As she spoke, my eyes grew heavy. The warmth of the fire, the light repast I had enjoyed, the hot bath—and the stress of travel and my robbery—all conspired to make me drowsy. I was still hungry, but sleep was of a more pressing need. “I believe I should like to lie down for a while before dinner.”
“Of course.” Lucy gathered Rags under her arm. “Sweet dreams, little sister.”
But before I could allow myself the luxury of a nap, I quickly penned a letter to Edward:
Dear Husband,
I am arrived in London. I find myself more tired than I would have guessed.
Mrs. Lucy Brayton has welcomed me with affection, as you said she would. She is lovely and very gracious. I am afraid I was not much company. I could barely keep my eyes open over our tea. She graciously offered me the use of her carriage.
First thing tomorrow, I will visit Adèle.
Give our son a hundred kisses from his mother.
I already miss both of you terribly. I know you are coming soon, and I can scarcely wait to see you again!
Your loving wife,
Jane Eyre Rochester
P.S. There was an unfortunate incident at a coaching inn on the Great North Road. I am a bit bruised, but otherwise, I am fine. I shall write more later.
Chapter 6
I slept through dinner, vaguely aware that Polly had tried valiantly to rouse me. Thus refreshed, I awakened in the morning at seven, a habit derived from checking on my son. The sky hung black as a funeral crepe, and torrents of rain beat against the window glass. Polly heard me stirring and brought me my dress. Not a smidgeon of mud blemished the skirt. I thanked her profusely for her hard work. When she heard I planned to visit the school, she suggested my black silk worn with a tucker. However, it was one of my better gowns, and a quick glance outside told me the rain was not letting up.
“I shall simply wear my gray corded muslin again,” I said to Polly, and asked her about breakfast.
“Cook don’t make anything before ten because Mrs. Captain isn’t up till then. Lady guests don’t usually get up as early as you. How about a cup of tea, ma’am?” She went to ask Sadie to bring it up for me.
As I drank the reviving beverage, Polly assembled my clothing. I could tell by her lack of enthusiasm that she thought my choice ill-advised. Nevertheless, she helped me into my undergarments. I moaned a little with pain as she tightened my stays.
“Sorry, ma’am,” she said.
After I was dressed, Polly brushed my hair, parted it, and, at my direction, pulled it neatly into two coils, one on each side of my head.
To finish my toilette, I added the tiny pearl pin from Maria Temple to the front of my dress. Compared to Lucy’s finery of the night before, the brooch seemed whimsical, but it brought me such happy thoughts of my old teacher that I decided it must stay.
“Is Williams available? Please tell him to bring the carriage around front.” With that—and more thanks—I dismissed the girl.
I had decided it was best to first see Adèle, assure myself that she was fine, and then return to the Braytons’ home. The cook would have set out breakfast by the time I returned. Thus, I could eat at my leisure, pen a note to Edward, and perhaps visit Hatchards while Lucy was making her afternoon social calls.
But as the coach started rolling, I debated the wisdom of my plan. My stomach growled with hunger, recalling my missed dinner. The motion of the carriage produced a light-headed sensation.
Suddenly, we came to a stop. Peeking out the window, I realized we sat at the end of a lane, a goodly distance from any houses.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Mrs. Rochester, but I dunno if I can get us closer to the school. There are several carriages blocking the way.” Williams positioned himself half in and half out of the Braytons’ landau door, his awkward straddle baptizing me with fresh torrents of rain.
“We have arrived?” The trip from the Braytons’ to Alderton House was much shorter than I had expected.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That is the school up ahead? That large building on the right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Braving the rain, I stuck my head out farther and surveyed our situation. “Can you not get me any closer, Williams?”
“I’ll see what I can do, ma’am.” The coachman doffed his cap—not the best idea since the rain ran over his head and shoulders—and took off to determine why the conveyances ahead of us were stopped. He returned shortly and said, “The jarvey up ahead warns me they ain’t moving. We could turn around. Come back later.”
I considered that perhaps I should return to the Braytons’. I could go back to bed and await breakfast, postpone my visit to Alderton House for a few hours, or even another day, and perhaps change into a dress more suitable for my status. Wasn’t it Glebe who’d remarked that I didn’t look like a lady who’d own diamonds?
But Adèle needs me.
With that thought uppermost in my mind, I made up my mind. I moved toward the door of the coach.
My right eye had swollen so alarmingly that sight was difficult. But I ignored my injuries and squinted out the window as the rain poured over the brim of my bonnet. Beyond the stalled carriages stood two figures in black, clearly involved in conversation, their heads invisible under a large black umbrella.
“That’s a fine-looking Berlin,” said Williams, staring at one of the carriages. He spoke more to himself than to me. “Fast and light, but hard to overturn.”
“Is one conveyance markedly better than another?” My curiosity got the better of me.
Williams’s jaw dropped. “Certainly, ma’am. Why, just look at it!”
What was it Edward had once told me? “In London, ostentatious style determines one’s pecking order. The citizens of that town judge one another with the same sort of assessment a farmer generally bestows on livestock.”
“I shall get out here,” I declared, having made my decision.
“No, ma’am! Please, no, you cannot! Mrs. Brayton finds out, she will have my hide!”
I doubted that. Stuffed and mounted he wouldn’t make much of a prize. Williams certainly would not enhance her fine marble entryway.
“I’ll speak on your behalf. My mind’s made up.” I struggled to open the door, and Williams hurried to help me down. I swallowed a whimper as I stepped first on the lozenge-shaped carriage step and finally onto the uneven cobblestones.
The smells of London assailed me: damp wool, wet coal dust, moist peat smoke, running waste from chamber pots, and piles of fresh, steaming horse droppings. All this at a highly desirable address! I could only imagine the squalor of the rookeries in Holborn, those wretched quarters where I had been told that thieves, children, hogs, and dogs vied for food and shelter.
“Williams, those two men block the front door. How else might I enter?”
“See the wrought iron railing with the steps going down? That’s called the area. But it’s for the trade and servants. Wouldn’t do for quality like you!”
Two years ago, I wouldn’t have been welcome anywhere except through the servants’ entrance. My wardrobe may not have changed, but every other aspect of my world had.
“Thank you, but it will have to do,” I said, my tone brooking no argument.
Williams tipped his hat again and said, “Very well. I shall wait for you around the corner, ma’am!” With that, he hopped back up to his high perch.
I hurried against the wind as it buffeted me up and down, the way a kite gets tossed about on a fretful spring day. Picking my way through the puddles, I discovered a walkway. I gave a wide berth to the two men—who still stood on the front steps, talking in urgent tones and totally ignorant of my presence—and I continued until I could grasp the wrought iron fencing and follow it along. I was nearly at the bottom of the stairs when the two men ended their conversation.
One hopped into the Berlin and took off down the street. The other opened the front door of Alderton House and disappeared inside. He came right back outside, hi
s hands gripping a long, low plank. On it was a bundle covered by a white sheet. A partner carried the other end of the burden, both struggling to keep their footing as they navigated into the wind.
Unexpectedly, the wind changed direction. The gust knocked the men sidewise—and pushed me against one of the house walls. I watched helplessly as the men struggled to regain their balance by juggling their load. A corner of the white fabric worked free from the stretcher.
The wet sheet rose up like a sleeping creature comes awake. The fabric swayed first this way, then that. Snapping and snarling in the wind.
I shivered at the sight of it, an inanimate object come to life to dance a demonic jig.
The new man shrieked and nearly dropped his end of the transport. The other man responded with guttural curses, first at his partner, then at the elusive fabric that jerked up and away from his grasp.
The cursing man reached high and snatched at the white sheet, finally dragging it. The pelting rain ought to have plastered it down, but the fabric refused to stay pinioned. It jumped free of his hand once more, and flew up to reveal what was in the bundle.
A body with skin as white as chalk.
Chapter 7
While the men loaded their burden into the hackney, I knocked on a heavy door. My repeated appeal brought no answer.
Desperate for shelter, I gave the door a push. When it refused to yield, I set my shoulder to it.
The door swung open with a loud groan. Hanging firmly on the handle, I spun about, making a tight half circle. Thus, I staggered inside, backside first.
“About time you arrived,” said a voice behind me.
I completed another half turn and used my back to slam the door.
“Aye, and don’t that just cap the globe?”
A woman stared boldly at me. She wore a cook’s apron, and a trace of flour smudged her broad forehead. She squinted and stepped closer to examine me. “What a sight! Ain’t only the rain that’s been beating on ye! Someone has been giving ye a good what for!”
A low snicker drew my attention to a young girl chopping vegetables.
“That will be enough, Emma,” said Cook.
Resting my back against the door, I caught my breath. The short walk in the elements—and the disturbing glimpse I’d had of a dead girl—had drained my reserves of energy. My compelling desire to see Adèle was all that fueled me.
“Wouldn’t send me worst dog out in this weather, I wouldn’t. Go on and get over by the fire.”
Following her directives, I stepped nearer to the wide brick hearth, where yellow, orange, and red coals glowed brightly. There I proceeded to shake the rain from my garments. As I moved, my bonnet tilted. More water dripped down, splashing a wooden box lined with rags. One of these shifted, revealing a large, lugubrious black cat. He hunched his spine in a stretch before settling into a seated position, where he regarded me haughtily.
I stared back.
He didn’t blink. His gaze suggested he felt quite my superior.
But then, he was dry, and I was not.
“Hope ye ain’t superstitious. That there is Mephisto, and he is the very devil. Ain’t got a spot of white nowhere. Mean, but a good mouser. Got a soft spot for the girls, he does. He’ll scratch you and me till we bleed like we been stuck with knives”—Cook pulled up a sleeve to show me the proof—“but he don’t never hurt the students. Never.”
Mephisto twitched his nose at me, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
“Ah,” was all I could manage. I unpeeled my wet shawl from my aching shoulders. With effort, I wrung it out on the floor. Water ran in rivers.
Cook kept up a rhythmic turning and slapping of dough against a flour-dusted tabletop. Small clouds of flour flew around and resettled. Emma chopped her vegetables in a stately cadence.
“Emma, put that down. Run tell Miss Miller that her German teacher has finally arrived. All the way from Hamburg, she has come to us.”
A correction formed in my mind as a wave of tiredness and hunger nearly bowled me over. One hand on a nearby counter steadied me, temporarily.
Emma took her time untying her apron, clearly using Cook’s instructions as an excuse to examine me at length. “That is quite the black eye,” the girl said.
“Aye, it is. Now run along.” Cook left the dough and slid a long-handled wooden paddle under three fresh loaves in the oven. My stomach growled at the aroma of baking bread and caraway seeds.
I wasn’t alone. Emma cast a rueful glance at the fresh-baked bread before aligning her knife with the pile of half-peeled turnips. “Aye.”
“Mind, she might be too busy. What with what has happened and all. If she is, ask her what to do with this one.” Cook spoke in an undertone, but I could still hear. “I cannot have her hanging around my kitchen, not with those beggar eyes. Well, one beggar eye. The other is all swelled shut.”
I edged nearer to a shiny copper pot hanging from the ceiling. There I caught my reflection. The right side of my face resembled an angry purple pansy. My mouth was double its normal size. A bright red slash divided my lower lip in two.
I was glad I hadn’t examined my injuries more carefully back at Lucy Brayton’s house. They were horrible!
Suddenly, the purpose that kept me rigid, the force that had compelled me to keep going, vanished. My knees went weak and I wobbled a bit.
“Sit.” Cook shoved a stool beneath me. From the cupboard she retrieved a white china teapot, festooned with forget-me-nots and finished with a gold trim. The piece took on an unexpected glow of delicacy in that dreary, heavy kitchen.
I sank down and rubbed my forehead. Closing my eyes, I surrendered to a parade of images: little Ned in his cot, the long carriage ride with Mr. Carter, the trip in the mail coach, the man who came from the shadows at the inn and—
“Here.” Cook poured from the teapot, her chapped red hands thickly incongruous against the translucent white of the pot. She pressed a mug of lukewarm tea toward me. I took a tentative sip. I wished it had milk and sugar, but I was grateful nonetheless.
I closed my eyes to savor the brew. One more image impressed itself on my brain—a flapping sheet, the spectral silhouette I’d witnessed from the walkway.
I squeezed the thick mug, trying to transfer its warmth. I was cold and hungry and tired. When the senses are overstimulated, the imagination naturally attempts mediation, doesn’t it? I decided that my mind had taken my concern for Adèle, my guilt at not visiting, her fearful letter, and my own memories of Lowood and woven all these separate occurrences into a new and fantastical tale. Mixed together with the sight of a sheet flapping in the wind, I’d invented a dramatic intrigue. My mind had merely woven disparate visions together, hoping to create a narrative, even where none existed.
That couldn’t have been a dead body that I had seen.
Taken in tandem with the threat to Adèle, it conjured up all sorts of wild imaginings.
Don’t go there, Jane, I warned myself. Keep to your plan. Surely Adèle is fine!
Industry. I wanted motion and purpose to keep my emotions in check. I drained the mug. Before I could thank the cook, she took the cup from me and turned her back on me.
“Hamburg. That’s a long way away, eh? Ye been running from someone. He done ye harm, eh?”
She had confused me with someone else. I opened my mouth to correct her, but before I could, she said, “No matter. Miss Miller will be happy to see ye. Especially after what happened this morning. She is going to need all the help she can get, I’ll warrant.”
“Miss Miller, the headmistress?” The name was familiar. However, there are nearly as many Millers in England as there are sheep on the hillsides.
“Who else would it be?” Cook laughed, a snort of derision that sent a cloud of flour flying. “Mrs. Thurston, the superintendent, would not be talking with the likes of ye. Nor would ye be passing the time of day with Lady Kingsley, the founder. If Mrs. Thurston did have a tick to spare for ye, wouldn’t she give ye what for? Showing
up like this. Three weeks late.”
Clearly, she still took me for the errant teacher. By dressing in an improper manner for my station in life, I now realized how I invited misinterpretation. Breaches of etiquette did, indeed, send the wrong message, especially here in fashionable London.
I shivered. Digging deep into my skirt pocket, tunneling through the wet fabric, my hand bypassed the soggy note from Adèle, plus the offensive threat, and withdrew a limp handkerchief in time to cover my sneeze.
Cook looked up and set fists on her hips. Her watery blue eyes lingered on my bruises. “I had one of ’em once. Talked with his fists, he did. He was a good man, except when after he had himself too much whiskey.”
I attempted to nod and was rewarded for my efforts by a stabbing pain in my temple. My fingers flew to my eye. They cautiously explored the swelling flesh. The bulge was big as an apple now. I believe that I whimpered.
“Well, ye’re here and ye’re safe. It’s an ill wind that blows no good, I always say. Ye look smart enough, like ye spends all yer time reading. That’ll make ye all skinny and pale. My daughter looked a bit like ye.”
“Did she?” I perched on a stool. A pain shot through my ribs. I bit back a moan.
“Ye’re hurt bad, ain’t ye? I’ll get ye a piece of meat to put on that eye. Just ready to turn it into a nice stew, but it won’t hurt my cooking to wait, and it might do ye a world of good.”
“Thank you kindly.” What I really wanted was another hot cup of tea with milk and sugar, and perhaps a piece of that bread. My eye could not be helped, I feared, but my stamina was fading quickly.
“Ye speak English right nicely. Blimey. I bet learning German is awful hard.”
With consideration to my mistaken identity, I quickly added, “Danke.”
“Aye. Don’t hold much with foreigners.”
“I was born in Thornton, Yorkshire.” No need to tell her that my cousins and I taught ourselves German by reading great literature with a dictionary propped open on our knees. Thinking of Diana and her sister, Mary, I pulled my dripping shawl tighter around me.
Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles Page 7
