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“Please do not be angry,” Bestminster said. “We only did what we thought you wanted! Please don’t leave me! I can’t face the Left Luggage Office! We’ve been with you always, and if you put your hairbrushes in someone else, I could die of shame.”
Emily held out her arms and the kitten leapt into them. Bestminster Tabby, the Noble Valise, never had, nor ever would, receive as many kisses from as many people as he did just then. In the flurry of affection, the suitcase could hardly tell who was who. He simply rolled about in it, wriggling from one embrace to the next.
“You weren’t to know!”
“It’s war, man!”
“I told you to; if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”
“I could never be angry at you, Bestminster.”
“Fine job. Just fine. There’s a medal in it for you. You can have mine!”
Bestminster Tabby took all his share of love and more. Then, he hopped down off Charlotte’s shoulder, gave a wriggle and a quiver and a tremble, split in half, swelled up, and became two ordinary (though not very ordinary) suitcases once more.
Emily looked at the door. She reached out her hand to lift the ruined curtain, but could not, quite. George had been right about one thing. School was on the other side of the door. School, and the rest of everything. She turned to Lord Byron. He stared into her eyes with a warm brown gaze.
“In silence we met, in silence I grieve,” he began.
Emily laughed. “I told you to stop that. I am sorry, George. I don’t want to be stuck. Even here. Even anywhere. A tangled-up honeysuckle. I want to be half-savage and hardy and free. For a little while, anyway. I shall consider forgiving you, even though that was a dreadful thing you did. Perhaps. Maybe you can’t help being a little dreadful. I know Branwell can’t. Thank you, anyway, for the horse.”
Lord Byron kissed Emily’s hand. He had a bit of mortar on his lip. It came away on her skin, clinging there grayly.
“Good-bye, Crash,” Charlotte said.
“Good-bye, miss.” The Sergeant kept up his side bravely and did not cry. “Do try to keep cozywarm. And eat three square meals a day. And get lots of rest. And only drink freshbright water. And . . . well, dash it all, I am sorry about our man Wellington. I think he might have made a real Lady of you if it weren’t for getting shot and that.”
Suddenly, Charlotte remembered the note Wellington had given her. She’d meant to keep it to read when she was alone, but she could not be sure what would happen to it between worlds. She reached into her skirts and pulled it out, popping the black wax seal with one fingernail.
My Dear Lady of the Sensible Eyes and Rational Lips,
It was quite a dance after all, don’t you think? And you were right, the steps were rather beside the point. You will have my gratitude forever. And one day, when you are very old indeed, perhaps you will come and meet me on the rich fields of County Nothing, and we will dance again under the Ridsummer sun.
Yours,
Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington
“No,” Charlotte said with a mysterious smile. “I don’t think military men are for me, in the end. Sooner or later, he will want to give me an order, and where would that leave me?”
“Farewell, Gravey,” Emily cried. “Farewell, George. Farewell, Crashey. Farewell, Glass Town!”
Victoria clung to Anne and kissed her cheek. She whispered in her ear: “I’ll make a new story. I’ll start it tonight. I’ll make you whatever you like.”
The stairs went a long way down into the shadows. On the other side, they could smell heather and wintergreen already.
After they’d vanished into the wall of their own house and all had gone quiet for a moment or two, a dark head poked out from behind the tapestry once more.
It was Branwell.
“Go away,” hissed Victoria Alexandrina.
Branwell strode to her side. He lifted her up and kissed her hand in such a gentlemanly manner that it would break your heart to see it. He took her ruined, tattered pages from her.
“Let me fix it,” he said softly. “I can fix it. I’m good at stories. Well, not good, but all right. I shall cut and glue and arrange, just like Mr. Bud and Mr. Tree said back in Ochreopolis, until it all comes out as clear and neat as rain. Oh, there might be a burnt schoolhouse or two left over in the cuttings; editing’s a messy business. But when I’m done, I’ll bring it all back to you, and your England will be as green as mine. I promise.”
Victoria clung onto her pages and shook her head. But little by little, as the moonlight drifted in, she let go. Branwell bowed to her like a true soldier, and slipped away like a shadow.
TWENTY-SIX
