Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  Glad to be alone, I struggled up two sets of stairs and into the guest bedroom, which was a veritable garden of yellow and green gaiety. As I fidgeted with my clothes, Polly knocked at the door and came to my aid. I wasn’t accustomed to having help dressing, but as tired as I was, I had to admit I was glad to see the girl.

  Polly was a bright young lass, probably all of thirteen. With a deft hand, she managed my buttons. Before stepping free of my skirt, I pulled the two notes from my pocket and tucked them into my chemise for safekeeping. As I stood there in my thin cotton, Polly loaded my wet things over her arm. She looked down at my skinned knees and shook her head.

  “Sadie will bring a tray to you directly. I’ll get you a poultice to put on your eye, and a sponge to clean up your knees. Might do with a bit of honey for your split lip, if Cook’ll let me take a dab.”

  “Honey?”

  “Helps with the healing. Keeps you from scarring. My mum always used to put a bit on my brothers when they scraped their elbows and such.”

  That would be good to remember, especially given all the physical diversions little boys found appealing. A quick prickle at the back of my eyes warned of impending tears at the thought of my little son, so very far away.

  I changed into the dry chemise and sat on the side of the bed. Polly returned quickly and attended skillfully to my injuries. First she sponged the scabs off my legs and administered a balm. Then she offered me a poultice, heated to a perfect temperature and scented with soothing chamomile.

  Holding the wet muslin to my face, I settled into the soft embrace of the bed and closed my eyes, only to be awakened far too quickly by a yapping in the hallway. I sighed and reconciled myself to the fact that Lucy Brayton was on her way, bearing down like a sudden squall sets upon boats in Newhaven Harbour.

  “Polly? Is Mrs. Rochester here? Let me see her.” After a courtesy knock, the door flew open. The exotic scent of gardenias preceded my hostess into the room, and her little dog Rags followed at her heels.

  I pried open my good eye. Lucy bent over me, her heart-shaped face glowing with the sort of interest that comes from a nimble mind. For an afternoon of social calls, she wore a high-waisted gown of yellow muslin, topped with a spencer in a darker shade of the same buttercup color.

  “Are you any better? Let me see under that poultice.” Lucy removed her gloves to touch my face. “I still think we need to call a surgeon to examine you. Your face is even puffier and your eye is nearly swollen shut. And you still went to the girls’ school without me? Goodness. Such determination.”

  Rags jumped up against the bed to look at me and give a yip. He must have thought me a pitiful specimen.

  “I might look worse than I did earlier, but I daresay I shall heal.”

  “I want to hear what you thought of the girls’ school. Especially how dear Adèle is doing.”

  “I am afraid it is a rather long story.”

  She settled on the bed next to me and lifted Rags onto her lap. I shifted away. Lucy appeared not to notice how uncomfortable her informality made me. She simply continued her train of thought. “Tell me all. There must have been a powerful catalyst to spur you to such hasty action.”

  “Here is your tea and toast with cheese, Mrs. Rochester, madam.” Sadie set the tray on a stand next to the bed. “Cook sent up scones for you, Mrs. Brayton.”

  After Polly helped me into my black silk dress, I took a piece of toast topped with melted cheese and ate it greedily.

  “Get me my flask, please, Polly. Bring the tumblers, too,” Lucy said to her maid. Then to me, “That bruise around your eye has ripened into a lovely shade of aubergine. I imagine the scrapes on your legs now cry out with misery. The gin will offer a bit of solace.”

  “Gin?” I couldn’t have heard her right. It was one thing to have a sip of spirits in the evening, but this midday tippling—two days in a row—was unheard of for a proper lady!

  When Sadie returned with the silver flask, scones, and glasses, Lucy poured our tea directly into the tumblers. To this she added a splash of Ladies Delight.

  Lucy lifted her tumbler and admired the beverage in one hand while holding a scone with the other. “This certainly would have made my calls more interesting. For me, at least. Possibly for my hosts as well. Gads, but I hate returning calls. They are a crashing bore. Everyone talks of nothing, but they talk endlessly about nothing, compounding the tedium. I would have rather gone with you.”

  “My visit could not wait. I needed to assure myself of Adèle’s well-being.”

  “Yes, of course. And how does she fare?”

  “I don’t know. At least, I have not heard a report from her own mouth.”

  “What?”

  I explained about my visit, Selina Biltmore’s death, and meeting my old colleague Nan Miller, and I finished by telling Lucy about Adèle’s reaction to Selina’s death and her subsequent dosing with laudanum.

  “Miss Miller believes Adèle will not wake up until tomorrow morning,” I concluded.

  “Heavens!” Lucy threw up her hands. “What a day you’ve had! You say you saw them carrying out the poor girl’s body? That’s positively gruesome. But Adèle is in no danger? You are quite certain of that? We could bring her here. As I told you, my house is yours. That reminds me; I bought you a gift when I was in India.”

  From the depths of a dresser, she extracted a parcel wrapped loosely in silver paper. I opened it eagerly and lifted out a magnificent shawl. The material slid over my hands, a texture most amazing. I held up the length of fabric and reveled in the robin’s egg blue shade, examining the wondrous silver stitching as it twinkled in the light.

  “I have never seen the like!”

  “Pashmina,” said Lucy. “A variety of cashmere. The needlework is silver thread. Edward described your lovely dark hair and your pale skin, so I thought it would look well on you.”

  “I shall cherish it for its beauty, but more so for the thought that you put into it.” To my own surprise, I embraced her.

  “Wear it in good health, dear Sister.”

  More and more, I found myself at ease with Lucy. Despite her fashionable exterior, she seemed entirely genuine. Of course, Edward had warned me not to judge Lucy by her gloss, and he had been rightly worried that at first I would be put off by her flounce and bounce.

  “Your hospitality is most heartwarming,” I said. “Miss Miller told me there is no evidence that the student died of infection. It would have been awkward to bundle Adèle up and carry her through the rain, and furthermore, I do think she might want to grieve with the school community as a whole. There is balm when like hearts share their pain.”

  A gentle smile warmed Lucy’s face. “Yes. It is wonderful to have someone to share your trials with, isn’t it? And your jubilation? I am so happy you are here, Jane. Edward told me of your numerous sterling points, and I daresay, even though his description was spirited, he understated your appeal.”

  A warming blush crept up my neck. Unaccustomed as I was to such a compliment, I desired to change the subject. “Now that I have seen the appointments at Alderton House, I must say that, frankly, the home is a bit overmuch for my tastes.”

  Lucy nodded. “When she had a sizable income, Lady Kingsley insisted on filling every inch of the place with trinkets and bric-a-brac. Over the years, however, she lost her fortune through her son, a hobbledehoy who preferred strong drink, cards, and women of low virtue to his education. By the time she reconciled her books, she was near ruined with no help in sight. Lord Kingsley had gone on to his reward a long time ago. Turning that extravagant house into a girls’ school elicited a lot of whispers behind her back, but I’ve heard she’s making a handsome living from that monstrosity. Certainly, it has kept Maude Thurston out of the poorhouse.”

  “What a detestable excuse for a human being she is!” The gin loosened my tongue and, I fear, destroyed any last vestiges of self-censorship.

  “Yes, but remember what I told you: She has fallen from a high perc
h, Jane. When the lofty tumble, they either react with spite or humility. It seems, unfortunately, that she has chosen the former. Yet I do admire her for trying to pay her bills. Many would have crept off into the night and hoped the debtors went away.”

  “I am not certain it’s the best fit for Adèle.” I said this tentatively, mindful that Lucy had suggested the school to Edward.

  “You are a far better judge of that than I, Jane. Believe me, it will not hurt my feelings one jot if you decide to remove her.”

  I appreciated her reassurance.

  Before I could respond, Polly appeared in the door, looking flustered. “Sorry to bother you. There’s a woman at the front door.”

  “Tell her I am unavailable,” said Lucy. “She can leave her calling card.”

  But Polly didn’t leave. She slipped into the room and closed the door behind her, giving us a semblance of privacy. Polly spoke in a low voice, so her words wouldn’t carry. “I tried, ma’am, I did. I told her to go away. But she’s upset something terrible. She says she has to see you, now. Says it can’t wait.”

  “Blast.” Lucy started to rise, but Polly shook her head.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Brayton. It’s not you she wants. The visitor came for Mrs. Rochester. It’s a Miss Miller, and she says it’s a matter of life and death.”

  Chapter 12

  The water dripping off of Nan Miller formed a puddle in the middle of the Braytons’ marble entrance hall. She must have run the entire distance from the girls’ school, because she panted like a harrier after a foxhunt. More shocking, she wore no bonnet. No head covering of any kind. Hunks of wet hair worked their way loose from the bun at the back of her neck and dripped water over her coat and down her skirt.

  “Is it Adèle? Is she all right?” I ran down the stairs, disregarding the stiffness in my bruised legs.

  “She is fine, still asleep.” With that Miss Miller commenced to shaking so violently I wondered if it was a prelude to a seizure.

  Lucy must have thought the same. She turned to her butler and said, “Get me a blanket, Higgins. Do it quickly.”

  The chatter of Miss Miller’s teeth was audible to everyone, with the marble tiles providing amplification. Although my old colleague was clearly in distress, her eyes darted this way and that as she took in the extravagant chandelier in Lucy’s foyer, the richly textured wallpaper, and the velvet curtains. Nor did Miss Miller’s eyes miss Lucy’s lovely yellow gown or my new shawl from India. I pulled the pashmina tighter around my shoulders.

  Higgins brought a heavy wool blanket, and we wrapped it around Miss Miller’s shoulders.

  “Sadie, grab some towels to dry her hair. Tell Cook we need more tea. Hot with sugar.”

  “I came as fast as I could. You made me promise Adela was safe, and she is. But a Bow Street Runner came to the school. He asked so many questions. Questions about Selina and how she died!” Miss Miller grabbed my hands. “That man questioned me for nearly an hour! He asked about the school and our students! Mrs. Thurston was furious. With me and with him. As if I had any say in his visit! Any say at all! Yes, Selina died. It happens. I am sorrowful. But I am not to blame!”

  I put an arm around my old friend’s shoulder and asked my hostess, “What do you suppose has happened? Why would a man from Bow Street come around to ask questions?”

  “I can think of one or two reasons, actually. None of them are pleasant,” Lucy said to me in a whisper. To Miss Miller, Lucy spoke clearly and in soothing tones. “I am sure everything will be all right. Let’s get you dry and cozy in front of a fire.”

  “Higgins, tell Williams to fetch my brother,” said Lucy. “He’s not to come back without him, do you understand? I don’t care if he’s at Boodle’s. I don’t care what state he’s in. Bring him here, now!”

  I thought it odd that Lucy was so disturbed about a Bow Street officer. The fact that one was asking questions seemed unremarkable to me. After all, they were little more than glorified night watchmen. Or were they? Lucy’s heated response and her demand that Williams fetch her brother put a new spin on this top. Perhaps Nan Miller really did have reason to be worried!

  “Come along now.” Lucy took Miss Miller by the elbow. “We shall go upstairs to the parlor. You can sit down in there. You poor thing. You have not eaten, have you? I believe we’ve met before—one time when I visited the school, perhaps?”

  Lucy’s voice stayed low and soothing, as all the while she guided my former colleague up the stairs. Miss Miller moved slowly and rested on us heavily, her blocky frame and plain face an odd contrast to Lucy’s handsome visage and dazzling dress. Now that she had spent her anger at the constable’s intrusion, Nan Miller’s sobs dissolved into steady crying.

  Lucy proved her good breeding and quality of character by showing Miss Miller the type of hospitality she might a baroness. I marveled at my hostess’s charity and generous nature. Even as Miss Miller left puddles of water all over Lucy’s carpet, my new “sister” neither flinched nor drew back.

  “Here you go.” Lucy settled Miss Miller into an armchair by the fire and began to blot her hair with a warm towel that Polly provided. “Let’s get you dried off. Sadie, add more coal to the fire, please.” Lucy rubbed the warmth back into Nan Miller’s fingers. “Miss Miller, I think it would be wise for you to remove your boots.”

  A puddle was forming around Miss Miller’s feet. Slowly she untied her brown lace-up shoes, revealing worn and raveled wool stockings. Polly removed them, emptied out the water on a fern in a terrarium, and set the footwear on the tiles in front of the fireplace.

  Once we made Miss Miller more comfortable and poured her a cup of tea, Lucy whispered to me, “I suggest we wait for my brother. Bruce has experience with difficult matters, especially those involving criminal behavior. He even worked at the Bow Street station.”

  “Is your brother an inquiry agent?” This might explain why his presence was perceived to be invaluable.

  “Yes. Bruce also studied at the Inner Temple to become a barrister, and he served the Crown in the Army. He is very conversant with problems such as Miss Miller seems to be describing.”

  Neither Lucy nor I asked our wet visitor any more questions. Instead, we worked toward restoring her sensibilities, which proved difficult. After her first cup of tea and a few bites of a scone, Miss Miller refused any sustenance and stared blindly into the red coals in the grate of the fireplace. Eventually, we plied her with more tea, a strong brew. I coaxed my friend into taking a couple of bites of the bread and cheese Lucy’s cook had sent up.

  A little less than half an hour passed. The room smelled of wet leather shoes and woolen stockings as the warmth of the fire began to dry Miss Miller’s things. Lucy loaned her a linen handkerchief, and after thanking our hostess, Miss Miller vowed she would see that the scrap of fabric was returned to its owner, even as she examined the fine embroidery carefully.

  “Hallo! Sister? You wanted me? I am here!” a voice called up from the foyer.

  Lucy ran to the doorway and called down, “Bruce, we’re in the parlor.”

  The house echoed with heavy footfalls. The parlor door burst open and there before us stood a man so nearly perfect, he hurt the eyes. His skin was burnished by time in the sun; his eyes were a lovely blue green. Golden strands threaded their way through his brown hair. Any artist’s eye would have lingered on a specimen like Mr. Douglas due to the pleasing regularity of his features, but it was his coloring that truly set him apart. He lit up the room like Helios, the Greek god who daily rode his chariot across the sky to bring sunshine to us mortals.

  All that saved Bruce Douglas from being as pretty as a woman was a feathery mustache and an oddly twisted nose, which I would later learn had been earned in a tavern fight. Or two. Or three.

  In keeping with such, it was also obvious that he was in his cups. Horribly drunk. In fact, he grabbed hold of an armchair rather than fall over. The smell of liquor traveled with him as he wove his way into the parlor.

  At firs
t I thought his state quite shocking, but in reflection, Lucy had poured a generous amount of gin into our tea, hadn’t she? Perhaps my life had been too sheltered. I decided to defer full judgment of Mr. Douglas until I knew more of him.

  “Bruce! What am I going to do with you?” Lucy wrung her hands, but her eyes shone with delight.

  “I’ll be right as a line!” With two bounds, he crossed the room and scooped Lucy into his arms. He lifted her as easily as if she were a child and twirled her around. When they almost crashed into the fireplace, Lucy laughed. “Put me down! I repeat: Whatever am I to do with you?”

  “Why, you must adore me, Sister. It is your job! That is what little brothers are made for!” Giving her a hearty kiss on the cheek, he set her on her feet.

  Standing side by side, there was no question about their provenance. They were two peas from the same pod. But his coloring owed its vibrancy to hours in the out-of-doors, while hers showed the pale hues of a lady who never went without a hat.

  “Miss Miller and Mrs. Rochester, may I present to you my brother, Bruce Douglas? Bruce, you remember Augie’s friend, Edward Rochester? This is his young bride, Jane Eyre. I have taken her for my sister, which makes her kin to you, too, little brother.”

  “Shall I give you a twirl, too, Mrs. Rochester? I wouldn’t want my new sister to feel left out.”

  “No, thank you.” I managed to hide a smile.

  “Well then, Bruce Douglas at your service, ladies.” He executed a courtly bow to Miss Miller first and then to me. Like his sister, he clearly delighted in fashionable apparel, and his black cutaway coat perfectly conformed to his broad shoulders and narrow waist.

  Miss Miller stared at Mr. Douglas, her mouth agape.

  I understood. I fear I stared at Mr. Douglas myself, and for rather too long, because he reminded me of a work of art, so perfect was he. I admired him the way you stare at a fresh quince blossom, seeing the touch of the divine and wondering that the world could be so breathtaking. I believe he was accustomed to long looks, because he returned my frank gaze and stepped nearer. When he was close enough to touch me, he raised the tips of his fingers to my chin. “May I?” His glance drifted to my cheek.