Mason to the two less-than-comfortable chairs in the corner. They sat. Mr. Mason crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. He glanced around at the walls, but there were no paintings to examine, no decorations. He glanced at Charlotte and then looked away. Then he spotted a newspaper on the small table next to him. Relieved to have found something to occupy himself, he snatched it up and began to read.

They waited. Mr. Blackwood did not appear. A clock on the opposing wall ticked oppressively, counting the seconds of his absence. Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. (These chairs were, truly, the most uncomfortable chairs in all of England. We checked.) If Mr. Mason was a gentleman, she thought, he should offer her a part of the newspaper. Still, it would not be proper to suggest such a thing. She could get up and make them a cup of tea. Tea would be very calming. But to make the tea herself would have to assume some scandalous level of familiarity with Mr. Blackwood’s kitchen. As usual, Charlotte found herself hopelessly penned in by etiquette.

“Would you like to read?” Mr. Mason offered a section of the paper. She almost sighed in relief. He was a gentleman, after all.

But what he handed her was the weddings and obituaries page. It was, to say the least, not the most enthralling reading.

She sighed and lifted her spectacles.

Mr. and Mrs. Charles Durst, Esquire, are pleased to announce the engagement of their daughter, Miss Cecilia Cecily Durst, to the esteemed Earl of Lancaster, Jonathan Fraser Northrop, the wedding to take place at their country estate on the fifteenth of September, 1834.

Charlotte’s nose wrinkled. She amused herself for the next several minutes rewording the wedding announcements to liven up the stories they told.

Mr. Henry Woodhouse is overjoyed to announce the entanglement of his most precious and comely younger daughter, Miss Emma Woodhouse to Mr. George Knightley, the wedding to take place at the nearest available church house, immediately. The bride is both beautiful and rich, and enjoyed a brief flirtation with a Mr. Churchill that had everyone quite concerned, but in the end she saw the error of her ways and picked the right chap.

Mr. Edgar Linton, of Thrushcross Grange, would like to announce his engagement to the lovely Miss Catherine Earnshaw, the wedding to take place on the twenty-first of September, even though the lady would much rather marry a ruffian named Heathcliff. But she will forego her passion in order to secure social ambition.

Charlotte suppressed a giggle. At least she was competent—when the situation called for it—at entertaining herself. She was moving on to the next one when Mr. Blackwood reemerged, this time fully clothed. He smiled at her with a touch of nervousness. She beamed back at him.