Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  They had settled on a small chapel nearby for the ceremony, over which Matthew’s father would preside. She would have preferred her sister’s husband do the honors, but saw nothing to be gained by making a fuss. At least Pastor Watkins and Mary would be present, as would her mother and all of Matthew’s relations, including his brothers and accomplished cousin. She’d met them all at the pre-wedding dinner last night, and was most impressed by one and all.

  An impartial observer might say the younger Brontë brothers—Mark, Luke, and John—were every bit as comely as the elder, but she couldn’t be objective. In her eyes, no other man could hold a candle to Matthew in looks.

  A knock at the front door downstairs snapped Jane out of her ruminations. Had the carriage come already? A shiver of nervous excitement went through her as she listened to her mother answer the door. She couldn’t hear what was being said, but she could hear that the caller was Matthew.

  The door closed below stairs. Footsteps sounded on the floorboards, moving toward the stairs. Was Matthew coming up? Surely not, for he must know it was bad luck to see the bride in her gown before the wedding.

  “What’s the matter, Jane?” Cécile touched her shoulder. “You’ve gone pale.”

  “I think Matthew’s coming up the stairs. Would you be good enough to stop him and see what he wants? He shouldn’t see me before the wedding.”

  “Of course.”

  Cécile turned to go, but before she reached the door, someone knocked.

  Frozen in fear, Jane watched as her matron of honor opened the door. To her surprise, it wasn’t Matthew but her mother on the other side with a bouquet of flowers in her hand.

  “Where’s Matthew,” she asked her mother.

  “Gone to the chapel, I should imagine.”

  “What did he want at the door just now?”

  “To bring you these.”

  Her mother brought over the bouquet—an artistic arrangement of ranunculus, lily-of-the-valley, orange blossoms, lavender, myrtle, and bleeding hearts, their stems all bound together with a pale blue ribbon.

  Jane, overwhelmed, took the flowers from her mother and held them to her nose, taking in the sweet perfume of the lily of the valley and orange blossoms along with the lavender’s clean spicy fragrance.

  “He also gave me this note to give you.” Reaching into the pocket of her apron, her mother handed over a small envelope.

  Turning the blooms over to Cécile, Jane took the note and, hands trembling, withdrew the card within.

  My Darling Bride,

  In case you are unfamiliar with floriography, the meaning of the blooms I have gifted you on our special day are as follows:

  Orange blossoms: Innocence, Eternal Love, Marriage, Fruitfulness

  Myrtle: Love and Joy

  Lily of the Valley: Sweetness, Happiness, and Humility

  Ranunculus: I am bedazzled by your charms

  Lavender: I am eternally devoted to you

  Bleeding Hearts: Because they’re your favorite

  Your eternally beguiled bridegroom,

  Matthew

  Jane’s heart swelled with joy and her eyes welled with tears. He was so thoughtful and romantic. How fortunate she was to have caught herself such a wonderful husband. Though, he wasn’t her husband quite yet. She still needed to get herself to the chapel on time.

  Through the open window, she heard the carriage judder to a stop in the street outside. Jane swept up her train and followed her mother and friend down the stairs. The elegant equipage, led by a matched pair of white horses, was open to the fine weather and had been decorated with garlands of white roses, ivy, and tulle. As the bridal party approached, the coachman hopped down from his perch and helped each lady into her seat.

  Anticipation tightened Jane’s stomach as they set off. The chapel was only a few blocks away. She couldn’t wait to see Matthew. God, how she loved him. Every atom of his flesh was as dear to her as her own. She smiled when she recalled where she’d read that lovely sentiment. Mr. Rochester had said those words to Jane Eyre, whose author would soon be her cousin by marriage.

  At dinner last night, Jane had mustered the nerve to ask Miss Brontë why she and her dearly departed sisters had chosen to publish under male pen names instead of their own names.

  “Because we feared, as authoresses, we were liable to be looked on with prejudice,” she said in perfect frankness. “As we had noticed how critics sometimes use for their chastisement the weapon of personality, and for their reward, a flattery, which is not true praise.”

  Further conversation confirmed that she was a liberal-minded and sharp-witted feminist as well as a gifted writer, which raised her even higher in Jane’s esteem.

  The bridal party arrived at the chapel and, with great care for Jane’s train and veil, disembarked the carriage. An organ was playing within and, upon seeing the arrival of the bride, the few guests milling around out front hurried within to take their seats.

  The chapel was made of gray stone and had a tall bell tower and an arched doorway. The bridal party moved through it, into the foyer, which, significantly cooler than the day, was endowed with a very old fount and several memorial statues and plaques.

  Mrs. Grey went into the nave to inform the bridegroom and his father of their arrival. Her mother then took her seat in the forward pew while Jane, atremble with nervous excitation, waited for the organist to begin the bridal march.

  Matthew’s best man, his brother Luke, a dark-haired devil with haunted eyes, came in to escort Cécile down the aisle. He had a squarer jaw, thinner build, and slightly lighter hair and eyes than his elder brother, but was just as easy on the eyes.

  Before the two set off, Cécile arranged Jane’s train and returned her bouquet. Her bridal jitters increased tenfold when they left her standing there alone. In seconds, it would be her turn to walk down the aisle, and every eye in the crowded church would be on her. She didn’t relish being the center of attention, but would walk through fire to become Mrs. Matthew Brontë.

  The organ piped out the first notes of the march. A commotion akin to thunder boomed through the church as the guests gained their feet. Jane took a breath and started down the aisle.

  Step, together, step. Step, together, step. Step, together, step. It was almost like dancing a waltz, though not nearly as fun.

  Matthew waited in the chancel, looking resplendent in his dark suit and brightly embroidered waistcoat. Miraculously, she reached the altar with her dignity intact. Cécile relieved her of her bouquet just before Matthew seized her hand. Leaning in, he whispered, “You look terrified, my darling. Please tell me you’re not having second thoughts.”

  “Not at all,” she assured him with a timorous smile.

  “I’m vastly relieved to hear it.” He gave her a grateful grin. “But please do try not to look as if you are about to face a firing squad.”

  “I shall try.” She smiled at him shyly, her heart too full to say more.

  Not that his father would have allowed it had she been able, given the way he was frowning at them with evident impatience.

  Rev. Dr. Cyrus Brontë cleared his throat. “Shall we begin now?”

  Matthew stood straighter. “By all means.”

  The curate began the ceremony, reading straight from The Book of Common Prayer. Though Jane was aware he and his son had been estranged until very lately, she still had expected him to make more of an effort to personalize the ceremony. Her brother-in-law surely would have.

  “Dearly beloved,” he began, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this Man and this Woman in Holy Matrimony…”

  When he got to the part about showing just cause to prevent them from marrying, no one came forward, to Jane’s great relief. In the back of her mind, she’d half expected someone to come rushing in bearing the news that his mad first wife was still alive.

  After they exchanged their vows and were declared lawfully wed, they left the chur
ch amidst a barrage of cheers and a bombardment of rice. When they boarded the bridal carriage to travel to the reception hall, Matthew claimed the seat beside his bride and took her face gently between his hands.

  “Since the day we set the date of our nuptials, I’ve been searching for a verse to express what you mean to me,” he said. “I would have penned one myself, had I the talent to do justice to my feelings. But alas, I don’t, which I suppose is why I so greatly admire those who do. But, to the point, I finally found a verse that comes close to conveying what’s in my heart. It is by Rumi, a twelfth-century Persian poet and mystic. Are you by any chance acquainted with his writings?”

  She was, and did her best to nod her answer, despite his ardent grip on her head.

  Locking his blistering gaze with hers, he said, with all due passion, “I am bewildered by the magnificence of your beauty, and wish to see you with a hundred eyes. My heart has burned with passion and has searched forever for this wondrous beauty that I now behold. I am ashamed to call this love human, and afraid of God to call it divine. Your fragrant breath, like the morning breeze, has come to the stillness of the garden. You have breathed new life into me. I have become your sunshine, and also your shadow. My soul is screaming in ecstasy. Every fiber of my being is in love with you. Your effulgence has lit a fire in my heart, and you have made radiant for me the earth and sky. My arrow of love has arrived at the target. I am in the house of mercy, and my heart is a place of prayer.”

  Then, he kissed her; chastely, almost reverently. When he withdrew, she said, “I have a verse for you, too. Well, it’s more of an excerpt, I suppose, but seemed fitting to the occasion on more than one level. It is from the end of your cousin’s novel, where Jane Eyre tells her readers how things turned out for her and Mr. Rochester. And it is my sincerest wish that our marriage will turn out as well as did theirs. Do you know the passage to which I refer?”

  Turning toward her, he took the hand upon which he’d just put a ring. “I do, but should still like to hear it from your own sweet lips.”

  Flushed with joy, Jane moistened her lips and began. “I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest—blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband’s life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Matthew’s society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character—perfect concord is the result.”

  “Bravo,” he said at the finish. “And I have every faith we will indeed be as happy together as were Mr. Rochester and his Jane.”

  Leaning in, he kissed her, but again too quickly. “Surely you can do better than that.”

  He laughed. “I can indeed. But should we not wait until we’re unobserved?”

  “I have no wish to wait a moment longer for one of my dear husband’s passionate kisses.”

  At that, he jerked her to him with such force, her breath left her lungs. Before she could catch it again, his mouth was on hers, claiming her as his before the whole assembly. Another chorus of cheers erupted around them. She didn’t care who watched. The kiss was deep, possessive, and hungry, and she loved every delicious second of it. She would never get enough of his kisses. Never, never, never.

  The carriage lurched as it got underway, but still they clung to each other. The cheers of the wedding guests grew fainter. The entire world fell away. There was nothing left in existence apart from them, this perfect moment, and this all-consuming kiss.

  As their tongues continued their sensual dance, Jane’s mind jumped back to that day in his garden when he’d told her he feared he lacked the capacity to love. My heart is like a tree in winter. Barren, leafless, and encrusted with ice.

  While that might truly be how he felt at the time, she saw it differently. To her, his heart was a dormant seed he’d buried in his love garden all those years he was trapped in a loveless relationship with a woman who couldn’t appreciate his specialness or share his passions. His feelings were only in want of warmth and nourishment to bring them to life.

  She was that sunshine and sustenance, and he, in turn, was her anchor. At last, she’d found her safe harbor and her soul, too, was screaming in ecstasy.

  Poetry Addendum

  Gentle Readers, I faced a conundrum during the writing this book. While I wanted to reflect the time period and Matthew’s romanticism by including poetry of the period, I feared too much verse might distract from the story. My solution was to trim the verses included to excerpts and to cut all but the titles of others. If you would like to read the full texts of the poems referenced herein, you will find them below.

  Roman de la Rose

  (The Romance of the Rose)

  The Romance of the Rose tells of a lover who dreams of a beautiful rose kept captive in a castle. As he attempts to claim the rose, a symbol of romantic love, he encounters allegorical characters who either help or hinder his quest. The romance was wildly popular in the Middle Ages, and nearly three hundred manuscripts devoted to the tale survive. Two authors wrote the Romance of the Rose in French (Roman de la Rose): Guillaume de Lorris began writing it around 1237 but never finished it. Forty years later, Jean de Meun completed the tale.

  One of the most extensively illustrated copies of the romance is housed in the collection of The J Paul Getty Museum in California. To see or download the manuscript for free, go here: http://www.getty.edu/art/collection/objects/1439/unknown-guillaume-de-lorris-and-jean-de-meun-roman-de-la-rose-french-about-1405/

  _____

  The Garden of Love

  by William Blake

  I went to the Garden of Love,

  And saw what I never had seen:

  A Chapel was built in the midst,

  Where I used to play on the green.

  And the gates of this Chapel were shut,

  And Thou shalt not.writ over the door;

  So I turn’d to the Garden of Love,

  That so many sweet flowers bore.

  And I saw it was filled with graves,

  And tomb-stones where flowers should be:

  And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,

  And binding with briars, my joys & desires.

  _____

  Mr. Rochester’s song from Jane Eyre

  by Charlotte Brontë

  “The truest love that ever heart

  Felt at its kindled core,

  Did through each vein, in quickened start,

  The tide of being pour.

  Her coming was my hope each day,

  Her parting was my pain;

  The chance that did her steps delay

  Was ice in every vein.

  I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,

  As I loved, loved to be;

  And to this object did I press

  As blind as eagerly.

  But wide as pathless was the space

  That lay our lives between,

  And dangerous as the foamy race

  Of ocean-surges green.

  And haunted as a robber-path

  Through wilderness or wood;

  For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,

  Between our spirits stood.

  I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned;

  I omens did defy:

  Whatever menaced, harassed, warned,

  I passed impetuous by.

  On sped my rainbow, fast as light;

  I flew as in a dream;

  For glorious rose upon my sight

  That child of Shower and Gleam.

  St
ill bright on clouds of suffering dim

  Shines that soft, solemn joy;

  Nor care I now, how dense and grim

  Disasters gather nigh.

  I care not in this moment sweet,

  Though all I have rushed o’er

  Should come on pinion, strong and fleet,

  Proclaiming vengeance sore:

  Though haughty Hate should strike me down,

  Right, bar approach to me,

  And grinding Might, with furious frown,

  Swear endless enmity.

  My love has placed her little hand

  With noble faith in mine,

  And vowed that wedlock’s sacred band

  Our nature shall entwine.

  My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,

  With me to live—to die;

  I have at last my nameless bliss.

  As I love—loved am I!”

  _____

  The Miller’s Daughter

  by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  It is the miller’s daughter,

  And she is grown so dear, so dear,

  That I would be the jewel

  That trembles at her ear:

  For hid in ringlets day and night,