Charlotte
“Are you ready?” came Mr. Blackwood’s voice. “It’s nearly time.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Mr. Blackwood, I must protest. This isn’t remotely proper.”
“Let’s see.”
“I’d feel more comfortable in my normal attire.”
“Let’s see,” he insisted.
She moved out from behind the wall of crates they’d piled up to serve as an impromptu dressing room. Her face burned. She was wearing trousers, something she’d never imagined herself doing in her life, plus a fine button-up shirt that used to belong to Mr. Rochester, and knee-high leather boots with tissue stuffed into the toes. She stared down at the boots, pulling her ponytail over her shoulder. She didn’t have her spectacles in place, but she could still feel Mr. Blackwood staring at her. She wondered if he would laugh.
“We discussed this quite thoroughly this morning,” he said at last. “The Society doesn’t often employ women.”
“Which makes no sense.”
“Which makes no sense,” he said gently, “but it’s the reality we’re faced with. As far as Wellington knows, Miss Eyre is still a faithful agent of the Society. So the rest of us will have to go in disguise. You’re a footman.”
“Very well,” she grumbled. “But I don’t like playing a boy. I am perfectly at ease as a woman.”
“So you are,” he agreed. “But the clothing suits you, in my opinion.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.
“I mean, I would never mistake you for a man. But you must admit it’s far more practical than that birdcage you’re always wearing.”
“It feels strange.” Strange didn’t begin to describe how she felt. But at least she could breathe without impediment. She felt unbound, unmoored from the stifling constraints of her gender. She felt like she could be quite capable of anything.
She smiled, in spite of her mortification. Mr. Blackwood reached for her hand, which was clutching her glasses, and held them up for her. He was smiling, too. He’d been in a good mood all day, dashing about, preparing. Like this business of confronting the king was not terrifying, as Charlotte found it, but merely putting him a step closer to the revenge he’d been seeking half his life. His dream within his reach once again.
“I know there’s not time now,” he said, “but we should get you some proper spectacles. The sort that you wear on your face.”
She shook her head. “I had those type once. They hurt my nose. And I looked . . .” Dreadful, she wanted to tell him, but she didn’t wish him to picture it.
“What matters is for you to be able to see.” He let go of her hand and held out a plain black jacket. Charlotte slipped her arms into the sleeves. The coat, like the boots, was much too large, but there was nothing to be done about it. Just then Jane came into the room, wearing the same enormous dress that she’d worn to see the king the previous time. She looked at Charlotte and heaved a great sigh.
“How is it?” Jane asked.
Charlotte shrugged. “Comfortable. I could go directly to sleep. However do men get anything done?”
“You look just like a fledgling agent.” Mr. Blackwood reached into his pocket and withdrew a black Society mask. For a moment he seemed about to tie it on, but then he remembered that he was not playing the part of an agent tonight. He sighed and put it back into his pocket.
Jane blushed and donned her own mask. “Let’s go now. I don’t believe I can stand any more waiting.”
“Do you have the book?”
Jane pulled the Book of the Dead out of her handbag. “And I’ve read it cover to cover. I know the words.”
“Excellent,” he said. “Branwell!”
The Rochesters appeared in the warehouse doorway, also dressed as men (although that was only strange on Mrs. Rochester, who still seemed to gleam like a star in whatever she was wearing). Bran popped up behind them. His hair was messy, his glasses inexplicably smudged again, and half of his shirttail was hanging out. But his eyes were bright with excitement. “Are we going yet? It’s nearly sunset.”
“We’re going.” Alexander swung his own coat onto his body in one fluid motion. Charlotte lifted her glasses to her face to admire the view as he strode toward the door, his coat billowing behind him, his steps purposeful.
She gave a faint sigh.
“Mr. Blackwood . . .” As they went headlong into this danger, she was flooded with the urge to tell him all the things that had come to her when she’d thought he was dead. To say the words out loud.
He stopped. Turned. “Yes?”
But now was not the proper time.
“Oh, I nearly forgot.” He reached once more into his pocket and withdrew . . .
Her notebook!
The one with her Jane Frere story in it.
The one she’d left behind when she and Jane had fled Thornfield.
The one she thought she’d lost forever.
“Where did you find this?” she gasped.
“It was in Miss Eyre’s room. I picked it up after my duel with Rochester. I thought you’d need it back. I imagine it’s going to be a famous novel someday.”
“You didn’t read it!”
“I read . . . a bit.” (We know, dear reader, that this was a fib. Alexander had read it from cover to cover, some of it three or four times.)
“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say.
He ducked his head. “I’m sorry—I was unable to resist. I found it quite compelling, truly. You should finish it.”
He put it into her hands. She clutched it to her chest for a moment and then slipped it into her jacket breast pocket. It was handy, she’d admit, to have a jacket breast pocket.
“You think you might have time for some casual writing?” His eyebrows lifted.
She grinned. “You never know.”
The sun was sinking fast as the group approached the palace. Charlotte’s nerves were jittering. At the gatehouse of Saint James, they stopped.
“Who goes there?” asked the chief officer from behind the gate.
“Jane,” said Mrs. Rochester. “C’est your cue.”
Jane lifted her chin and stepped forward.
“I am an agent of the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits,” she announced. “I’m here on urgent Society business. I need to speak with the king at once.”
“And who are they?” The guard narrowed his eyes as he looked around at their assembled party.
“This is my entourage.” Jane’s voice wavered. “I’m the star agent.”
Mr. Blackwood coughed uncomfortably.
“Very well.” The guard stepped aside and let them pass. And then they were inside the palace. It had been the fastest storming of a castle ever.
In the great hall, they found the king on his throne, surrounded by lavishly dressed nobles, eating fistfuls off a tray of sweets. The room was easily the most extravagant that Charlotte had ever been in. The high ceilings were embellished with real gold leafing. The carpet had the look and texture of red velvet. The walls were covered in a wine-red wallpaper, and every few feet were adorned by large portraits of the past kings and queens and other various royalty.
Beside her, Charlotte heard Jane draw in a sharp breath.
“Are you all right?” Charlotte asked.
“I’ve never liked red rooms,” her friend said darkly. Charlotte made a mental note to ask her about that someday. It could be good material for her book.
She was so excited that she was now going to be able to finish her book. She could practically taste the ending. (We know the feeling.)
“Your Highness, an agent from the Society here to see you,” announced the guard. “She claims that it is urgent.”
Charlotte gave her a little nudge. Jane moved forward again. “I’m Miss Eyre, Your Majesty. If you will recall, I was here to see you recently.”
The king eyed Jane. “No. Can’t say that I do recall.” He glanced at Mr. Blackwood. “But you’re somewhat familiar. You look . . . like someone’s father.”
“I have one of those faces,” Mr. Blackwood said. “I look like everyone’s father.”
So now came the tricky part. The getting-the-ring-off-the-king’s-finger part.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Sire,” Jane said a bit awkwardly. “Again.”
She stepped up to the throne and held out her hand as if to shake. The king took it, reluctantly. Then he gasped and drew back as if she’d bitten him.
“Did you just attempt to steal my ring, young lady?” he puffed.
Well, it’d been a long shot, the simply getting-the-ring approach.
“I only need it for a moment. Then I’ll give it right back,” she said.
“How dare you! Guards!” he cried.
And then they were immediately surrounded by a dozen guards with swords and guns.
“Well, that was fast,” remarked Bran. “No time for niceties or anything.”
“On to plan B,” Mr. Rochester said quietly.
“Take them out of here,” the king ordered. “Now. Perhaps a few days in the stocks would be appropriate.”
Charlotte hoped plan B was going to work. Otherwise it would be an unpleasant weekend.
“We require that one ring,” Mr. Blackwood said.
“It’s my ring,” said the king. “It’s my precious. And I think I know you, sir. You are Mr. Blackwood.”
“And you are Mr. Mitten. We will be taking the ring now,” continued Mr. Blackwood smoothly.
The king smirked. “You and what army?”
“Precisely.” Mr. Blackwood sighed. “Miss Eyre, it’s ghost time.”
Jane cleared her throat. “Hello,” she said a bit timidly, glancing around her. “It’s so nice to see you this evening. Would you, perhaps, if you’re not too busy at the moment, assist us?”
“You should command them,” Mr. Blackwood said out of the side of his mouth. “Call them. Order them to your side.”
“That seems rude.” She sighed. “Oh, very well.” She raised her voice. “Hello? Can you hear me? If you can hear me, please come toward the sound of my voice.”
Mrs. Rochester came to stand beside Jane. “Allez, l’esprits,” she said in her musical French Creole. “Come!”
As far as Charlotte could tell, nothing happened. But then Bran smiled.
“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” he murmured, shaking his head at the wonder of it all. “There’s so very many of them.”
“So many ghosts?” Charlotte wasn’t the type to be frightened by spirits, but the idea of there being “so many” ghosts all around them was a bit unsettling. What a place was London, where you only had to call out, and in seconds ghosts came from every direction. It was a city crowded with both the living and the dead. Even the palace.
“That’s probably enough, ladies.” Mr. Blackwood stretched out his arms to the main guard. “Now the book.”
“Oh! The book.” Jane lifted the book, opened it, and spoke the words in a clear, loud voice.
“‘Ostende nobis quod est post mortem! Nos videre praestrigiae!’”
It was basic Latin. When Charlotte had translated it for them earlier, calling on her Latin studies at Lowood, she’d come up with the following meaning: Show us what is beyond death! Let us see the ghosts! Which felt a bit on the nose, really, as magical incantations went. A little disappointing, if she was being honest. But then she supposed all of the real power stemmed from Jane. And perhaps the book. The book was very interesting. When Wellington had mentioned the Book of the Dead, Charlotte had expected some large and ancient tome written in hieroglyphs or Sanskrit, full of spells to control the dead and a secret knowledge of the underworld. But for the most part, this slim volume was a simple instruction manual on how to manage ghosts, protect oneself against possessions, and guide wayward souls in their journey to the place beyond, observations compiled by the various leaders of the Society stretching back throughout the years. It was not a magical book (although we would argue, dear reader, that all books are slightly magical), but it was certainly useful.
The point was, the Latin worked. The air seemed colder. The candles flickered and then whooshed out. The guards and nobles immediately began to shout in alarm.
Charlotte lifted her spectacles and gazed around the throne room again, and this time she saw them: dozens—perhaps even hundreds—of spirits all around them, the people of London who had long since passed. Bran was right—the sight was truly remarkable. It seemed to her that every period in English history was represented in this crowd of ghosts. There were men in knee-length fur-lined tunics with floppy hats. Women in long, flowing gowns with draping sleeves and veils over their hair. Women in pointy cone hats. Men in tricornered caps. Knights in chain mail and knights in plate mail and English soldiers in red coats. A band of unruly Scots in plaid kilts with blue-painted faces.
A radiant girl with red hair caught Charlotte’s eye. She was dressed in a gorgeous embroidered, jewel-encrusted gown and an Elizabethan headdress. In her hand she held a book. She smiled sweetly at Jane, and reached for the man beside her, who, to Charlotte’s total astonishment, suddenly turned into a horse.
The horse transformation alarmed the poor guards, especially.
“Gytrash!” someone yelled.
“What is this witchcraft?” another cried.
“Oh, we haven’t bewitched you,” Mr. Blackwood clarified. “We’ve simply helped you to see things a bit more clearly.”
The ghosts advanced. Charlotte shivered. Up close, on some of them, one could see evidence that they were not truly living beings. Some of them were translucent or glowing a strange unearthly green color. Others bore the wounds of the injuries that must have killed them—a noose around a neck that was bent at an odd angle, the black pustules that marked a bout of plague, an open, bleeding wound in the chest. Still others looked as though they had just dug their own way from their graves—their flesh was rotted, their clothes hanging from them in tatters.
They were frightening, Charlotte concluded. Especially that horse.
The crowd obviously felt the same way. Pandemonium broke out. The nobles stampeded toward the exit, often pushing right through the ghosts, which spurred them on in their frenzy. Mr. Blackwood darted off to one side, pushing and exacerbating the situation in whatever way he could. Bran and Jane and the Rochesters went off in other directions. It was all going according to the plan.
Except then Charlotte’s glasses were knocked from her hand.
Which was not the plan.
The plan had been for her to creep up to the king during the confusion and snatch the ring.
It had been decided that she should do the snatching. Because she was the most unobtrusive of the group. For once, being little and obscure was going to serve her.
Only now she couldn’t see a blasted thing.
“Blast!” she yelled. “Why can things never go according to my plan?”
She groped about on the floor for her spectacles.
“Miss Brontë,” she heard Mr. Blackwood call out. “Any time now.”
“I really should get the kind I wear on my face,” she grumbled as she searched. “This vanity of mine is going to be the death of us all.”
She encountered the barrel of a small gun and thrust it away from her. She’d never liked guns.
She found a discarded ivory fan. It was probably expensive.
She grabbed a woman’s ankle and the woman screamed and tried to kick her.
“Blast!” But then her fingers touched glass. And then the handle of her spectacles.
She quickly whipped the spectacles up to her eyes. And her mouth dropped open.
In the time she’d been searching for her blasted glasses the room had emptied, save Mr. Blackwood, the Rochesters, Jane, and Bran.
And the king. The king was still seated on the throne, surveying the scene quite calmly. And beside him was the Duke of Wellington.
For a moment, they simply gaped at him.
“Well, that was an amusing little display,” the duke said finally. “But do you take me for a fool?”
“I would never take you for a fool,” Mr. Rochester growled. “A traitor, yes. A two-faced, serpent-tongued blaggart, absolutely. But not a fool.”
“Now, now. No need for name calling,” said the duke. “Why don’t we all just sit down and have a little chat?”
Charlotte felt Mr. Blackwood coil like a spring beside her. “We’ve talked enough. Give us the ring.”
Wellington tsked. “I wish I could say it’s good to see you, dear boy. But you not being dead right now is inconvenient for me.”
“I trusted you.” Mr. Blackwood’s voice betrayed his agony at the duke’s deceit. “I thought of you as a . . . father to me, when my own was gone. And all this time, I should have sought revenge upon you.”
“I never did like your father,” said the duke. “He was the sanctimonious sort. It seems the apple doesn’t fall far from that tree. Now sit down.” He drew a pistol from his waistcoat and pointed it at Mr. Blackwood with an expression that made Charlotte’s heart beat fast. “Please,” he added.
But Mr. Blackwood had drawn his own gun. Where had he gotten a gun? For a moment, the two men faced each other down, but then the duke smiled and swung his arm around so that it was pointing, not at any of them, but at the king. “Put your weapon down, or I will murder him,” he said. “I’ve done it before. George III was such a bother. And David here won’t mind—he’ll just inhabit the next in line for the throne. I already have that all arranged.”
Mr. Blackwood took a step forward. Wellington cocked the pistol. “I will do it. I will be very cranky if I must do it. It will cost me time and immeasurable effort. But I will. And then you’ll be responsible for the death of a king. And when the guards arrive I will tell them that you killed him. And who will they believe? I wonder.”
Mr. Blackwood’s arm dropped. “We could duel,” he said softly. “You and me, here and now, and then it would be over.”
The duke shook his head. “I know how good you are, my boy. I taught you myself. No, I think not. If we dueled, one of us would die. Probably you, but why chance it? And besides, perhaps I was hasty in trying to dispatch you earlier. You’re of more value to me alive, dear Alexander. I’ve always been fond of you. If you would only see the importance in what I am doing here, we could be allies once again. Help me. Support my cause. Surely you can see all that I’ve accomplished, and all that I will accomplish, as prime minister, and as . . . advisor to the king.”
“So it’s true,” Mrs. Rochester said. “You mean to rule England.”
“Of course I do. The king is a moron. The members of Parliament, only more so. The people require a firm hand to guide them. To lead them.”
“We will never join you,” said Mr. Blackwood.
“Speak for yourself,” said the duke.
“Never,” said Mr. Rochester.
“Never again,” murmured Mrs. Rochester. The Rochesters took hands. “Jamais. This time we will stop you,” she said darkly. “We will see this evil ended.”
“You two have always been tiresome,” the duke said. “I should have done away with you at the same time I dealt with his father.”
Mr. Blackwood gave a choked furious cry, but did not, to Charlotte’s surprise, attack the man who had killed his father. “You will pay,” he growled instead. “You will pay for all of it.”
The duke ignored him. He turned to address Jane. “Miss Eyre, I meant every word I said about how much the Society needs you. I would entreat you to stay in your position with us, serve as my star agent, my Beacon of light, and help me to usher in an era of peace and prosperity the likes of which this nation has never seen.”
“Go to hell,” said Jane. (Which was really shocking language for a woman of this time. But she was obviously starting to become annoyed at people telling her what to do.)
“Oh, well. Perhaps . . . Mr. Brontë.” The duke moved on. “I could reinstate you immediately. You could be a credit to your family, instead of an embarrassment.”
“He is a credit to our family,” Charlotte said before Bran could answer.
The duke’s eyes flickered to her. “And you, the charming but unfortunately nearsighted sister. You could be initiated as well. I am sure you could be quite useful to us . . . in some way I haven’t yet discerned. Did you know that I’m your uncle?” He chuckled darkly. “I had two miserable sisters, once.”
“What?” Charlotte gasped, shocked. “Our mother?”
“I’d be willing to make you my heirs. Think about it. That twenty thousand pounds a year, after I die. You’d be rich.”
“Twenty thousand pounds!” came Helen’s voice from behind them.
“Oh, Helen. You can’t take it with you,” said Jane.
“Go. To. Hell,” Charlotte enunciated plainly.
The duke smiled. “Oh, dear. Do you at least have my book? You checked it out, Miss Eyre, but you did not return it in a timely fashion. Give it back to me at once, or there will be consequences.”
A shudder made its way down Charlotte’s spine. There was nothing so disturbing to her as an overdue book. Possible fines. It was very scary.
Jane held up the Book of the Dead. “We’re going to keep it, thank you. You’ve clearly been abusing its power.”
The duke sighed dramatically. “Well, this puts me in a rather awkward position. I, of course, wish to remain as I am, as the prime minister and the caretaker—you might say—to the king. You obviously mean to stop me, and will not be reasoned with. Therefore I must get rid of you. The easiest way would be to kill you all. I have a gun, but then so do you, and I find that I am outnumbered. Obviously that won’t work.” He sighed again. “So I’m afraid I’ll have to stick to my initial plan of killing poor old William IV.” He was still aiming the gun at the king’s head.
“All right,” said the king. “But it’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”
“Only for a moment.”
“But then you’ll put me back into the next king,” the white-haired man said slowly.
“Yes. After I frame Mr. Blackwood and his friends for regicide.”
“Wait a second.” King Mitten hesitated. “Isn’t the next in line for the throne actually a woman?”
“It’s a girl. Victoria, I think her name is.” The duke chuckled. “As if a woman could ever rule a country without a man behind her secretly pulling the strings.”
Charlotte’s mouth opened. “That doesn’t make sense. Elizabeth was a great queen!”
“But . . . a girl?” Mitten looked doubtful.
“You’ll get to be young again, and beautiful, and rich,” said the duke.
But the man who resembled the king was frowning deeply. “I don’t think I would be comfortable, you know, in a woman’s body.”
“You’d get used to it,” argued the duke.
“No, I wouldn’t. Even being in this old fellow is a bit odd. His back aches from all the sitting, and he has too much hair in his nose, but at least the equipment’s all the same. I don’t want to be a girl.”
“You’ll be what I say you’ll be.” Wellington sounded angry. “Now hold still.”
“No!” The king (or the ghost inside of the king) jumped to his feet. “I don’t want to be a girl! I won’t! You can’t make me.”
The duke scowled and tried to shoot him, but at that moment Mr. Blackwood darted in and grabbed the duke’s arm, at the same time that Bran leapt forward and tackled the king to the floor. Charlotte’s heart seized at the thought that her brother might take the bullet himself, but instead it shattered a rather expensive-looking vase in the corner. The duke shoved Mr. Blackwood back and pointed his gun at Jane.
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot her!” he cried.
Everyone—even the king, who had continued to repeat how he did not want to be a girl—froze.
The duke smoothed his hair back. “I know you love her,” he sneered at Mr. Blackwood. “Even though she’s so remarkably plain, you love her, and if you try to get at me, I’ll kill her right before your eyes.”
“What?” Charlotte squeaked. “What did you say about love?”
“Him?” Jane said incredulously, at the very same moment that Mr. Blackwood said, “Her?”
“You’re obviously in love,” said the duke. “You kept talking about her—how resourceful she was, and quick-witted, and how you wanted her to be an agent. And you—” He turned to Jane. “You were so devastated when I told you that he was dead. Because you—”
“She’s more of a friend, is all,” said Mr. Blackwood. “But we’re not—”
“Right, they’re not in love,” said Charlotte. “You’re reading it all wrong.”
“I have a thing for Rochester,” confessed Jane. “It’s not healthy.”
Mr. Rochester coughed uncomfortably. “My dear, I am so sorry at what my brother put you through while he was in control of my body. I couldn’t stop him. I wish there was something I could have—”
“Oh, no,” Jane said demurely. “I know it wasn’t your fault. I would never blame you.”
Mr. Rochester gave a short laugh. “And goodness—I’m old enough to be your father, aren’t I? As a matter of fact, we have a—”
“And you love your wife,” Mrs. Rochester added loudly.
He turned to gaze at her. “Yes. I love my wife. More than anything.”
“That’s wonderful,” murmured Jane. “I’m so happy for you. I—”
“I feel we’re getting off topic,” interrupted the duke. But then he didn’t say anything more. Instead, he grabbed a large painting from the wall—this one actually turned out to be one of William IV, himself, and hurled it at them. They ducked, and the duke took the opportunity to flee, screaming for the guards that there had been an attempt on the life of the king.
“He’ll go back to his lair—I mean, his library,” Mr. Blackwood cried. “It’s just across the park from here. We should try to catch him before he gets there.” Mr. Blackwood clearly wanted to go after him. But there was still the issue of . . .
“The king,” Mrs. Rochester said. “Is he all right?”
“I don’t want to be a girl,” whined Mr. Mitten/the king. “That wasn’t in the agreement.”
“You don’t have to be a girl,” Bran said kindly. “Although the dresses are pretty.”
“He’s getting away,” hissed Mr. Rochester.
“Go,” Charlotte said. “You and Jane can go after Wellesley. Bran and I will see to the king, and then we’ll catch up.”
Mr. Blackwood gave her a grateful smile. “Come on,” he said to the Rochesters and Jane. “Let’s go catch a duke.”
Then they were gone. Everything seemed dreadfully quiet.
“Time to get this ring off you,” Charlotte said, taking the king’s hand.
But he pulled away. “If you take the ring off, I’ll go back to being dead. I don’t want to be a girl, but I don’t want to be dead again, either.”
There was no choice. Charlotte and Bran had to hold the man down and wrestle the ring off his finger. But that was a problem, too, because the king’s fingers were rather fat, and the ring was a bit tight, and it wouldn’t simply slide off. They tugged and tugged, the king squirming and hollering the entire while, but they couldn’t remove the ring. Their efforts had caused the finger to swell. And Charlotte was getting impatient. Every minute they wasted here was a minute she could be helping Mr. Blackwood grapple with Wellesley.
“Perhaps we could try lathering it with soap?” Bran suggested, but there was not a bar of soap to be found.
“Soak it in cool water?”
That didn’t work.
“Butter?”
He held the king down while Charlotte went to look for some, but she could not find butter.
“I found something else.” She’d been acting logically, when she’d suggested that Mr. Blackwood and Jane go after Wellesley. Jane was gifted with ghosts. Mr. Blackwood had training in fighting and whatnot. Charlotte knew how to direct Bran. But it was (figuratively) killing her, that Mr. Blackwood could be in danger, and she wasn’t there. She was out of time.
She pulled the pair of garden shears from behind her back. “I think this will work.”
Bran’s face went milky. The king started to struggle more than ever, but Bran held him.
“Charlie, be serious. You can’t mean to . . .”
“I do mean to.” And she did. Without another moment’s hesitation she knelt beside the king, positioned the shears, and snipped the finger off. The ring (and the accompanying finger) skittered across the carpet. The king’s eyes rolled up, and he went limp. Charlotte used his coat and a string from a nearby velvet curtain to bind his hand. She’d read something about amputation in a book once. She felt a bit woozy on account of all the blood, but she soldiered on.
“Keep it elevated,” she instructed Bran. “When he wakes, give him the finger.”
“The finger.” Bran was looking a bit green himself.
She handed it to him. Then she turned for the door.
“Charlie,” he said. “Where are you going?”
“To Mr. Blackwood, of course. I have to go to him. Now that I’ve got him back, I’m not going to lose him again.”