Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Are you listening to me, Miss Eyre? I trust you are not applying to teach here so that you can be close to Mr. Rochester’s ward. Do you see this position as a way to wiggle your way back into his good graces?”

  “No,” I said honestly. I told myself the woman would be quiet soon. I reminded myself she would eat enough crow to vanquish all the ravens at the Tower of London. But containing my ire became increasing difficult as she continued.

  “Oh ho! I see by your face that you do harbor feelings for him! While London is a town of sophisticated tastes, illicit behavior is still frowned upon.”

  Why is it, I wondered, that boorish people persist in repetition? Do they assume that you cannot hear them? Or is it the nature of a boor to repeat the same tiresome phrases over and over?

  “You wish gainful employment? And you have hoodwinked a sponsor into recommending you? You hope to be welcomed back into the fold of decency? We shall see, we shall see! Get me my Bible, Miss Miller.”

  Turning back to me, Mrs. Thurston held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “You came this close to becoming a bigamist!”

  No insult to my person could have knocked me harder. I blinked back strong emotion, and Maude Thurston frowned as she noted my response.

  Miss Miller rummaged through an overloaded étagère. Obnoxious gewgaws, statues of dubious provenance, and other awkward tokens crowded the shelves. After a quick search, she pulled out a dingy leather-bound Bible. The forceful smell of must and mold mingled with the scent of strong spirits.

  “On this Holy Book, you must swear to put aside all your feelings for Mr. Edward Rochester, Adela Varens’s guardian. Come! Place your hand on it!” Mrs. Thurston grabbed the book from Miss Miller’s hands and thrust it toward me.

  My old friend’s pleading look told me all I needed to know. She was asking me to forswear my husband, even at risk to my soul. If I backed down now, Miss Miller’s part in this misadventure would go hard on her.

  “Really, Mrs. Thurston. Is this necessary?” I said peevishly. “I am here, I can teach German—and Mrs. Brayton vouches for my character. Are you suggesting her recommendation is without merit?”

  I had her. Mrs. Thurston paused. Confident that the threat of Lucy Brayton struck the old woman a sound blow, I continued, “Is her approval not reason enough to accept me? Or should I return to her home and take her check with me?”

  “Place your hand on my Bible!” Maude Thurston repeated.

  Miss Miller’s lips formed one word: Please. I could imagine her fear. The Holy Book was inches from my fingertips, yet I could not move toward it.

  How could I swear to put aside my love for Edward? Even in our darkest hours, when I had concluded that my only salvation came in putting distance between us, even as I’d run blindly away from the only person I had ever loved, I had never been able to say that I did not care for him. Regardless of the humiliation I had once suffered—I could not sever my feelings for him. No, from the instant I’d first seen him thundering over the hill on his black steed Mesrour, he held my heart in his hands.

  This beastly woman demanded that I swear on the Holy Bible that he who meant everything to me meant nothing!

  I hesitated. Miss Miller bowed her head and clutched her hands together against her breast. Her lips moved in a prayer.

  As did mine.

  “Repeat after me,” Mrs. Thurston said. “I, Jane Eyre, do solemnly swear on my true faith as a Christian—”

  Eeeekkkkk!

  A scream interrupted her.

  Chapter 21

  Since I was closest to the door, I flew out of Mrs. Thurston’s office and raced up the stairs, following the noise. I worried that it was coming from the Senior dormitory, so I climbed faster and faster, thinking of Adèle.

  Miss Miller followed me into the hallway, but Mrs. Thurston did not. One quick backward glance affirmed that the superintendent was planning to remain in her rooms. I didn’t spare a second look.

  As I mastered the stairs with increasing difficulty, I reminded myself that my young charge had been fine when I left her mere minutes ago. Sleeping soundly, totally insensate to her surroundings, but fine.

  The scream dwindled to whimpers.

  When I reached the second floor landing, I spotted the open dormitory door. The setting sun had darkened the room somewhat, but my eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom.

  I discovered a figure sprawled on the floor. “Are you hurt?” I called out.

  “No,” sobbed a childlike voice.

  “Adèle?” I said to the lumpy covers, a quiet mound signifying her still-drugged form. I leaned close enough to hear her snore lightly. Her skin felt warm to my touch, but not overly so.

  I turned to the child on the floor. Ragged sobs came from her throat. A sliver of light revealed a tangle of auburn hair, a body curled tightly into a protective ball like a threatened hedgehog.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, touching her shaking shoulders with a gentle hand.

  “Sc-scared. Gh-ghost! I want Miss Miller!” The name came as a wail of misery.

  “I am her friend. Where are your classmates?”

  “Lining up for dinner,” she said without once looking at me. “Are you a ghost?”

  “No. I assure you that I am quite real. Here.” I located both of the child’s hands, which she had pressed to her face. Slowly, I peeled her fingers away. Her hands clutched mine in mortal terror, and still she refused to open her eyes.

  “Come now. It’s all right. Look at me.”

  “Miss Eyre, where are you?” Miss Miller called up the stairs.

  “In the Senior dormitory.” I raised my voice, hoping it would carry my message to her.

  Cautiously, the girl on the floor opened her eyes.

  “Eeek!” she cried again. “What is wrong with your face?”

  I had forgotten my bruises. I choked back a laugh. All the students would be curious about my injuries. That was the nature of the young, to approach the world with unrestrained wonder, unfettered by the faux sophistication that society encouraged adults to affect. Only as we grew older did we learn to practice the art of dissembling about our natural, healthy interest or shutting down that miraculous facility of a wondering mind.

  “I’ve been hurt. That’s all. Tell me what has happened. Miss Miller is on her way.” I could hear my friend’s heavy footsteps leading the way on the stairs, followed by the tromping of a group of other, lighter feet.

  Miss Miller’s voice mixed with others, and I realized she was diverting the students, who had responded to their friend’s scream by swarming the stairway. They sounded like a bunch of magpies chattering, trying to make sense of a confusing situation.

  But of course they were upset. They had every reason to be. One of their classmates had been discovered dead—and their imaginations had run wild.

  Reaching into my pocket, I located a handkerchief and mopped the wet cheeks of my crying companion.

  “Come along. There’s a draft along the floorboards.” After I helped her to her feet, I coaxed the girl to sit on an empty bed. Even in the fading sunlight, I could see that she had a curious delicacy, suggesting she would grow up to be a beauty. Tears dripped from long lashes set in an oval face and balanced by tiny rosebud lips.

  “Wh-who are you?” she asked of me.

  Miss Miller finally made her way through the clutch of hysterical students crowding outside the dormitory door. “Rose, this is our new German and drawing teacher. Meet Miss Eyre.”

  But the girl refused to calm down, almost throwing herself at Miss Miller. “Don’t let Selina hurt me! She’s haunting us!”

  “She’s dead, child,” Miss Miller said sternly.

  “No! She…she’s here!” Rose pointed at the coatrack, draped with my wet things. The imaginative mind of a frightened girl had given them substance and a human shape.

  “I see naught but a coatrack and sodden outer garments,” Miss Miller said. “Rose? Cast a good look yonder. Do not let your mind play tri
cks on you. See? There is no ghost, merely wet clothing belonging to Miss Eyre.”

  To help support this claim I went quickly to the coatrack and held out my shawl and bonnet for Rose to inspect. Afterward, I replaced everything on the pegs.

  Rose peeled herself away from Miss Miller and peered, first through squinted eyes and finally through wide-open lashes, at the bonnet and shawl. I lifted each of them again, moving more slowly.

  “I thought…I thought…she had come back for us,” said Rose. “I only came up to find my wrap because I was cold, and then I saw…I saw that…and I…I guess I was silly.”

  “No,” Miss Miller said, “you were not silly. You had a fright, that’s all. We’re all upset. Let’s splash water on your face and tidy you up.”

  Below us a clock bell chimed six times. Miss Miller nodded. “Good. Time for dinner. Come along, Rose. Let’s show Miss Eyre to the dining room.”

  “Give me a minute to check on Adèle,” I said. After again noting the even rise and fall of her chest, I readjusted the sleeping child’s covers and planted a gentle kiss on her cheeks. She sighed in her sleep but made no effort to awaken.

  As Rose, Miss Miller, and I started down the stairs, I paused to extend my hand to the girl. “I assume your name is Rose?”

  She took my hand and shook it solemnly. “Rose Amanda Taylor. How do you do, Miss Eyre?” As children often do, she had moved from panic to self-possession in the twitch of a cat’s whisker.

  The other girls had already preceded us down the stairs. They waited for us in front of the dining room. I could tell from the expressions on their faces that Rose’s screams had left them terrified.

  And they had a right to be.

  Chapter 22

  Our arrival in the dining room caused scant attention. I presumed that the girls were either accustomed to having guests or so exhausted by the emotions of the day that my insignificant presence caused little commotion.

  The students took their seats and waited quietly with their hands in their laps. To a one, their eyes were red and puffy from crying.

  The table settings represented the finest of their ilk. Eggshell porcelain teacups, white with blushing red roses and trimmed in gold. I must admit, the splendor surprised me. The delicately translucent teacups and gleaming silver brought home the differences between my new situation and my past. At Lowood, we’d supped from tin cups and plates as battered and tarnished as our dreams—there was nothing delicate about our lives. If one was not hardy and tough, one did not survive.

  Quickly, I corrected my thinking. What had I expected? I had been a charity case. These girls were privileged members of the upper class. As if thinking the same thing, Miss Miller leaned into me. “Mrs. Thurston believes, as did Mrs. Webster, that the girls should be familiar with the dining habits of their class. Not only do I concur, but I have certainly come to appreciate it. It adds a dollop of civility even on the worst of days.”

  Miss Miller stood, clapped her hands together, and announced, “Ladies, may I present to you our new instructor, Miss Jane Eyre. Miss Eyre is a former student of mine. Please line up to shake her hand and tell her hello.”

  The Senior girls led the queue, each introducing herself to me.

  Rufina Garland-Simmons, an untidy child of about fifteen whose hair was coming out of its braids, shook my hand with surprising strength. “Welcome.”

  Nettie Inslip managed a tiny bob and a quiet, “Hello, miss.” I judged her to be a little younger than Rufina, but not much.

  Rose Amanda Taylor curtsied low to me, her delicate hands spreading her skirt gracefully. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Eyre. I do hope you’ve been well since we last met,” Rose said gravely.

  I replied that I had, indeed, been well, as I struggled to keep a smile of amusement to myself at such formality when we had met just five minutes earlier.

  While Rose’s face retained the plump cheeks of a young girl, her features were more adult. I would guess her to be around fourteen. That meant that all of the Seniors were at least four years older than Adèle.

  One by one, the other students filed past me. A moppet from the Infants’ group twirled a curl on one finger, took my hand with the other fingers, and stared boldly at my black eye. “Does it hurt you much, miss? Your eye?”

  “Caroline! One does not make personal comments about the appearance of one’s elders,” admonished Miss Miller.

  All eyes turned on me. I knew the import of this moment. The girls were waiting to see my response. Would I be harsh? Churlish? Or kind? My decision would set my course here, as the students watched me carefully, hoping for clues to my demeanor.

  I leaned close to the girl. “Yes, my eye hurts terribly. I advise you to avoid getting hurt like this, if you can help it.”

  This set all the girls to giggling, and the strained atmosphere eased immediately. Rose cupped a hand over her mouth and said to her sister Seniors, “She was ever so nice to me when I was scared. Really she was. And I saw her lean over and kiss Adela, but Adela didn’t notice, of course, being so sleepy and all.”

  After the youngest students marched back to their seats, Miss Miller led us in prayers. After the last “amen,” she reached for a small crystal bell to signal that the serving should begin. Emma staggered in under a tray heavily laden with loaves of bread and three soup tureens. She set the offerings down on a tablecloth of snowy white damask. A young man—Caje, I presumed—came along behind her, carrying a tray with two platters, one heaped with sliced venison and the other, I could smell, with baked fish.

  I noted that for all his youth, and I judged him to be about eighteen, he wore an expression of weariness. Although he was wearing a jacket, no one could have missed the fact that he was lean and muscular, clearly accustomed to hard work.

  After the servers made a second trip to bring another set of trays and assorted dishes containing peas, salad, and beetroots, Miss Miller said, “You may eat.”

  She turned to me and said, sotto voce, “I know that some suppose children do not need much food, but Mrs. Thurston believes in feeding the girls well. That way they present good figures for their debuts. Can you imagine how this would have delighted us at Lowood? Even at the best of times, the food there was still meager.”

  Emma stood at the doorway and gave the table one final glance, checking to make sure she’d forgotten nothing. Her attention moved quickly, efficiently, but I deemed I caught a hint of her naked longing. I turned my own gaze away, feeling embarrassed for both of us. I knew how Emma felt. Being an outsider nettled, and worse yet, there was nothing anyone could do. You were born into your status; you most likely would also die there.

  Miss Miller and I sat next to each other. An older woman, as thin and spindly as a winter-stripped sapling, took a seat to my right. An oversized black shawl drooped carelessly from her shoulders, and her grizzled hair escaped from a crocheted snood.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” she said to me in formal, heavily accented English. “I am Signora Ambrosia Delgatto, the Italian tutor and singing mistress.”

  With this she touched one hand to her chest, closed her eyes, and executed a charming half bow from the waist.

  “Piacere di conoscerla, signora.” I returned her bow similarly, but wondered: If Signora Delgatto was here, why weren’t there enough adults to chaperone the girls?

  She broke into a large smile. “Ah! You speak my native tongue.” If she was curious about my bruised face, Signora Delgatto hid it well.

  “Alas, only a few words,” I said. “I have an affinity for languages. My name is Jane Eyre—” I caught myself before “Rochester” could slip out.

  “Miss Eyre is our new German and drawing instructor,” Miss Miller hastened to add.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Eyre. I am Parthena Jones,” said a tall woman to Signora Delgatto’s right, as she extended a cool hand to me. She was probably the same age as I, with an open face and wide-set eyes under finely arched brows, but her nose was a bit too
wide and her mouth a touch too small for her to be pretty. Her robust stature and proud profile reminded me of the Amazon women in ancient mythology. She towered above me, as I was much closer in scale to the Junior students, while Parthena Jones could have easily been mistaken for a man. “I am the Juniors’ proctor, and I also teach math, Latin, and needle arts,” she said.

  “For the record, I teach English literature, grammar, and composition. And history. That has always been my passion.” With that Miss Miller buttered a large slice of bread. “And of course, as I told you, Mrs. Thurston teaches French. Deportment as well.”

  Signora Delgatto helped herself to the butter, too. “Oof!” she exclaimed in a voice heavy with irritation. “I could not get the girls to pay attention to their lessons today. I stayed late this evening to help them. I shall have to ask Caje to help me home. My eyes are no longer good in the dark. I have very poor vision for one of my species!”

  I smiled to myself, since del gatto was Italian for “of the cat.”

  “Signora lives in Clerkenwell with her brother, who needs her assistance,” Miss Miller explained.

  “Some call Clerkenwell ‘Little Italy,’” said Parthena Jones to me.

  “Ah, he has the bad heart. I have the bad leg. We are a pair!” Signora Delgatto said. “But together we manage.”

  “I am certain you are happy to be shed of us today, signora. This has been a sad day, Miss Eyre, what with the loss of one of our students,” Miss Jones said.

  “So I have heard,” I said. “Please allow me to tender my condolences.”

  Signora Delgatto finished her meal hurriedly. “I must go now. My brother will be wondering where I am. Oh! What a day I have to share with him! One of my own students—dead!”

  As she stood, she leaned close to me and whispered, “Lei è morta e ne sono contenta.”