A wet trail of tears streaked Nettie’s face. Rufina was digging at a spot on her knee. Rose twirled a strand of hair as fast as the spinning of a dragonfly’s wings. And Adèle’s pale skin took on the unwholesome pallor of chalk.
“Come with me, Seniors.” I gestured toward the secondary classroom. “Thank you, Miss Jones, for attending to my young ladies while I was detained.”
“But of course.” She nodded.
My students seemed rooted to the spot and stood there looking dazed and confused. Instead of chastising them, I reached out and took Adèle by the hand. In return, she took Nettie’s hand, who took Rose’s, who in turn grabbed Rufina by the fingers. Thus our human chain moved to the far end of the second classroom. They waited as I slid the divider in place and latched the partition closed. “Sit down, girls. Let us chat for a moment.” Any notion we could get to work right away was absurd. Instead, I chose to address the commotion they had heard.
“Come, sit close to me,” I said, directing my charges to bunch up while I took a spot in the middle. “I am here. Do not be frightened.”
“That man who was yelling,” Rose said, “he must be Selina’s papa.”
“And her mama is here, too. I remember the day they brought her. She came in a big black coach pulled by twin bays.” Rufina sighed. “The horses were lovely. I wanted to pat them.”
“It is natural for her parents to grieve, girls. They have lost a child they love.”
Nettie’s lower lip quivered. “Lucky Selina.”
“Pardon?” Nettie didn’t seem the kind of child who would either employ or understand sarcasm.
“Her papa loves her. He is awful broken up about her being gone. I wish my papa cared as much for me. He does not want me around. Mama does not, either. Not since my little brother came. They only care for him because he’s got hair.”
I believe she meant that her parents were pleased because the boy was an “heir,” but this was definitely the wrong time to discuss homophones.
I pulled Nettie close to me. “It might seem that way, but I am sure they love you very much. And you have a Father in heaven who loves you. All of you. Remember that, won’t you? Now, would you show me your drawings, please?”
Their work ranged from accomplished (Rufina) to disastrous (Adèle). After a quick glance at the sketches, I said, “I want each of you to write a paragraph for me in German. The topic is Selina. I find it helpful, sometimes, to put my thoughts and feelings on paper. I think you will, too. Please get started.”
The girls bent over their projects, letting the noise of pencils rubbing against paper fill the quiet spaces between us. As they worked, I roughed out a sketch of my assailant at the coaching inn. Thus our faculties were occupied until the commotion of voices and footsteps told us the Biltmores and Mr. Waverly were leaving.
My students barely registered the departure. They kept at their work until the bell rang for dinner. The girls fell into line behind Rufina, who led us downstairs.
What did Mr. Biltmore mean when he said, “This has ruined everything”? And when he singled out Caje? I vowed to press Miss Miller for answers about this and about the marks on Nettie’s back.
However, when we arrived in the dining room, Nan Miller’s chair again sat empty, as did Mrs. Thurston’s. Miss Jones led us in saying our prayers over the food.
After our meal, the girls worked on their needle arts. Once they seemed occupied, I took a seat very close to Miss Jones and whispered, “May I speak to you in private?”
We moved to a corner of the room. “Is harsh punishment allowed here?”
She almost laughed. “Good heavens! Only if you think copying Bible verses is harsh. Why do you ask? Does one of the students vex you?”
“No. This morning when they were dressing I noticed scars on one of the girls’ backs. I have no experience to judge these things, but they looked to me like caning marks.”
“Indeed!” Her eyebrows shot straight up. “Then she must have been disciplined at home, because neither Mrs. Webster nor Mrs. Thurston would ever allow such a thing here. I believe the worst punishment ever meted out has been sending Adèle to bed without her supper.”
I nodded, wondering if that were truly the case. Miss Jones leaned over and said, “One of the girls showed me the assignment you gave them, sketching the robin. I long to improve my artistic abilities. Would you critique some of my work?”
“With pleasure,” I said. For the rest of the session, we viewed her portfolio. She had a good eye for color, but her technique needed refinement. I made a few suggestions, which she seemed to take to heart.
I admit, however, that it was difficult to focus. My eyes strayed to the door, expecting to see Miss Miller return at any moment. I rehearsed the suspicions I harbored, recalling that she had not elaborated on her life during that time when we lost contact.
“Circumstances changed,” she had said. A neat sidestep.
Was there a portion of her history that bore relevance to the situation at hand?
Was my old friend a murderer?
ROSE’S ESSAY
Selina was my friend. She told me secrets. She said we were both beautiful, but that I was not nearly as lovely as she, and everyone took notice of her. She took my sash because she liked it and it looked well on one of her new dresses. She did not like school or teachers. She said this is a waste of time and youth. I will miss her, but I do not want her to come back and visit because she’s dead.
NETTIE’S ESSAY
Our friend Selina is dead. I pray that God takes her to heaven. I will pray for her tonight. She liked sweets. I wish I had shared my sweets with her. She said she was special and [this was smeared] loved her. He would send carriages for her.
RUFINA’S ESSAY
Selina was mean especially to the little ones. Once she pushed Rose’s face into the water basin. I did not like Selina. She said no one would ever fall in love with me because I am ugly. That made me cry. I don’t care if she is our next Queen, I hated her.
ADÈLE’S ESSAY
I won’t miss Selina. She was stupid like a cow. Now she will rot.
Chapter 35
Mrs. Thurston escorted a careworn spindle of a woman into our midst. “This is Mrs. Grover. She’s here to measure for the mourning clothes.” The shabby twig of a guest silently measured up each of us, first with a pair of red, swollen, and crusty eyes.
As head girl, Rufina took the lead, standing on a footstool and submitting herself to Mrs. Grover’s quick ministrations with a tape measure, waiting patiently as the fast-moving woman stopped to scribble notes on a dirty scrap of paper. Children no older than these students would sit up all night sewing the mourning clothes by candlelight. The garments would be ready for wearing tomorrow.
This industry gave me pause. The many reversals of fortune in my own life led me to question what determined our fates. What unseen hand decreed that one child would stitch all night in a rookery and pay tuppence to sleep in a bed with a half dozen others, only to be turned out on the street in the morning, while the girls of Alderton House yawned and stretched, splashed in basins of clear water, and broke their fast with a table full of food? Where was the justice? Why the vast inequity? What loving God so neglected the majority of his children to spoil and pander to the rest?
The door flew open and Mrs. Thurston again waddled her way to the center of the room, pushing aside poor Mrs. Grover and causing the seamstress to lose a mouthful of pins.
“Attention!”
Miss Miller shuffled along in Mrs. Thurston’s wake, but my old friend did not look at me. She kept her eyes on the floor.
“Selina Biltmore’s earthly remains will come back to Alderton House,” said the superintendent. “Since the family is from Brighton, this will allow friends in London to pay their respects before Selina makes her final journey home. She will be displayed in the front parlor. None of you have any reason to gawk, and I shall give strict instructions to the midwife in attendance that anyone lingering there will be repor
ted to me.”
Seeing the confusion on my face, Miss Jones leaned over and whispered, “The midwife safeguards the body, to keep it from being snatched by resurrectionists. Not a problem outside the city, is it?”
No, it certainly wasn’t. The superintendent concluded that “there will be no reason for any of you to use the front parlor except to pay your condolences.”
When Mrs. Thurston speared the Amazonian teacher with an angry look, admonishing Miss Jones for whispering to me, my colleague spoke up. “I was only telling Miss Eyre that I would be happy to make a funerary brooch from Selina’s hair. Rather time-consuming, but a lovely remembrance. I made one last year when my brother died.”
“Do so,” said Mrs. Thurston. With that, she turned on her heel and left us.
“Please accept my condolences regarding your brother. That must have been horrid.” I could only draw on my deep feelings for my Rivers cousins, though I had to assume those between siblings were many times stronger.
Miss Jones dabbed her eyes. “I come from a family of scholars. My brother Adonis was a historian, who traveled to France to do research. Sadly, he fell in love with a disreputable woman and was killed by one of her jealous lovers. We had hoped to open our own village school. Ministering to poor children was our dream, you see.”
That explained her harsh words about the French people. “Words prove inadequate; however, again, I am sorry for your loss. He sounds like he was a wonderful person.”
“The brightest mind I have ever known. A gentle soul who never stood up for himself or struck back. We often argued over whether a Christian should always turn the other cheek or whether ‘an eye for an eye’ was the more valid philosophy. He was the most forgiving and accepting of any person I’ve ever known.”
I understood the conundrum. “What did you decide?”
Her smile stopped short of her eyes. “I firmly believe we have a duty to strike back at those who harm us and their minions. Elsewise they escape to do evil again and again. The least among us lacks a champion, unless each of us takes a stand against wrongdoing.”
The evening dragged on, and a minor squabble broke out among two of the Junior girls. The prospect of Selina’s body “coming home” preyed on all our minds, making concentration difficult.
Trying to redirect my own thoughts, I returned to my sketch of the thief who had stolen my reticule. His eyes captured the bulk of my efforts, as I made them large and protruding. As the image grew under my pencil, I shook off a strange sensation that I knew this person.
Of course he looks familiar; he robbed you, said a voice in my head. But even so, a certain bulging of the eyes prickled at my memory. Did I know someone with similar features? As I finished the sketch to my satisfaction, I reminded myself that my entire life had been turned topsy-turvy. Perhaps I was seeing resemblances where none existed.
Miss Miller did not appear until midway through the reading hour. Her boots were raised on patens covered in mud, and a border of wet fabric dragged down her hem. Her bonnet sat askew on her head, as hair worked its way loose from her bun and her cheeks glowed pink with exertion.
“Where have you been? We must talk,” I whispered to her as she slipped into a chair next to mine. She bit into two pieces of bread with a thick slice of Stilton between them.
“Yes,” she managed around the food. “But not now.” Despite the mouthful of food, she engaged Mrs. Grover in conversation about the cost of the mourning clothes.
A glance at the mantel clock told me I needed to prioritize my questions. I culled Miss Miller from the group of students who were knitting hand towels.
“Does Mrs. Thurston administer canings?”
“Pardon?” Miss Miller’s surprise turned to shock. “Heavens, no. A rap on the wrist or knuckles, perhaps, but that is all.”
“Nellie has marks on her back. Stripes cut into her flesh.”
Her ruddy face turned scarlet. “Surely you are mistaken. I tell you, Miss Eyre, you tread on dangerous ground. Such an accusation is inflammatory!”
“I have seen the stripes with my own eyes!”
“I daresay you were overtired. Your eyes played a trick on you.”
Cutting our conversation short, Miss Miller led the girls in prayers and reading of psalms, taking care to position herself so that we could not talk privately. Inwardly, I fumed, but her evasion only served to strengthen my resolve. Given the closed environs of the school, she could not avoid me for long.
That evening, I took my time changing behind the modesty screen. Despite the news that Selina would be returning to Alderton House, the girls seemed to welcome sleep with more ease than they had the night before. I attributed this to the wholesome influence of fresh air and physical exertion. Perhaps in sleep they would find their heart’s ease and leave behind the cares and worries that tied them to this place.
Perhaps Selina would leave them alone.
Unlike the girls, however, my own sleep was not restful. It took a long time for me to fall asleep. The lump running crosswise the length of my bed bothered me. Last night it was a petty disturbance, but tonight its shape jabbed me relentlessly. Yet there was naught I could do with the nuisance that wouldn’t disturb the girls. I knew from experience that they slept lightly. Remembering the tread of footsteps outside my door last night, I had an idea. The girls had mentioned that Selina kept bath powder in her dresser. Lighting a candle and finding the powder quickly, I crept out of my bed, moved silently to the landing, and there I dusted a bit of it on the floor. The scent of camellias rose up to greet me.
If someone really was walking about at night, there should be footprints in the morning.
Thus relieved that I had at least done something to help catch our killer, I settled onto my uncomfortable bed. My mind reviewed the events of the day—the images Mr. Douglas had described regarding Selina’s injuries; the sounds of her mother crying and her father’s angry accusations; the injuries among the children—Nettie’s wounds, Victoria’s bite marks; Mr. Waverly’s feigned ignorance of French. After tossing and turning, I eventually fell into a fitful sleep.
Jane!
I sat up in my bed. Moonlit squares brightened the wooden floor of the dormitory. Shadows moved silently. I tried to parse the darkness. Then out of the shadows, a form coalesced, though at first it seemed little more than a disturbance in the air, a blurring of certain outlines.
“Who or what are you?” I demanded.
It is I, your friend Helen. In slow stages, she revealed herself to me, as she once was. I was certain now that I was dreaming! But what a pleasant dream it was, to see my old friend again, that winsome girl with long, dark curls. She smiled gently, familiarly, and my fears subsided. The soft scent of violets perfumed the air. They were Helen’s favorite flowers. She had often pressed them between the pages of her prayer book. Do not be afraid, the dream image said. Listen carefully. There is pain here and great suffering. Explore each person’s Hades. Expect no safety. Be on your guard. As Virgil said, “A snake lurks in the grass.”
“Helen, I am frightened. The girls! How can I protect them? They are vulnerable, and there is but one of me.”
You will find a way. I know you will. God bless you, my darling friend. I watch you from afar and send you my everlasting love.
Her form turned porous, the edges indistinct, and she dissolved before my eyes. And as she disappeared, I sank back into a dark and dreamless sleep.
Sometime later, I awoke with a start. My mind immediately returned to the image of my dear old childhood friend Helen Burns, who had succumbed to consumption when we were students together at Lowood. Perhaps these surroundings brought back vivid memories. Perhaps the soft snuffles and sighs of sleeping children took me back to that brief time when Helen walked this earth.
Tossing off the covers, I put my feet in my slippers. Once again, my muscles had grown stiff and moving caused me pain. Nevertheless, I went from bed to bed, checking on my charges. They slept with innocence, without concern for
modesty or appearance, the way young animals do. At night we drop all those pretenses foisted upon us by civilization. We become who we really are.
One bed sat empty.
“Who were you?” I mused. “And why did you die?”
No answer came, so I checked on Adèle. Her pulse beat steadily and her breathing was regular. For a long while, I sat in my bed and kept watch. In the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, I imagined the touch of my husband’s searching hand and the pleasant weight of my baby in my arms. I was at Ferndean, and I was happy.
Once during the night I startled awake, thinking that I heard footsteps. Outside the window, rain began, steady and heavy drops splashing hard against the glass. Then came voices, low and urgent outside the dormitory door. At last, however, I could not keep my eyes open any longer, and sleep reclaimed me.
Chapter 36
I dressed in the dark, well before Emma’s knock, lit a candle, and took a look at the landing. I found there two sets of footprints in the powder, in two different sizes. One set was large and wide, and led up to the garret where Emma slept, but did not come back down. Somehow during the course of the day, I would have to see the maid’s feet for comparison. The images seemed exceedingly large for a girl so small.
The second set of prints indicated feet that were long and narrow, and that set led downstairs. Using a towel, I carefully wiped the powder away.
There was nothing to do at this hour but to mull this information over.
Since it was so early, I hoped to write another letter to Edward, outlining my task and my thoughts. Such an endeavor might help me to organize my thinking and better prepare myself for the day. But words would not come easily, and I set down my pen feeling frustrated by the jumble within me…
Mr. Waverly’s questions about Nan Miller had proven particularly nettlesome. Although I had assured him that she could not be culpable, discrepancies niggled at me. These would need to be resolved. A list might help. Reluctantly, I wrote down the names of all the Senior girls. Plus those of all the instructors and the household staff.
Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles Page 22
