Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  On her way to the housekeeper’s room, she met Lady Cécile, glowing with excitement. “Oh, there you are, Miss Grey,” she cried, rushing toward Jane down the corridor. “I’ve been searching all over for you, and feared you’d left us without saying good-bye.”

  “I would never dream of taking my leave without saying my farewells, but I really am in a terrible—”

  “Yes, yes.” The girl impatiently cut her off. “But first I must know if Lord Brontë has proposed.”

  Her eyelids fluttered downward and her face burned with shame. “He has.”

  “And you accepted him, I hope. Because Phillippe, I’m elated to report, also proposed to me. But only after dancing me off my feet. Oh, Miss Grey, he was so attentive, I thought sure he meant to ruin all my fun. Luckily, after a time, he went off with several other gentlemen to play cards, and wasn’t seen again until the end of the ball. Then, to my dismay, he re-appeared from out of nowhere, cut in while I was waltzing with the charming Lord Fortescue—and demanded to know my answer.”

  “Which was yes, of course,” Jane said, trying to hurry things along.

  “It was…but only after he promised to take me on an extravagantly expensive honeymoon to Italy.”

  “I wish you all the best, Lady Cécile,” said Jane, impatient to get away. “Truly. But I’ll miss the only coach to the coast if I don’t make haste.”

  The girl would not hear of her running off until she’d regaled Jane with all her hopes and dreams with regard to the bridal ceremony, the honeymoon, and the parties she expected to be thrown in her honor once she returned to Tours as a marquise.

  “I do hope, however, that we can delay the wedding some months, at least,” she continued without the least consideration for Jane’s time or level of interest. “As I still wish to make my presence felt among the eligible gentlemen of my acquaintance—especially the dashing Lord Fortescue. So, you must promise to keep my engagement a secret for as long as possible. After he settles things with Papa today, Phillippe will return to the Riviera for several weeks, so he’ll be none the wiser.”

  Jane considered warning the girl once more about her choice of husband. But, upon hearing Lady Cécile’s plans to break even more hearts through her coquetry, Jane had no more pity for her. Come what may, she deserved her fate. Jane was just grateful she wouldn’t be around to witness the heartache the thoughtless chit left in her wake.

  By the by, with her best efforts at diplomacy, Jane made her escape, obtained her letter of reference from Lord Brousseau, and said a fond farewell to Madame DuBois, who’d been nothing but kind to her.

  She then flew to her room, put on her traveling bonnet and cape, and descended to the front hall to find the carriage had not yet arrived. At length, it came to collect her, and off she went.

  But, oh, what a trying journey she had from that point on. Being too late for the last coach, she had to hire a hackney, and then a cart to take her the rest of the way to the port. The crossing, too, was miserable, as it poured rain the whole way. Despite her umbrella, she was soaked to the skin by the time she reached Portsmouth with just enough money in her purse to cover the fare home.

  She spent the whole of the jostling ride sandwiched between two other passengers. So crushed was she, she couldn’t even take out Matthew’s portrait. Luckily, her thoughts were still free to show him to her as he’d been last night and this morning, making the ride a wee bit less insufferable.

  It was nearly midnight by the time she reached home. Mary and her new husband met Jane in the passage of the modest farmhouse. So afraid was Jane that she’d missed her chance to say good-bye to their mother, she couldn’t bring herself to ask how she did.

  “Jane!” Mary threw her arms around her sister.

  “Is she…?” Jane, churning with dread, put the question to Pastor Watkins.

  “She is out of danger,” he told her. “Her fever broke a few hours ago.”

  Relief rushed through Jane, lightening the weight in her chest. “Is she still awake? Can I see her?”

  “She needs her rest—and so do you.” Mary let her go and stepped back. “Thus, I must beg you to postpone your visit until morning.”

  Though eager to see her mother, Jane was weary from her travels and frets, so she said her good-nights and set off toward the tiny bedroom at the back of the house that had always been hers.

  * * *

  The first week following her homecoming, Jane spent the better part of her days looking after the farm and her mother, and the better part of her evenings pining for Matthew and discussing their mother’s future with her sister and brother-in-law. Mary wanted to sell the farm and all the animals to help with their mother’s upkeep after she moved into the vicarage with them.

  Their mother, however, wouldn’t hear of it. “I’d rather stay here, where I’ll be a burden to no one.”

  Jane listened to her words with a twinge of resentment. Her mother seemed to forget that choosing to live on her own would require Jane’s continued support. Whereas, if she moved in with Mary, where she’d be useful and comfortable, Jane would be that much closer to her wedding day. She’d not, however, told them of her engagement to Matthew—or even made mention of the man himself. If he did end up disappointing her, she would rather bear the heartache alone and spare herself her family’s pity and solicitude.

  During her second week at home, Jane received two letters from abroad. The first was from Lady L’Hiver, the former Cécile Brousseau, delineating every detail of her wedding and honeymoon thus far. The newlyweds were in Rome when the letter was posted and, if the bride was to be believed, sparing no expense to enjoy themselves.

  Envy niggled when Jane first read the letter, but only on three points. Firstly, the L’Hivers didn’t have the worry of poverty to keep them apart or to force them to work for people who demeaned them. Secondly, Jane had long wished to see Italy, especially Rome and Florence. If, however, she was ever fortunate enough to take such a trip, she would spend a good deal more time visiting museums, architectural marvels, and ancient ruins, and a good deal less time shopping for gowns, jewelry, and other accessories with no better aim than outshining her friends.

  Finally, Jane’s jealousy was provoked by the simple fact that her former pupil was married and in a position to enjoy her husband’s company and affections—if, indeed, Lady L’Hiver welcomed her new spouse’s passions as Jane would welcome Matthew’s. If they did ever have the means to marry, she would be content to spend the whole of their honeymoon in bed together, making love, drinking wine, and reading poetry aloud to each other.

  The second letter, from Matthew in Paris, was far more precious and uplifting to her.

  To my darling Jane,

  Never have I met your like, Jane. You have mastered me, utterly and completely. The thought of you makes my heart race, my loins ache, and my soul fly to Heaven. You have charmed, captivated, and conquered me—and being under your spell is the sweetest magic I can imagine.

  Until I am with you again, my heart and soul enwrapped in your arms, continue to love me—and never misjudge my heart or motives, which are ever true.

  Yours most faithfully and devotedly,

  Matthew

  She kept his sweet note, which she re-read every night before going to bed, with his miniature portrait and the necklace he’d given her inside the locked drawer of the desk in her room, to prevent their discovery by her mother. Was she to learn of her eldest daughter’s engagement, Jane was sure she would only take her to task for promising herself to a man without the means to support them both.

  As things stood now, Jane couldn’t put off advertising for another situation more than another week. She’d spent every penny she’d been able to save getting home from France and, even when Mama was in good health, she earned a mere pittance selling the farm’s vegetables, cheese, milk, and eggs at the village market stalls. When in poor health, like now, she made nothing at all and was forced to live on credit. Their bills were stacking up and, if
Jane didn’t find a way out from under those debts soon, both of them could be thrown into prison.

  No, strike that. Only she would go to prison. For Mama would go and live at the vicarage, as she should have done in the first place, so her eldest daughter could marry the man she loved instead of being saddled with the financial burden of her mother’s upkeep.

  Week three of her homecoming, Jane received no letters but posted two. The first was to Matthew, informing him of her mother’s recovery and her plans to seek another post as a governess. The second was to the London newspaper in which she’d previously advertised her services.

  The fourth week, Jane began to despair when no letter arrived from Matthew. Day and night, her troubled mind chewed on the possible reasons. Was he too busy preparing for his upcoming exhibit? Had his letter gone astray? Or—and please, dear Lord, let this not be the case—did he now regret their arrangement?

  She’d also received no responses to her advertisement, which would have only aggravated her anxieties further had her mother not suggested, one night over dinner, that they think about opening a school together.

  “I can sell the farm to raise some capital and we can recruit a handful of young ladies to board and educate—if we can get them—and as many day pupils as will come. I cannot manage it on my own, however. So, I must know if you might be willing to give up governessing to become a teacher.”

  “I think it’s a splendid idea, Mama.”

  Jane was even more thrilled by the prospect than she let on. Starting a school just might be the answer to her prayers. Though no one wanted a married governess, she could have a husband and teach at a school—especially one run by herself and her mother. Thus, once the school got going enough to provide her with an income, she could marry Matthew and pay her share of their expenses. Provided, of course, he was liberal-minded enough to allow his wife to earn her own keep.

  Though she suspected he was, she wouldn’t know for sure until she made mention of the scheme, and she couldn’t do that until the plan progressed beyond mere talk. Neither did she feel comfortable writing again when she’d had no letter from him in a fortnight.

  Had he abandoned her? Had she been taken in by his good looks, agreeable manners, and romantic sensibilities? Well, if she had been, she would not be the first young woman who’d been deceived by a handsome rogue. She had, after all, twice caught Matthew kissing another woman, and had allowed him to charm her into forgiving him. She’d also gone to bed with him, which, though undoubtedly stupid of her, she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret.

  On the contrary, she cherished the recollection of their lovemaking. Like his portrait and the love letter he’d sent her, that sweet night occupied a special place in the scrapbook of her life. Even if he never made good on his promise to marry her, she would keep that memory close to her heart and hold it in her mind from time to time so she might never forget how wonderful it felt to be so cherished.

  Oh, Matthew. I’m trying to keep the faith, but it’s so hard sometimes!

  This week, Jane and her mother settled upon their plan to start a school, put the farm up for sale, and began making the requisite inquiries and preparations. They were discussing these affairs over breakfast when there came a knock at the door.

  Rising from the kitchen table to see who was there, Jane found the postman on the stoop with a letter for her. Heart in throat, she accepted the letter and turned it over in her hand to check the penmanship. Her heart sank when she saw her name and address written in the former Cécile Brousseau’s elegant handwriting.

  “Is this the only letter for me?” Jane asked with ever-burning hope in her heart.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Oh, Matthew. Why do you not write? Is it your wish to break my heart?

  For if she had even the smallest reassurance he truly, deeply, and faithfully loved her, it would make her life more bearable. Even if they must be apart, she would take great comfort in the constancy of his affection. But, sadly, it seemed God had turned a deaf ear to her prayers and meant to deny her the small blessing for which she so ardently yearned.

  With a troubled sigh, Jane thanked the carrier, shut the door, and returned to the kitchen and her mother.

  “Who was it?”

  “The postman.”

  “With a letter?”

  “Yes.”

  “For you?”

  “Yes.”

  “From whom?”

  “Lady L’Hiver.”

  “Oh? And what does she have to say?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Jane, adrift in the dark waters of disappointment, broke the wax seal on the envelope and removed the fancy folded notecard within. She scanned the note quickly, which only further dampened her already sodden spirits.

  “She writes to me of her honeymoon again,” Jane told her mother said as she skimmed the page. “They are in Florence now, lodging in a villa overlooking the canals.”

  Bitterness got the better of Jane. It seemed so unfair that God should give so little to her, when she’d only been good and kind and longsuffering, and bestow so much on someone as selfish and undeserving as Cécile L’Hiver.

  But alas, who was she to tell God how to run the world? He must have good reasons for dispersing His benevolence in the manner chosen—reasons unfathomable to the human mind. Rather than grieve for her deficits, she ought to be grateful for her blessings, small though they were, and have faith that all things worked together for the higher good of all.

  Yes, yes, of course. God knew best. Oh, but even so, she would think always of Matthew, cherish his image in her mind, and treasure every word, look, and gesture her memory retained. And if, indeed, he no longer cared for her, and she would never see or hold him again, perhaps God would show her the mercy of calling her home.

  In Heaven, there is rest.

  The reminder of Matthew’s painting of her generated a harrowing thought. Had he known he would abandon her when he chose the theme of Tennyson’s poem? Had he recited Mariana for her that night to caution her? Had she been too love-struck to see the truth?

  As the whole world threatened to cave in on her, Jane crumpled the notecard and threw it into the fireplace. No! She could not believe it of him. Had desertion been his plan all along, he would never have said, “Come what may, I shall not forsake you. On that, you have my solemn pledge.”

  While watching the note burn, Jane pulled her hopes out of the fire. She mustn’t allow Matthew’s silence to undermine her faith in him. He wasn’t a deceitful scoundrel. He was a good man who loved her and would come for her as soon as he had the means to marry her. And with that in mind, she would wait as long as it took for him to write to her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Matthew, groggy and heavy-limbed, came back to himself in a bed that wasn’t his own. The unpleasant odors of disinfectant and borax had replaced the familiar bouquet of pigments, linseed oil, and turpentine. Squinting, he looked around him, straining to sharpen his blurred vision and fuzzy brain. There was a flickering orange glow on one pale yellow wall and a bright white line on another.

  Where am I? How did I come to be here?

  Last he remembered, he was seated at the desk in his studio flat composing a letter to…oh, God, his poor darling Jane. How long had it been since she’d heard from him?

  It felt as if he’d slept for a month and was still only half awake. Faint memories drifted through his mind, but faded away when he tried to grasp them.

  He realized only then that there was someone else in the room. A gentleman seated near the bed, but his vision was too blurred to make out who it was.

  By and by, as his eyes grew more focused, he saw that the orange glow was a fire in an iron fireplace. The white streak was the sun peeking through the crack between the drab pair of curtains covering the room’s only window. From this, he deduced it was daytime, but which day?

  “Where am I?” Matthew’s throat was so dry the question was little more than a rasp.

  “You ar
e in a sanatorium, Monsieur. Recovering from nervous exhaustion. I am your physician, Dr. Chevalier. When you collapsed in your apartment, your friend, Monsieur Claremont, summoned an ambulance, which brought you to us.”

  He’d been brought here in an ambulance? He had no recollection of the ride—or, for that matter, collapsing. He only remembered the letter he’d been in the midst of writing. That, and being so preoccupied with painting for his forthcoming show, he’d rarely stopped to sleep or eat.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “More than a month, Monsieur.”

  “Why do I feel so…incoherent?”

  “Because we’ve been feeding you only consommé laced with opiates since you arrived,” the doctor told him, “to keep you hydrated and to help you sleep.”

  Matthew looked toward the open door. Outside, in the hallway, he could hear hurried footsteps and low voices. “Where is Monsieur Claremont now?”

  “He visits you daily, Monsieur, and will return, I should think, when visiting hours commence.”

  “When will that be?”

  The doctor pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. “In a few more minutes, Monsieur. Can I get you anything in the meantime?”

  “I need to send a letter to my fiancée in England.” Matthew tried to sit up, but found he was too weak to do so. Falling back on his flattened feather pillow in defeat, he added, with some effort, “Not having had a letter from me in several weeks, she’ll undoubtedly be worried.”

  “I am sure your friend will be only too happy to assist you when he arrives,” said Dr. Chevalier. “Since you are too feeble yet to compose correspondence yourself, perhaps he can take down what you wish to say and post the letter for you.”

  Yes. That was what he would do. Dictate his letter to Monsieur Claremont, omitting any sentiments that might embarrass them both. Jane wouldn’t mind him being unromantic. She must know by now how much he adored her. First, however, he needed a nap. He was so tired his head was pounding and he could scarcely keep his eyes open. Letting his lids fall closed, he followed the nymphs of opium into the deep, dark forest of hallucinogenic dreams.