My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(91)

Wait. Hold on.

Charlotte sat up. She thought she might cry again, but what came out was a hoarse laugh. Then she scrambled out of bed and hurriedly began to dress. She’d had an idea, and this was the kind of idea that really couldn’t wait until morning.

“Bran!” Charlotte banged on the door of the parsonage again. The wind whipped her loose hair into her face. “Wake up, Bran!”

She heard footsteps on the stairs. Then the door opened a crack and a face appeared—her brother’s, she assumed, although she couldn’t see; her glasses were streaked with rain.

“Charlie!” he exclaimed.

“I have asked you repeatedly not to call me Charlie,” she chided as he ushered her inside.

“Well, you look like a madwoman,” he observed, a hint of worry in his voice, like he was considering that she might, in fact, have gone mad at last. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m aware of what time it is, Bran.” Charlotte cleaned her glasses on his nightshirt and lifted them to her face. Bran’s red hair was sticking straight out to one side and there was a pillow crease in his cheek. His eyes were only half open. His own glasses were terribly smudged, so she grabbed them and cleaned them, too. Then she went up to his room, pulled his battered old suitcase from under his bed, and started packing his things for a journey.

“Charlie, am I going somewhere?” he asked from the doorway.

“We. We are going somewhere.” She closed the suitcase and straightened. “You have a horse, right? Father’s horse?”

Bran was shaking his head. “I have a horse, but I can’t leave. I’m the parson now. The townspeople need me.”

“I need you,” she said. “They’ll get by.”

“What if someone dies and needs a funeral? Or wants to get married? Or needs me to pray over a sick child? And I have a sermon to give.”

Charlotte gave her brother a Look. They both knew nobody was going to miss his sermons.

“Oh, all right.” He sighed. He’d learned over the years not to cross Charlotte when she had her mind set on something. “Where are we going?”

“Why, to Thornfield Hall, of course,” she said as if it was most obvious.

Bran frowned. “Thornfield Hall? What for?”

“To learn what happened, firsthand. Which is why I need you, brother.”

“Why . . . do you need me?” he asked.

“To talk to Mr. Blackwood.” She couldn’t help a hopeful smile. “Because you’ll be able to see him, and I won’t.”

Bran gasped. “Of course! Alexander could be a ghost!” He was finally catching on.

Charlotte nodded. “We’ll find out what happened with Rochester. I suppose we’ll have to be careful, since Rochester is probably still there. But we’ll locate Mr. Blackwood, and you’ll talk to him. And he’ll . . .” Her voice wavered with the blasted tears. “He’ll tell us what to do.”

She could see by his expression that Bran didn’t think this was the wisest idea. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he went to the desk in the corner and wrote a note to post on the parsonage door, to the people of the village, explaining that he’d be back shortly.

“We will be back shortly, won’t we?” he asked her.

She had no idea when they’d be back. It all depended on what they discovered when they got to their destination. “Of course,” she answered. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

They reached Thornfield Hall a day or so later, only to find the great house in total ruin. There’d obviously been a fire—the stones were black and the smell of smoke was heavy in the air. The front of the house was still standing, but it looked fragile, as if the wind would momentarily blow it in. All the windowpanes were smashed, and the roof had collapsed. All that remained of the once grand and imposing structure was a wrecked shell.

Bran and Charlotte stood looking at the place, silently horrified. Then Charlotte whispered, “Find him, Bran,” and they picked their way around the edges of the house, Bran calling out, “Mr. Blackwood! Are you there? We’d like to speak with you, Mr. Blackwood.”

Charlotte’s heart beat madly the entire time. On the journey, she’d composed a little speech she’d give to Mr. Blackwood, which went something like this:

Mr. Blackwood. Alexander. I would like to inform you that you are (you were, I suppose, so sorry) the keenest, most attractive, most intelligent and thoroughly engaging boy that I have ever met, and I am filled with sorrow on account of your untimely demise.

And then she’d ask her numerous questions about his death and Mr. Rochester and what they could do to bring the nefarious villain to justice.

But Mr. Blackwood never appeared. Bran called and called for more than an hour, and Charlotte joined him, but Bran couldn’t perceive any ghostly presence at Thornfield Hall. Not a single spirit came out to meet them.

It was the greatest disappointment yet.

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” Bran said as they trudged back to where the horse was grazing.

“It’s quite all right.” She didn’t cry this time. “Obviously Mr. Blackwood has moved on. He’s in a better place now. I wouldn’t wish him to be a ghost just so I could . . .” She swallowed. “I’m glad for him.”