Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  When next he roused, the room was dark and empty. Fear brought him fully awake. Good God. How long had he slept? Had Monsieur Claremont come and gone? He must have, which meant Matthew would have to wait another day to dictate his letter.

  Poor, dear Jane. She would be sick with worry, and might fear he’d abandoned her. He hadn’t, of course, but she might very well doubt him because of what her father did to her. He must, therefore, do everything in his power to fight off sleep during the next day’s visiting period—assuming Monsieur Claremont came again tomorrow.

  If he does, I must remember to ask him about the exhibit.

  Obviously, he couldn’t paint while lying in a sanitarium doped up on opiates. Would the show be postponed—or worse, cancelled? His heart wrenched at the thought. If he didn’t have a show, he couldn’t sell paintings. And if he couldn’t sell paintings, he couldn’t marry Jane.

  Footsteps scuffed along the hallway outside the room’s open door. He called out to whoever was passing. When a shadowy silhouette appeared in the doorway, the memory of Mathilde’s ghost flickered.

  Had it been real or merely a hallucination?

  “Monsieur, do you need something?”

  It was a woman’s voice. The night nurse, probably. “Can you take dictation? I need to send a letter. Urgently.”

  To the devil with waiting for Claremont. If the art dealer came on the morrow, he would speak to him about salvaging the exhibit and leave Jane out of it.

  “Oui, Monsieur. I can take dictation, but still have my rounds to complete. If you are not asleep when my work is finished, I will help you with your letter.”

  Relief and gratitude eased the tightness in Matthew’s chest. “Merci, Mademoiselle. Merci beaucoup.”

  She remained in the doorway looking at him as if she wanted to say something. Then, she did. “Monsieur, is what they say true? Are you indeed a wealthy count?”

  “No,” he said. “I did, however, live with a countess at one time. Perhaps that’s the basis of the rumor.”

  “You are no longer with her?” He flinched at the hint of hope in her voice.

  “No, though I plan to wed very soon. The letter with which I require your assistance is to my betrothed.”

  She stood there a moment before saying, “Pardon my boldness, sir, but she is a very fortunate woman. For I have seen you in the light…and you are…well, a very handsome man.”

  “It is I who am fortunate, Mademoiselle. Because my Jane is as beautiful as an angel and as good as gold. And, moreover, she sees the gold in me, not just the gilding, which is more precious to me than all the riches on earth.”

  The nurse left him and while half-listening for her return, he drifted in and out of sleep. At the end of her shift, she came back, as promised, lit a candle on the bedside table, and took down his letter to Jane. In the soft glow of the flame, he could see that she was young, slender, and not unattractive. The drab gray dress and apron she wore reminded him of Jane’s usual modest attire. Not wishing to inconvenience her overlong, he kept the message simple and direct.

  My dearest Jane,

  I have been indisposed, but with nothing life threatening, so please don’t worry. My greatest concern is that my illness will delay my exhibition and, consequently, our nuptials. Please wait for me, my angel, and don’t lose heart. I shan’t forsake you as long as I still draw breath.

  Yours, etc.

  Matthew

  * * *

  Matthew’s message never found its way to Jane because, by the time the jealous nurse got around to posting it, Jane and her mother had relocated to Charlcombe, a small village just north of Bath. Having sold the farm, they’d used the money to take over a small boarding school for girls.

  Jane, who’d had no letter from Matthew in more than a month, only permitted her thoughts to wander his way now and again—and, whether it was the new location, the lapse of time, the distraction of running the school, or all three together, she had largely extinguished her hopes of ever hearing from him again.

  She’d written him several times in the interim. In one, she’d poured her heart out while weeping so hard all the ink had run. In another, more sanguine in tone, she’d sent him her new address and told him all about the school. Still another released him from their engagement with what she flattered herself was laudable civility.

  All of these letters remained in her locked desk drawer under his portrait, the one billet-doux he’d sent her, and the pearl necklace—three precious items she couldn’t bring herself to cherish anymore.

  Early in June, just as summer vacation began, Jane received a letter from Lady L’Hiver, who hadn’t written in some time. Though far from heartbroken over the lapse, Jane did occasionally wonder how the girl was getting on. So, when the new note so unexpectedly arrived, she was glad enough to receive it. Not as delighted as she would have been to have a letter from Matthew, of course, but pleased enough to read the communiqué with genuine interest.

  The letter was dated from Cœur Brisé, where the L’Hivers had finally settled, having previously divided their time between Phillippe’s fashionable townhouses in Monaco and Paris. Cécile made many apologies for having neglected Jane so long before getting to the point.

  …Married life is very disappointing, so, do take pity upon me and come for a visit. For I shall die if you don’t. And I want you to visit me as a friend, not a former governess, and stay at least a fortnight! There is nobody with me, as Phillippe has gone back to Monaco to enjoy the casinos without the distraction of his wife’s company. You shall have your own room to retire to when you find my company tiresome, and plenty of books to read, as the library here is incomparable. There are also, as you’ll recall, the delightful gardens to walk in and enjoy, either with me or on your own.

  I hear Mr. Brontë (for he never was a count, was he?) is setting the art world on fire at present. You must be prodigiously proud of him, though I do wonder why, when he’s made such a success of himself, the two of you have not yet tied the knot. Is there trouble between you? I do hope not, for I know how much you cared for him and wouldn’t like to see you hurt. Perhaps, if you come, we could pay him a surprise visit! How charming would that be? Pray, do come, if only for a change of scenery and to cheer me up. Write by return post, and tell me when you can get away and I shall reply with a banknote to cover all your expenses...

  Far from being honored by the invitation, Jane dreaded going, and not just because she found Cécile’s society so exasperating. She also dreaded seeing Cœur Brisé again and all the memories and disappointed hopes being there again would undoubtedly bring to the fore. The thought of seeing the fabrique, in particular, was almost more than she could bear. And, as for springing herself upon the man himself in Paris, she could only imagine such a desperate move would have unpleasant consequences.

  Matthew, Jane was sure, would only brush her off, injuring her feelings further.

  She had suffered his silence enough, thank you very much, and saw no need to throw tinder on the dying embers of her disappointments. For the most part, she had forgiven Matthew his choices, having convinced herself he did indeed love her once—or thought he had—and simply had a change of heart.

  To be truthful, Miss Grey, I’ve never loved any woman—and often doubt myself capable of experiencing that most-coveted of emotions.

  Perhaps he did lack the capacity to love. Or perhaps, if he’d indeed become the toast of the Paris art world, he’d simply chosen fame and fortune over her. Whatever his reasons, her heart was beginning to mend, and she wasn’t about to reopen the wound by forcing her society upon him.

  Torn about how to respond to her former pupil, Jane sought her mother’s counsel on the matter. Mrs. Grey advised her to go, saying, “Your spirits have been much depressed of late—perhaps because you spend too much time on your own or take too much at the school upon yourself. Whatever the reason, I have no doubt a few weeks in the French countryside will do you a world of good. Leave the worries over the scho
ol to me and take this opportunity to relax and enjoy yourself.”

  Unable to argue with her mother’s logic, Jane accepted the invitation—for her own good as well as Cécile’s. For Jane couldn’t imagine the girl would be so eager for her company were she not excessively unhappy in the life she’d chosen. Moreover, Jane felt rather guilty about having wished misery in her marriage upon the silly chit as a punishment for her selfish behavior.

  She was now well on her way to Cœur Brisé, determined to make her stay as pleasant, productive, and brief as possible. She’d brought along the letter releasing Matthew from his promise, as well as the miniature portrait, which she planned to post from Tours, thereby putting Matthew Brontë and his gypsy eyes behind her for good.

  Now firmly resolved to turn the page on that chapter of her life, Jane turned her attention toward the rolling hills of the Loire Valley. Dusk was approaching and the sight of the chapel on the hill and the twinkling parish beyond let her know she was nearing her destination. Her stomach tightened at the thought. Suddenly, this seemed like a very bad idea. Everywhere she looked, everywhere she turned, she was sure to be met by reminders of all she’d lost.

  The carriage jolted along for a few more minutes before turning down the long, familiar driveway. The knife of regret twisted in her gut as the castle came into view. She bit her lip to stem her welling tears. What made her think she could do this? What a fool she’d been to believe herself strong enough. She would never stop loving him. Never, never, never. Or, at least, not until she lay cold in her grave.

  The coachman drove through the gates and brought the carriage to a stop outside the main entrance. The knot in her stomach doubled in size. Then, a fortifying thought occurred—or perhaps it was simply a wish. Lady L’Hiver might have refurnished the house to reflect her own tastes. Oh, do let the girl’s vanity be beneficial for once!

  Climbing down from his perch, the driver opened the door and lowered the steps. As she stepped out, her hostess rushed out to greet her and hugged her to her bosom, startling Jane witless. Though she was only a poor clergyman’s daughter, a former governess, and a humble schoolmistress, she was welcomed by no less than a marquise with unaffected pleasure and affection.

  Once inside, Jane duffed her cloak and bonnet and looked around her, deeply relieved to find no reminders of Matthew within view. The château’s interior—insofar as she could see—had been redone in every detail. She nevertheless steeled her courage as Lady Cécile led her toward the morning parlor.

  At the door, fear stopped Jane in her tracks. Curse her false courage! What made her think she could bear this? Oh, what a self-deluding fool she was! Apparently, she’d hidden her true feelings for so long, she could no longer discern them herself.

  On trembling legs, she followed the marquise into the parlor. His desk was gone, but the piano was still there. As her gaze took in the instrument and its accompanying bench, she saw herself there again—with him.

  Oh, Jane. Are your feelings equal to mine? Do you love me as I love you?

  Yes.

  I’m thrilled, my darling. You cannot imagine how happy you’ve made me. Now, turn away from me, if you would, because there is something I wish to give you.

  The pearl necklace! Curses. She’d meant to bring it with her—to send back to him with his portrait—but had forgotten to pack them. Overwhelming remorse swept through her, tearing open afresh the wound in her heart.

  “Miss Grey, are you all right? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I have,” Jane returned shakily. “The ghost of the past. I should never have come. I’m not strong enough. I thought I was, but I was gravely mistaken.”

  There was a tray of cheeses and a bottle of wine on the table in front of the sofa. Lady L’Hiver rushed to it, took up the bottle, and filled a glass. Bringing it to Jane, she held out the goblet.

  “Here. This will help fortify you. Now, do take your ease and tell me what he has done to upset you so.”

  Jane took the wine, gulped the whole of it down, and handed the glass back to Cécile. “May I have another, please?”

  “By all means—and I shall join you this time.”

  As her hostess filled the goblets, Jane, atremble and overwrought, seated herself in one of the armchairs facing the divan.

  Bringing the refilled glass to Jane, Cécile said, “Did I not once proclaim that all men are beasts and scoundrels? Well, I may have made many silly, thoughtless pronouncements in my inexperience, but I believe I spoke rightly that once.”

  “You did indeed,” Jane agreed before sipping her wine.

  Accompanied by a rustle of fine fabrics, the marquise positioned herself on the sofa and sulkily sipped her own wine. It was only then that Jane really looked at her. No adjustment in the furnishings compared to the change in the person before her. Whether from the effects of over-indulgence while abroad or some other ill, Cécile was so altered in appearance Jane mightn’t have known her if they’d met somewhere by chance. The once vivacious beauty now looked gaunt, haggard, and at least five years older.

  Jane could only guess her marriage to Lord L’Hiver was more trying than she’d made it out to be in her last letter. Eager as Jane was to hear the details, making an inquiry of such an intimate nature would be shockingly impolite. She might endeavor to win the girl’s confidence, but mustn’t ask intrusive questions about her matrimonial troubles.

  “Do I find you in good health, Lady L’Hiver?”

  “Please…call me Cécile. For we are friends now, aren’t we?”

  Jane sipped her wine. “Are you in good health, Cécile?”

  “My health is as good as can be expected in my present condition—and I’m in no frame of mind to make small talk.”

  So, she was pregnant, and clearly not happy about it, confirming Jane’s suspicion about her woes.

  “Pray, what would you rather discuss?”

  “You and Mr. Brontë. Whatever happened between the two of you?”

  Clearly, Cécile didn’t share her compunction about asking personal questions. Still, Jane wasn’t overly bothered. She’d kept her feelings bottled up for so long, she welcomed the chance to release the cork.

  “Nothing happened,” she said. “After we went our separate ways, he wrote me a single letter and, thereafter, I’ve heard nothing from him.”

  Cécile’s penciled eyebrows pulled together. “And you assume from his silence he’s thrown you over?”

  Tears stung Jane’s eyes and constricted her throat. With effort, she said, her voice cracking, “What other conclusion am I to draw?”

  “Any number of them, I should think. You have changed residences, have you not? Perhaps he did write and his letters were returned.”

  “Perhaps.” Jane remained dubious.

  “You don’t believe it possible?”

  “No.”

  “Do you believe he cared for you?”

  “Yes.” Jane’s lower lip trembled and her eyes began to leak. “As much as he was able.”

  “Did he tell you he loved you?”

  “Yes.” Jane’s eyes overflowed, spilling tears down her cheeks. “And that he would never forsake me.”

  “But, you believe he has.”

  Too overcome by emotion to speak, Jane nodded her answer.

  Cécile leaned closer and set her goblet on the table. Gaze fixed on Jane, she said, in a low but emphatic voice, “There is something I wish to say to you—something I’ve wanted to say for some time—and now that you’re here, I don’t want to lose my chance.” Averting her gaze, she licked her lips and rubbed her hands on the skirt of her elegant frock. “When I look back on the way I behaved toward you, I’m deeply ashamed of myself. I was covetous, jealous, selfish, and utterly monstrous. Because I could see that Mr. Brontë loved you the way nobody would ever love me. And I wanted to be loved like that so dearly it drove me to extremes.”

  Jane, startled by the unexpected confession, took another gulp of wine. The alcohol was starting
to make her feel more at ease, though still a long way from relaxed. “I appreciate you saying all of this, but…is it not all water under the bridge now?”

  “Is it? I wonder.”

  Jane knitted her brow. “I don’t take your meaning.”

  Meeting her gaze head-on, Cécile said, “Jane, you poor, dear creature, you have always put your feelings and needs second to those of the people around you. Yes, you lectured me when I was in want of correction, but you always backed right down when I became cross with you. And now, you are ready to give up on the man you love because you believe he’s lost interest. Yet, you have no proof his prolonged silence owes to anything more than letters gone astray. For all you know, he is in Paris right now, feeling every bit as downhearted as you do.”

  “As much as I wish that might be—”

  “I’m not finished,” Cécile said, cutting her off. “Oh, how greatly it vexes me to think you are making yourself miserable on the basis of nothing more than a misunderstanding. And that your suffering could end in an instant if you’d only take the initiative and seek him out! If you do not have his address in Paris, I can give it to you. For he left it with me so I might forward any letters he received here.”

  “I do.” Jane was at once humbled and heartened by her speech.

  Cécile’s face lit up as she touched the cameo and pearl necklace encircling her throat. “Then let me take you to Paris to see him—to make up for all the terrible things I did to you both. Let me make my amends to you, dearest Jane. Let me be the true friend to you you’ve always been to me.”

  They both were crying now.

  As much as Jane’s heart wanted Cécile to be right, her mind raised impediments. What if she made the long journey only to learn he didn’t love her anymore? What if fame mattered more to him than she did? She couldn’t see herself living in the spotlight of his celebrity in the whirlwind of Paris society. What if, upon seeing her again, he treated her with disdain? She didn’t think she could take it. She really didn’t.