Jane Steele

by Lyndsay Faye

  “What if my remaining here whilst you travelled the globe would rather hamper my contentment than enhance it?” he answered after weighty pause.

  “Then … I should stay here,” I whispered. “With you.”

  Mr. Thornfield dashed his fingers over his eyes. “You’ve had an inheritance, you say.”

  “Sir?”

  “An endowment, a legacy, a bequest, you contrary sprite.”

  “Yes, and a generous one.”

  “So you’ve no need of gainful employment any longer? You are an independent woman of means who requires no assistance to make her way in the world. Pressed duck served on fine china, Belgian lace edging your lowliest handkerchief, servants used as ottomans—all this, and without the necessity of drudgery. No longer need you talk horses for six hours daily to earn your bread and cheese.”

  I saw what troubled him then, and thought to tease him; instead, I laughed, and drew a step closer.

  “I like horses,” said I, lungs tight with feeling. “I always have done.”

  “Do you like dreadfully draughty English country houses?”

  “I did not always, but I have grown to.”

  “What about curry?”

  “Everyone likes curry, sir.”

  “Could you like a former Company medic who keeps a morgue in the cellar?” He smiled with such tender sadness that it nearly felled me.

  “I don’t like him—I love him. You aren’t wearing gloves.”

  “So it would seem. Jane,” he said, and then neither of us was speaking, for his mouth was sweetly, reverently pressed to mine, his hands at my nape and on my cheek, and when my lips parted and I tasted all the affection he had kept so long buried, I knew that no words could possibly have served as well as his kiss did.

  “You don’t know what it did to me.” Breaking away fractionally, he clenched a fold of my skirt in his right hand. “At least before, I could hear your step upstairs, or know you were riding, or catch your laugh when passing my study. One is not always directly regarding the full moon, Jane—but should it disappear, the oceans would rot. I was rotting already when you found me, and then your tide pulled, and you were gone so long. A mere matter of weeks, but still … how long till you leave me again?”

  Kissing him once more seemed the right answer, but I could manage it only briefly. Realising as one that others’ needs should be seen to quicker than ours, we hastened out of the cottage where I grew up, and back to the main house, the sky a faint lavender like a bruise almost forgotten.

  • • •

  The following day, preparations had been made for Charles Thornfield and myself to travel to London with all possible haste; Mr. Quillfeather had made our position clear to us, the village doctor fetched to tend to Sardar Singh in the meanwhile. I breakfasted with Sahjara and Mr. Thornfield, all of us sombre despite our victories. When I laid down my fork, I looked up to discover blue eyes studying me as if I were some sort of miracle, and an irrepressible smile spread over my features.

  After the kiss, we had parted, and I believe Mr. Thornfield sat up with Mr. Singh for most of the night. Still—there was a crackling in the air between us now, something electric and wanting.

  “May I see Mr. Singh alone?” I asked him. “I feel I cannot leave without thanking him for my continued existence.”

  “Of course. By extension I owe him my own, for I should have borne the loss of you with very bad grace.”

  Sahjara looked up curiously, lips curving. “Are you staying, then, Miss Stone?”

  “If Mr. Thornfield will keep me after we conduct an important conversation, then yes.”

  “Naturally I’ll keep you, we’re all of us deuced keen to keep you—we’ve considered the benefits of shackles,” he huffed. “A conversation on what subject?”

  “My name, sir. But first I must see Mr. Singh, and then we must be off, and after all is settled with Mr. Sack, then I must tell you a story.”

  Charles Thornfield scowled, and shrugged, and said it was all very good if I wanted to play games with him, that I was incapable of changing his mind, and then he swept off to see our carriage was packed. I kissed Sahjara atop her dark head, and then I hurried upstairs to the bedroom where Sardar Singh lay recovering.

  Knocking first, I entered; the injured man was propped upon pillows in his darkened bedchamber, his arm bound in a sling with copious bandaging at the end of it. I could smell herbs and wine from the poultice, incense from a small metal holder in the corner of the room. The walls here—my father’s old bedchamber, I realised, thought to be my dead uncle’s—had been converted almost entirely into shelves containing score upon score of books, many cracking like so many ancient stone tablets.

  “You needn’t look like that, Miss Stone.” Mr. Singh’s voice was rusty but sure. “Charles stitched me up again, and I cannot imagine anyone taking greater care.”

  “Without gloves, no less.”

  “A triumph borne of misfortune, yes. He managed on the battlefield with far cruder measures, going so quickly from fallen to fallen.”

  I perched upon the edge of the bed. Mr. Singh’s brow was strained, though not yet feverish, and his head was bare; his long hair glistened faintly, but seemed almost dry, and he smiled at my speechlessness.

  “There was blood in it,” he rasped. “Highly dishonourable—it felt almost worse than my arm. One of the servants will be along shortly to tie it up again, for this …” He waved at his injured limb.

  “Oh, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. Please forgive me,” I begged.

  “For the loss of my hand?” He shook his head. “There is nothing to forgive—you were the one truly endangered, after all. At last I am able to offer a true sacrifice: a disfigurement upon the altar of justice. Or so I tell myself. Monkishness is second nature to me, but as to my hand—I was quite attached to it.”

  “So often the way with hands,” I agreed, and then we were laughing like overwrought children, wrung to the highest pitch of nerves, and there were tears in my eyes when I added, “I am also sorry for the loss of your friend.”

  “Yes, Charles told me.” He sighed, a devastated look clouding his strong features. “This is on my head, not yours.”

  “You ought not blame yourself any more than Charles ought to blame himself for your sister’s demise.”

  “I shall have to teach myself that wisdom slowly, Miss Stone, as did he.”

  I wanted to ask if he had suspected Garima Kaur loved him, but thought the question cruel.

  “What does the name Garima mean?” I asked instead.

  “There isn’t quite an equivalent in English.” Shifting, he settled farther back into the nest of pillows. “A crossroads between dignity and pride, perhaps.”

  “Do people’s names always seal their fates, or only in the Sikh culture?”

  He smiled again, though it did not erase the lines of suffering etched upon his brow. “I sound superstitious, don’t I? I do think that when God gifts a parent with insight, a child’s name will reflect their soul. Take Jane Stone, for instance—it suits, does it not?”

  “It’s the plainest of given names and an adopted surname,” I confessed.

  “Ah. Is it really? Nevertheless, I believe you mistaken. We are so locked within ourselves, we often lack perspective on these subjects—I take it to mean a rock, an island in the midst of perilous seas, and Jane is from the Hebrew, you know.”

  I had not known. “What does it mean?”

  Mr. Singh’s eyes, though laced with red spider’s silk, twinkled thoughtfully. “Gift from a gracious God. I have found it, you will pardon me, not unfitting.”

  Rather than stem my tears, this spurred more. “You are far too kind to me.”

  “It is a great privilege, to have the opportunity of being kind to anyone. What is your real surname, if you’ll pardon my asking?”

  “I don’t precisely have one—but it used to be Steele. I mean to tell Charles the whole story after Sack is dealt with; I shall give you a full accoun
t then, I promise you. Rest well.”

  “Steele,” he mused as I quit his bedside. “Better and better—strength, resistance, a fighting spirit.”

  “I’ll need all I have just to enter East India House again,” I said from his threshold. “Mr. Sack is a brute and I shan’t relish seeing him again, even with Mr. Thornfield there.”

  “So that is the meaning of all this bustling.” Sardar Singh’s eyes narrowed into knife blades. “You are off to London. What do you mean to do there?”

  “To give up the treasure,” said I, gently shutting the door.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “No—no—Jane; you must not go. No—I have touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence—the sweetness of your consolation: I cannot give up these joys.”

  Are you mad?” Augustus P. Sack circled his own desk like a jackal.

  He was discomfited; I, Charles Thornfield, Sam Quillfeather, and Cyrus Sneeves had descended on him without warning. Freely do I admit that we brought the treasure he sought, and freely did we give it—expecting at any moment the arrival of another guest.

  Mr. Sack, for a man who had been seeking a single prize for so many years, did not seem sufficiently glad to have it in view. Soon, I understood this was due to the fact he had loved tormenting Messrs. Thornfield and Singh with that the same glad viciousness which had caused him to tear my necklace from my throat; in addition, he suspected something amiss with the generous overture.

  He was perfectly correct.

  “Our demands are entirely reasonable, sir,” my solicitor droned. To Mr. Sneeves’s immense credit, confronting the East India Company sounded as if it were the duller sort of business to conduct on any given Thursday. “You are welcome to this box so long as you never reveal from whence it originated. Mention of the Punjab is acceptable, but this gentleman is to be released from all liability regarding the ownership of these gemstones. To that effect, you shall simply sign this paperwork exonerating Charles Thornfield of any wrongdoing, and I shall have it copied and delivered to any litigators in your employ.”

  “Surely you will comply, Mr. Sack?” Mr. Quillfeather pressed. “You now have my full report regarding the unsolved murder of John Clements, and the killer is beyond the punishment of mortals. All this, and a fortune in recovered property—what could be a happier circumstance?”

  Charles Thornfield, meanwhile, continued to say nothing. When we had learnt the true intentions of the Company soldiers from Inspector Quillfeather, he had expressed profound relief; the sight of Augustus Sack, however, predictably wreaked havoc with his digestion. He sat expressionless before the political, one finger framing his temple, boring holes into the enemy with his pupils.

  “You’ve forgot your gloves, Thornfield,” the Company man hissed.

  “Lucky for you, or I would be challenging you to a duel with ’em,” Mr. Thornfield drawled. “Are you ready to steal a little girl’s property, Auggie, or shall we keep gassing? The box sits before you. You’ve won. It’s the last pound of my flesh and Sardar’s you’ll be taking.”

  “And exactly how does she come into this, then?” Mr. Sack’s full lips curled in a sneer. “Miss Jane Stone, governess, who claimed to have robbed you of the trunk and then was hauled off in a police wagon. What am I to make of it?”

  “A profit, I had presumed,” said I. Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Glancing from Mr. Quillfeather to Mr. Thornfield, I could not suppress a tiny pursed smile.

  There was no knock. There was no warning. There was simply a tattoo of approaching footsteps and then the door banged open, revealing a half dozen Company soldiers and the man they all referred to as the Director.

  “Oh, thank heaven,” Mr. Thornfield sighed, crossing his legs. “I was on the verge of physical violence.”

  “Sir,” spluttered Mr. Sack. “I … You are most welcome. To what do I owe the honour—er, pleasure—of this visit?”

  The soldiers from the previous day, resplendent in their white and red coats, formed a neat file behind their leader. The Director was a tall man, impeccably dressed in sober black with silver trimmings; he carried a cane but seemed not to require its use, and his face called to mind a dignified greyhound, lean and efficient. He tapped twice with his cane upon the carpet.

  “Inspector Quillfeather, I offer you my congratulations.” The Director’s voice was high but firm. “Charles Thornfield, it has been too long, too long indeed, sir. It is a pleasure to see you in better health.”

  Mr. Sack sank back into his desk chair like a deflated balloon.

  “By the Lord, you’re in fine fettle, sir.” Mr. Thornfield offered his hand to the head of the Company. “Thank you for meeting us.”

  “You have made it well worth my while.” The Director smiled coldly. “I was informed by Mr. Quillfeather here that you were being … how shall I put this … meddled with by certain of my staff. I at once launched my own internal investigation, and I have it on good authority that you are a wronged man. Naturally, the happy recovery of the item in question also sparked my keen interest, and I lost no time in sending a small body of troops to your residence after I had discovered the truth. Thankfully, I am told they were not required to defend you and Mr. Singh. Your services to the Crown and your family’s favours in the importation line have not been forgot and indeed continue to be valued overseas.”

  “I’m damned grateful for your memory, sir,” Mr. Thornfield replied.

  “Do you hold fast to your decision to turn these spoils of war over to the Company?” The Director tapped the crate with his cane, eyes gleaming with avarice.

  “If I never see ’em again, I’ll die happier than I ever expected to.”

  “We were just discussing the remaining formalities and awaiting Mr. Sack’s signature,” Mr. Cyrus Sneeves intoned, taking a large pinch of snuff to fortify himself.

  Augustus P. Sack’s rosy features had paled during this exchange beyond a shade I had thought possible; he now gaped, fish-mouthed, as the Director stared at him with all the tender affection of a mongoose eyeing a snake. The soldiers at the back of the room stood at parade rest, eyes forward.

  “Of course, of course.” Suddenly Mr. Sack was scrabbling at the documents on his desk, as if being asked to address them for the first time. “I shall be only too happy to sign.”

  “See that you are.” The Director nodded to the soldiers; two sprang neatly into action, lifting the crate. “Take this directly to my private chambers—I shall be informing the prime minister I require a word with him this afternoon. Inspector Quillfeather, we are grateful for your efforts on behalf of Mr. Clements; Mr. Thornfield, thank you for your cooperation.”

  “I was only too happy,” Mr. Thornfield parroted at Mr. Sack.

  “There is one other small matter,” said I.

  It was, of course, highly unlikely that the Director had ever been detained by a woman within the very walls of East India House, but a man who is a veteran of foreign wars ought to prepare himself for the unexpected, I reasoned. Dumbfounded, the Director tapped his cane against the rug again, frowning darkly, as Mr. Sack’s complexion shifted from white to green.

  “Mr. Sack was under the mistaken impression that he confiscated a piece of Karman Kaur’s treasure from me, when it was in fact my property. I should like the misunderstanding rectified, and the necklace returned immediately.”

  Mr. Quillfeather hid a smile, and Mr. Thornfield chuckled.

  My solicitor’s speckled head bobbed dutifully as he suggested Mr. Sack send the item round to his offices.

  “Do as she says, Mr. Sack,” the Director commanded. “And afterwards, you can clear out your belongings and quit this establishment permanently. You need not expect a reference of any kind from us—I will not tolerate conspiracies fomenting under my very nose. Unless, that is, I am invited to take part in them—trumped-up politicos with delusions of importance have toppled entire empires. I think everyone here knows to which I refer specifically. Deliver Miss Stone what you owe
her, and pray to God Charles Thornfield doesn’t whip you through the streets like a stray pup. He would certainly, I daresay, have ample cause.”

  • • •

  We found ourselves, Charles Thornfield and I, walking slowly down a wide avenue in Westminster after finishing a celebratory repast with Sam Quillfeather. The high-hung moon was as pearly as the oysters we had consumed, and the cold wind whistled along the cobbles. It was the sort of silver-lit midnight which always reminded me of my mother, and made me wish there had been more picnics before she left the cottage and our garden forever.

  Not having been sure of the outcome of our adventure, we had made no plans; now we strolled under winter plane trees, their inky fingers grasping at the stars, watching the lights flickering from within the pubs and the parlours. Mr. Thornfield was quiet with the uneasy calm of learning a long ordeal was behind him, as if not quite believing his fortunes had altered; I was equally still, but with apprehension.

  My desire to never be parted from him was as ardent as my desire for breath; but I knew, should I fail to broach the subject of my past, I could become a puppet Jane, all wooden limbs and painted smiles. Reader, I do not foolishly suppose any one person can ever achieve perfect eloquence regarding their memories and affections and fears; if I did not take courage, however, I should always be viewing the man I loved through four eyes instead of two, ever cognisant of the monster hid deep in the back of my head.

  “You are troubled, Jane.”

  I looked down in some surprise; his hand had caught mine within the folds of the cloak I had borrowed from Sahjara, as I had never made spectacular achievements in the realm of height and did not care it failed to quite reach my ankles. The fact that we were both gloved against the chill did little to diminish the pulse which surged through me.

  “If this—if I—am unwelcome,” he attempted, “please tell me so quickly. I recall your feelings as stated with exact clarity, I promise you, but I am overwhelmed. When a chap announces, ‘I fancy that star in the sky,’ and the star is actually amenable—’tisn’t likely to be true, you see.”