Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  Good God! He was as unfeeling as his daughter. Struggling to keep her temper in check, Jane said, “Perhaps not, but I nevertheless wish to be there.”

  “And if she dies before you arrive—or it proves to be a false alarm—you will have spoiled my daughter’s special evening for no good reason. I must, therefore, insist you remain for the duration of the ball. Go in the morning. That will be soon enough—and a better time to travel.”

  He sipped his wine and shook his head in evident disapprobation. “Really, Miss Grey. Is all this agitation any way to repay Cécile’s generosity? She didn’t have to invite you to her ball, you know, or give up one of her favorite gowns so you would have something decent to wear. If you had any civility, you would repay her kindness with gratitude and graciousness—not by attempting to steal her thunder with your personal dramas. Is it not enough that you stole her beau?”

  His eyes narrowed to accusing slits. “Oh, oui, I know all about your sluttish behavior toward Lord Brontë. I suppose you came to France in the hopes of finding yourself a rich husband—or a patron, at the very least. Not that I blame you for having the ambition to rise above your humble station, but really. You must not always put your desires before the needs of others. As for your mother, I see no great crisis. Death is only part of the common course of nature, not the end of the world.”

  Jane stared in horrified disbelief as he flicked his fingers at her in a dismissive gesture. “Now, go. Leave me in peace before I lose my equanimity and say something on the subject of your selfishness we both shall regret on the morrow.”

  Jane, seething, flew to her room, where she wept as she gathered her things. With Lady Cécile now of age and soon to be engaged, she saw no reason to return to Tours, whatever the outcome of her mother’s illness.

  As she went about packing, the rumble of arriving carriages, the excited chatter of the guests, and the strands of the musicians tuning their instruments filled her ears. By the time everything she’d brought with her was stowed in her trunk, the first dance had begun.

  The dance she had promised to Matthew.

  Her heart was at war within her chest. What to do? Oh, what to do? Aggrieved for her mother and still bruised by Lady Cecile’s betrayal and Lord Brousseau’s unjust reprimands, she was too distraught to think clearly. She needed advice, but had no one to offer wise council. In a state of acute agitation, she stood before the fire, wringing her hands and worrying her lip. Then, not knowing what else to do, she crossed to her trunk, intending to close and lock the lid.

  Jane Eyre lay on top of her clothes, her bleeding hearts and Matthew’s note still pressed between its pages. In her troubled mind, the book became an oracle. Taking it up, she pressed the cool leather binding to her bosom. Tell me what to do, Miss Eyre. Please, tell me what to do. For I am too overwrought to know what is best.

  With trembling fingers and a thickening throat, she opened the book to a random page, telling herself she would do whatever the text thereupon advised. Her eye landed upon this paragraph:

  I was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped my vitals. Terrible moment: full of struggle, blackness, burning! Not a human being that ever lived could wish to be loved better than I was loved; and him who thus loved me I absolutely worshipped: and I must renounce love and idol. One drear word comprised my intolerable duty—“Depart!”

  * * *

  Matthew’s patience was beginning to fray. He’d been at the ball for nearly an hour and still had seen no sign of Jane. Not that someone as diminutive as she would be easy to spot in a ballroom as large and crowded as this one. Nor was the dim lighting provided by the hanging chandeliers and many candelabras arranged around the room helpful in locating an individual of any stature.

  In addition to being congested, the room was loud and uncomfortably warm and would only grow more so as the dancing went on. Underneath his woolen frockcoat, heavily embroidered waistcoat, and bound collar, he was sweating profusely—partly from the heat and partly from nervous anxiety. A humid cloud of body odor and perfume already hung in the air. It, too, would grow worse as the evening wore on.

  Snippets of conversation filtered through the noise. “Isn’t this awful…” “What a crush…” “They really should have limited the guest list…” “Doesn’t Lady Cécile look beautiful tonight?”

  Being taller than most of the guests, he had a reasonably good view of the dance floor. He watched as the couples moved through a lively reel, led by Lady Cécile and Lord Brousseau. Jane wasn’t among the dancers…or seated with the spinsters and wallflowers…or standing in the lengthy line for punch and ices…or anywhere else within view.

  A steady swarm of people moved in and out through the open French doors leading onto the terrace. She wasn’t out there, either…or anywhere to be found in the garden. His only hope of locating her, it seemed, was to ask Lady Cécile where she might be, but there seemed little chance of getting within twenty yards of the belle of the ball.

  When not dancing, she was surrounded by admirers. Whoever said she looked exquisite tonight had not been excessive in his praise. Lady Cécile not only looked stunning, she also danced divinely. If he didn’t know better, he might judge her too good for his nephew. He didn’t wonder why every gentleman in the room—even the married ones—were vying for a chance to stand up with her.

  Matthew bit his lip and plowed the sweat gathering at his temples through the roots of his hair. Even if he could get to Lady Cécile before the evening was at an end, what would he say? Having never been to a debutante ball before, he had no idea what one said to the guest of honor. Congratulations? Good luck? Without knowing the proper protocols, he was more likely than not to commit a serious faux pas. He suddenly felt very much the boorish son of a curate masquerading as a gentleman

  You’re a fraud! And she knows it. She has seen through your deceit and has spurned you.

  Well, at least the charade was over. Word had evidently gotten out about his transfer of Mathilde’s bequest because the husband-hunting vultures were keeping their distance. Just as he’d predicted, nobody wanted him without the gilding, which suited him fine. He didn’t want them, either. He only wanted Jane, who, much to his dismay, appeared not to want him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jane knew not where she would go; only that she had to get away from those who’d bullied and betrayed her. Were she able, she would have begun the journey home, but alas, she needed a carriage to convey her and her trunk to Tours, and she could scarcely ask Lord Brousseau for the loan of his. Or Matthew, for that matter, as the goal was to avoid him, not to seek him out. She must, therefore, find somewhere away from Vouvray where she could safely spend the night. Somewhere no one would find her or even think to look.

  But where might that be?

  Asking God to guide her, she grabbed her cloak, threw back the lock, and left her room. Bleakly, she made her way downstairs, along the gallery, and out the side-door she’d used her first morning at Vouvray. She put on her cloak before going out, but still shivered as she stepped into the chilly night air. The full moon above cast just enough light to see by. She set off across the yard with no particular destination in mind. With each stride she took toward the rolling vineyards, Matthew weighed more heavily on her heart and mind.

  He would look for her tonight and, when he didn’t find her, he would seek her out tomorrow only to discover she’d left him without a word. He would feel himself forsaken; his love rejected. He would suffer terribly and perhaps grow despondent. And he would not be alone in his grief.

  Already, she was in agony. She thought of his kisses, his kindness, and his flattery. She thought of him at the ball, searching for her everywhere, clinging to that fine hair of hope that she would yet appear and promise to be his. And oh, how she longed to be his. It was not too late to change her mind, to return and claim the dance he’d promised her, to hear him out and perhaps even accept his offer of marriage. Yes, she could, thereby sparing them both the harrowing pain o
f a broken heart.

  Yes, she could go back, but was it the right thing to do? For him it surely was. She was his angel of mercy, his redeemer, the ray of sunlight that had thawed his frozen heart. Whether it was the best thing for her, she wasn’t as certain. Yes, he’d given up his fortune for her (if Lady Cecile was to be believed), but in doing so, he’d made it impossible for them to marry.

  However much she loved him—and she loved him to the depths of her soul—she could not forsake her mother’s comfort for her own. Her poor mother whose life hung in the balance as she wandered through the barren rows of wintering grapevines, feeling sorry for herself.

  Oh, what a wicked, thoughtless creature she was! How she abhorred herself. To think only of her own heartache at such a time…well, her suffering was just punishment for the sin of selfishness. She deserved no consideration, no happiness, and certainly no love.

  She moved on, her heart now poisoned by self-loathing as well as grief. She wept as she made her way to God alone knew where. When she reached the fence, she realized with anguish where her feet had brought her. She had reached the dividing line between the vineyards of Vouvray and those of Cœur Brisé. Should she proceed or turn back? Remembering the fabrique, she decided to keep going. Nobody would think to look for her there—especially not even Matthew. For he’d given up all claim on Coeur Brisé, had he not?—and with it, all her hopes and dreams where he was concerned.

  She mounted the stile and, as she stepped down on the other side of the fence, her foot slipped on a wet patch of grass and down she went. For some minutes, she lay on the ground, pressing her hot, tear-stained face to the cool moist turf, wishing she might die here and now.

  When death didn’t come after several minutes, she regained her feet and, with a grain of resentment for having been ignored in her hour of need, she continued on her way. At length, she reached the formal gardens abutting the chateau. There were torches lit near the house, suggesting someone was about. To avoid being seen, she stole down the path leading to the love garden, which lay under the cloak of night. How fitting, she thought bitterly, for her heart, too, was dark.

  Having taken so many walks here, she was sure she could find her way without a lantern. She navigated the paths as furtively as she could, but the gravel crunched beneath her shoes with every step she took. As she rounded the bend leading toward the fabrique, she saw through the mullioned doors and windows that candles burned within—and in their light, she detected the shadow of movement.

  Someone was inside, but who might it be? In her panicked mind, she narrowed the options to two: either it was Matthew, who’d already given up on her, or Lord L’Hiver, taking stock of the spoils of his victory. Not wanting to encounter either gentleman, she looked around her for a place to hide. In the moonlight, she could just make out the shapes of the beds, all of which were low to the ground. She could crouch behind one of the hedgerow borders, she supposed, but doing so would surely spoil her gown. Thanks to her cloak, it had survived her fall relatively unscathed.

  Just as she remembered the willow tree at the far turn of the path, she heard the click and squeal of an opening door. A quick glance showed her the silhouette of a man backlit by the candlelight inside the fabrique. She could tell by the height and broad shoulders that it was Matthew. When the moonlight fell on his handsome face, a fiery arrow of longing pierced her chest.

  “Who’s there?” he called, moving toward the place where she stood.

  Pulse racing, heart in throat, Jane picked up her skirts and ran toward the willow tree, careless of the noise her slippers made in the gravel.

  He gave chase, crying, “Jane, Jane. Where are you going? Why are you running away?”

  Sprinting in gravel wasn’t easy, especially in dancing slippers and a ball gown, but Jane made it to the willow before he caught up with her. Taking shelter within its screening branches, she availed herself of the curved concrete bench she found within.

  He stopped but made no move to come in after her. “Jane, please say something.”

  “What would you like me to say?”

  It being winter, the willow had no leaves, so she could see him plainly as he rubbed his chin while considering his reply. After a few seemingly endless moments, he said, “Well, to begin with, you might tell me why you didn’t come to the ball…and then came here, in search of me, I can only presume, but ran away when I spotted you among the shadows. Because, I daresay, I am unable to comprehend such erratic behavior, especially in someone who has shown herself to be perfectly sane on every other occasion.”

  Jane bit her lip. She wanted to speak to him, to explain herself, but she didn’t know what she could say that would make any difference.

  Clearly distraught, he scrubbed a hand down his face. “Why are you silent? Why are you hiding from me? Did Lady Cecile not make it clear I would be looking for you at the ball tonight?”

  “She did.” The words were no more than a squeak.

  “But you chose not to come. Chose not to hear me. And now won’t even extend me the courtesy of speaking to me face-to-face. May I at least know the reason I am being so cruelly spurned?”

  After another long silence, she said, “I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid to tell me?—or, heaven forbid, afraid of me?”

  “Afraid of having my heart broken.”

  “By me?”

  “Yes.”

  Another long silence, during which he began to pace in the gravel. At length, he stopped before her again and said, “Jane, will you at least listen to what I have to say?”

  As grief’s cold hands tightened their grip on her throat, tears rolled hot down her cheeks. “I’d rather not.”

  His dark brows drew together. “Why not?”

  “Because my heart will not allow me to refuse,” she said through quivering lips, “when my mind and sense of duty tell me I must.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said, staring at her through the veil of branches. “Why must they be in conflict?”

  With bitterness coating her tongue, she said, “Because you deceived me about your circumstances. So instead of a wealthy count, as you pretended to be, I fell in love with a penniless painter who cannot afford to marry me.”

  “That is true,” he said grimly. “At present. But, as I said once before, our lives can change in an instant.”

  When she said nothing in response, he cried, “Jane, for the love of God, I must return to Paris tomorrow. Do you really mean to let me go without hearing me out?”

  “I do.”

  “Jane, dearest,” he said, his voice cracking, “you can’t mean that.”

  She bit her lip. Her resolve was crumbling, not that it had been especially sturdy to begin with.

  He kicked the gravel with the toe of his shoe. “Well, if that is truly how you feel, if you are firmly resolved to go your way in the world and let me go mine, then I shan’t press you further on the matter. I would, however, beg a favor of you, if you will be kind enough to grant me one.”

  “That will depend on the favor.”

  “I ask only that you look at a painting,” he said, glancing toward the fabrique. “It is inside. Mere steps away.”

  Jane desperately wanted to see the painting, but feared she was too vulnerable at the moment to be alone with him. “Why do you want me to see it?”

  “You will know the reason the instant it is unveiled.”

  She took a few moments to consider the matter and, seeing no real harm in having a quick look before they parted ways forever, she said, “All right. I will look. But only for a moment and then I must go.”

  She emerged from her hiding place and, as they walked together toward the fabrique, her heart blazed with regret. She had more or less fallen in love with him among these aptly arranged blooms and shrubs.

  “Will you miss your garden terribly after you’ve left this place behind?”

  “I shall,” he said, “but expect to miss little else.”

  “So you’re confid
ent you have made the right decision?”

  He stopped outside the fabrique and turned to face her. “There are but two points upon which I yet entertain doubts.” “Oh?” Extremely curious, she looked up into his moonlit face. “And what might those be?”

  “The first is the trustworthiness of the benefactor. I would hate to see Cœur Brisé foolishly squandered at the gambling tables.”

  “And the second point?”

  His gypsy eyes locked her in their magnetic pull. “It appears I may have surrendered my inheritance before I secured the thing for which I gave it up.”

  Gad! This was torture! She wanted so badly to sink into his embrace and pour out her heart to him, but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.

  He licked his lips, and it was as if his tongue had touched hers. He had the most beautiful and tempting mouth in all of creation. God forgive her, but the desire to be kissed was eroding her determination. Blinking hard, she attempted to drive the urge away, only half succeeding.

  When he led the way through the folly’s French doors, she followed. Though dark and cold, the interior was comfortably furnished. The moonlight pouring through the uncovered doors and windows illuminated two high-backed chairs, an old iron daybed, a writing desk, a small table, and an easel upon which rested a canvas whose image was concealed by a cloth.

  Underneath, no doubt, was the painting he wanted to show her. Turning to where he was lighting candles, she asked, “Do you paint here?”

  “I have, yes.” He picked up the candelabra, now fully lit, and advanced toward the easel. “I’ve relocated my studio to a garret in Paris, but brought this one back to show you—in the event you…well, no matter. My earlier expectations are irrelevant now.”