Death of a Dowager

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  And so we found ourselves rambling in the surrounds, taking care not to step into standing water, and searching the bushes for signs that blackberries would follow. These we marked by tying white rags to them. The spring rains were harbingers of the onset of warmer weather.

  Lucy showed me a branch of yellow blossoms. “Isn’t the gorse lovely?”

  “Gorse? The locals call it furze. The word means ‘waste’ as in reference to the vast lands before us.” With a sweep of my arm, I directed her attention to the endless sea of heather purple moors, bracketed by pansy purple hills yielding to a bluebell-colored sky.

  “Wasteland? Hardly. I thank you for bringing me here so I can appreciate this untamed beauty,” Lucy said as she slipped her arm through mine. “How unlike my life in London, where I hurry from one social call to another, speaking of unimportant matters, staring at dusty interiors of overdecorated houses.”

  “Surely there is more to it than that. What do you talk about?”

  A slight incline of her head served as an agreement. “The coronation of King George IV two months from now. That is all anyone thinks about. On and on and on. How much Prinny is spending. Who will be invited.” She paused and then asked, “That reminds me: You still have the letter, don’t you?”

  I knew what she was referring to; due to an unusual series of events, I had in my possession a letter written by our sovereign to one of his paramours back when he was Heir Apparent. In this missive, he made several inopportune admissions, the most damaging one being his admission to bigamy—a union that could cost him the throne.

  I hurried to assure her. “The letter is quite safe. Mr. Rochester had a strongbox installed in our bedroom wall.”

  “If the contents become known . . .” Lucy’s voice trailed off as she bent to pluck a cluster of rose hips, their burnt orange hues vivid against her milky white skin. “Can you imagine the general anarchy that would follow? Already the people in the street despise His Majesty. Each day brings news of another extravagant purchase. Why just last week I heard he ordered a twenty-seven-foot-long robe of crimson silk velvet to be lined with ermine. Can you imagine? Did he learn nothing from the French? How can he go on and on spending money so freely while ignoring the fact that so many of his people are hungry?”

  “Will you be invited to the coronation?”

  “I have been presented at court. We often appear at the same fetes, levees, and other events. Will I be invited? Possibly. I don’t know. I don’t really care. Not much at least.”

  I smiled to myself. Although she could protest the desultory lifestyle she enjoyed in the heart of the city, Lucy Brayton’s status there as one of the ton, the elite ten thousand that formed the uppermost crust of society in London, mattered to her more than she would admit. While her husband, Captain Augustus Brayton, protected the soon-to-be-crowned King George IV’s interests in India, Lucy labored to raise her status among those who wielded a very different sort of power. I believe it had rather become a game to her, a challenge that kept her busy while Augie was away. But that pastime had recently taken on a new importance, because Lucy would soon have her heart’s desire . . . a son. Though Evans Forrester could have brought Lucy much sorrow, being as he was the product of an illicit liaison between her husband, Augie, and another woman, rather than reject the infant because of his provenance, Lucy was overjoyed to “adopt” Evans when she learned that his mother had died. To her, Evans was not a burden or a sad reminder of her husband’s unfaithfulness. He was the answer to a prayer—and she planned to transfer to this child the benefits she had accrued in her slow climb up the social ladder. She had yearned fruitlessly for children of her own, and now eagerly awaited young Evans’s arrival from Brussels. His travel to England had been postponed until his nanny resolved certain family matters.

  “Have a care, Lucy.” Taking her by the elbow, I gently steered her away from a cluster of white sneezewort yarrow blossoms thick with industrious bees. “It would never do for you to return to London all swollen with beestings.” What a pair she and I made! I was as ignorant of the social set as she was of our natural surroundings.

  “Jane, you worry too much—”

  A loud crack like the snapping of a large branch caused Lucy and me to turn toward the noise, which was followed by the sound of more wood cracking and splintering. Then a scream ripped through the morning calm. Next we heard a loud, resounding thump.

  “John must have fallen off the roof!”

  “Or through it!” Lucy said, as we picked up our skirts and started running toward Ferndean Manor. Our feet took us down the hillock, through a clump of elder trees and up a small rise, atop which sat Ferndean like a squatty brown teapot without a lid.

  We heard a cacophony of voices shouting over one another trying to decide what to do. My husband’s voice trumped them all when he ordered, “James! Ride for Carter! The surgeon! See if you can find him quickly. Tell him to come straightaway.”

  Was Edward sending James away because he didn’t want the boy to know how badly his grandfather was injured? Or was my husband truly hoping that James could locate Mr. Carter in time to actually help John? Our seclusion would prevent medical assistance from coming quickly.

  “Oh, Lord, please let him be all right!” I whispered as I pushed my way past John’s wife, Mary.

  As lady of the house, it was my responsibility to attend to the crisis. I saw John’s right arm bent at an odd angle under him. His eyes were open, although his skin was a sickly greenish color and clammy to the touch.

  “Lucy, could you fetch me a blanket from the stable? A clean one?” I asked.

  A broken bone often caused a shift in the body’s humors, and this, in turn, caused shivering and a general feeling of cold. A blanket would help allay these symptoms.

  “John, please blink if you can hear me.”

  The old man did as I asked.

  “He responded and he is breathing,” I told my husband, whose damaged eyesight prevented him from seeing these things himself. “A bit of blood is trickling from his mouth and ear. There is some on his forehead as well.” I stooped to lift the man’s wrist. “His heart beats quickly but it is steady and regular. John? Can you speak?”

  “Aye.” The word leaked out from him.

  “Where do you hurt?”

  “Me arm.” He spoke so quietly I strained to hear him. “Don’t feel nubbit in me legs, either.”

  I recalled once having seen a girl fall out of a tree. The impact stunned her temporarily. I prayed that John just needed a few minutes to catch his breath. At least he was alive. Mary gently dabbed away the blood on her husband’s forehead. The result showed that John was not as badly injured as we had thought at first. I could have cried with relief.

  Lucy appeared with two wool blankets that smelled faintly of horse. She handed them to me then disappeared again. I tucked one under John’s head and wrapped the other around him, trying to ease the fabric between the man and the wet ground.

  Edward took his servant’s hand in his and murmured encouragements until Lucy returned with a damp towel that she touched to John’s mouth, urging him to suck a bit of the water.

  Over the next four hours, Lucy and I took turns keeping watch over John. Mary held his hand while sitting as close as possible on a campstool.

  James did not come back with Mr. Carter until nightfall. By then the old man was barely conscious. One look at Mr. Carter’s face in the reflected light of the lantern and my worst fears were realized. The situation was very, very bad, indeed.

  Chapter 2

  Under Mr. Carter’s direction, the men rolled John onto a blanket and carried him to his own cottage. Edward walked behind the impromptu stretcher, accompanying a crumpled version of Mary, a dazed figure at odds with the brisk woman who generally bustled around the manor. James brought up the rear, a solemn honor guard of one. While Lucy and I stood to one side and watc
hed the procession.

  “I suspect no one will want much to eat,” said Mrs. Fairfax, looking after them, “but Cook and I managed to put together a pot of stew over the fireplace in the drawing room. She also baked a loaf of bread. Dear, dear. John had been failing of late, but he tried so hard not to let Master know. With Master’s own health problems bothering him, John felt it was his place to serve, not complain.”

  “Was he ill? Or simply suffering from old age? Before the fall, I mean.”

  “A bit of both.” Alice Fairfax sighed. “His teeth have been bothering him. He’s lost weight. Mary begged him to slow down, but he refused to listen. Men can be so stubborn at times.”

  “But my husband would have understood. Mr. Rochester did not want him to climb on the roof. He cares a great deal for John,” I said.

  “Yes, I know that. And John also cares deeply for Master. After all, it was John who first set young Edward Rochester on a pony. John who gave him his first whipping for teasing the cat. John who told Old Master Rochester that Edward had been called out to duel.”

  “Pardon?” I was certain I had misheard her. “Called out to duel?”

  “Yes. It happened long before I came to Thornfield, of course, back when Master’s father was still squire. But from what I’ve heard, a man insulted the Young Master, and he responded in kind, then a letter came to the house calling him out.” Mrs. Fairfax closed her eyes and shivered. “I’m told it was a near thing.”

  “What happened next? Did my husband meet him?”

  “John handed the note to Old Master. Seems that Old Mr. Rochester had been corresponding with a family in Jamaica about their beautiful daughter and their fortune. John and two others went searching for Young Master. When they found him, they tossed a potato sack over his head, tied him up, and spirited him away aboard a ship bound for Jamaica. You know the rest of the story.”

  I mulled this over. “So in essence, John both saved my husband’s life and was the instrument of his miserable first marriage.”

  “Yes. I know it took Master a long time to forgive John for that, but he did. John and Mary never reached above their station—they were far too loyal for such nonsense—yet they have always considered themselves part of the Rochester family. When Master was hurt in the fire, John nearly lost his mind with grief. Now John feels he must help Master feel independent. Why, he follows Mr. Rochester everywhere. He’s especially mindful when Master goes outside.”

  Ferndean’s surrounds were indeed full of unexpected dangers, from fallen tree limbs and rotting branches to the moors bordered by fields full of unpredictable farm animals. And, of course, there are always clumsy poachers, especially given the horrible winter of this past year; many locals struggle with hunger. Edward has given a sum to the church to be used for charity, and I planned to start delivering baskets of foodstuffs to the poor as soon as I mastered driving the dogcart.

  On the other hand, where had all that worrying about Ferndean’s hidden dangers gotten us? Edward was fine, but it was John who was badly hurt!

  Shaking my head in discouragement, I hurried into the house and down the hallway to the nursery where my thirteen-month-old son, Ned, lay sleeping and Adèle was burrowed under her covers. I kissed my fingertips and transferred the affection to the children’s cheeks before leaving them to their dreams.

  Lucy and I joined Mrs. Fairfax in the drawing room for a quick bowl of the stew. The fragrance of lamb, rosemary, and carrots proved irresistible. There was no place to wash our dirty dishes, so Mrs. Fairfax piled them on a tray and carried them outside. “I’ll tend to them in the morning,” she told me before she retired to bed.

  Edward had not yet returned. I feared the worst news possible as I paced the drawing room with its fireplace. The yellow red coals sent out a cheerful warmth that partially offset the chill I felt anytime I thought about John. Lucy sewed steadily on a little shirt she’d been making for nine-month-old Evans. “I wonder what color eyes he has,” she said as she plied the needle.

  Evans had a nanny, Mrs. Wallander, a Swiss woman who had been by his side since birth. Mrs. Wallander had written to say that she would happily accompany the boy to London and stay on at her post, but their departure from Brussels had been delayed when the nanny’s own daughter was stricken with childbed fever.

  “I am sure his eyes will be beautiful, no matter whether they are hazel or blue,” I said, picking up my own project. Taking my inspiration from illustrated manuscripts, I had drawn a large version of the letter “E,” followed by smaller letters “V”—“A”—“N”—“S.” I was filling the surrounding space with all manner of vines, flora, and fauna. After I sketched everything in pencil, I would apply India ink, and finally use watercolors to complete the design.

  Lucy set her work aside. “Jane, please, come stay with me in London. There is more than enough room for all of us! Come and stay for a good long time. Without Augie, the house on Grosvenor Square is far too big for me to live in alone. Find an overseer to repair this place, and come away with me, Jane. You’ll be such a comfort when Evans arrives, and you know how I dote on Ned and Adèle. Besides, Edward is safer in London than he is here. Especially as this place crumbles around you.”

  “I know your generous invitation comes from your heart,” I said. “Let me see what Mr. Rochester thinks of it. But first, we need to be sure that we’ve done all we can for John.”

  “It will do you good to get away,” said Lucy.

  Our conversation was interrupted by Edward’s heavy footsteps. I met my husband at the door, and under the guise of an affectionate embrace, I lightly guided him to his favorite chair. Pilot, his faithful Newfoundland, trotted over to his master for a pat.

  “How is John?” I asked after Edward was seated. Pilot pressed his nose into Edward’s hand.

  “Carter reckons the old man might never walk again . . . if he survives. The fall jarred him badly, so there’s no telling what injuries he might have internally. We should count ourselves lucky if he makes it through the night.” Edward shook his head. “I should have forbidden him from climbing up on the roof. I should have told him no.”

  “I believe I’ll turn in for the night. You know, of course, that my home is always open to both of you.” With that, Lucy excused herself, leaving my husband and me to talk in private.

  I waited until the door closed behind her. “You cannot blame yourself. John is a proud man, and he refuses to accept his own limits. You have said as much.” I slipped my arm around Edward’s shoulders and he leaned his head against mine. After a moment in this awkward position, he pulled me onto his lap. There I stayed for a while. When the embers in the fireplace changed to gray and white as they cooled, I whispered, “Come, my husband. Let us go to bed.”

  Chapter 3

  Edward slept restlessly, tossing and turning. At one point, he moaned in his sleep. Of late, his slumber was often interrupted by dark passages that set him thrashing and fighting the bedclothes.

  “I am here, my love,” I said as I wrapped my arms around him. “Edward?” I raised my voice enough to rouse him slightly.

  “Wha—? Jane? Oh, my darling Janet.” He called me by his favorite endearment. Soon he settled back into a regular pattern of breathing.

  But I was wide awake. Slipping out of bed, I went to the window and threw open the shutters.

  The thought of being here alone, surrounded by my young family, filled me with pleasure. Far from feeling isolated, I felt protected, as if by keeping it at bay, the world at large could not destroy the joy we found in one another.

  And yet, was the world beyond these borders really so daunting? After Lowood Institution, the charitable school where I had been sent as an unwanted orphan, could any place be more hostile? And hadn’t Lowood turned out for the best? Yes, at first it had been difficult, but eventually I’d gained my footing and found friends. And even at my lowest point, when I’d trul
y had nothing, I had managed to discover not only friends but family in unexpected places.

  Surely I could do the same wherever we went.

  A bat winged its way through the night sky, moving in silence against the mottled gray of a moonlit landscape. If only my husband could move through his darkness with such confidence!

  A trip to London was in order. I had a sure friend in Lucy Brayton, and another in her brother, Bruce Douglas.

  We couldn’t remain in Ferndean any longer, not in its current condition, not with children and my husband’s health to consider. Edward’s melancholy and his vision grew worse each day. Ned could easily catch a fever. Adèle? Right now, with her school in Millcote closed for the summer, she was bored out of her wits. Without an outlet for her energies, she often chose misbehavior as a way to capture our attention. Certainly, Adèle would find the trip delightful, as she adored Lucy, or more correctly, she was agog at Lucy’s well-appointed house and fashionable lifestyle. Moreover, my husband would have much-appreciated opportunities for entertainment and socializing in that friendly environment.

  The next morning, while Lucy slept in, Mr. Carter joined my husband and me for breakfast and brought good news. Seeming blessedly oblivious of the disarray in our dining room, he took a place at our table. Once Leah served him hot tea, toast, a plate of sliced ham, cooked rashers of bacon, and cheeses, he gave us his full report. “The crisis seems past. If he is kept quiet, I believe your manservant will recover, Mr. Rochester.”

  “His full measure of health?”

  “That I cannot say. He fractured his arm. I encouraged him to move his legs, and he was at last able to do so. But he did hit the ground hard, and at his age, such a blow can set off other issues. It’s impossible for me to know what else might be amiss. A portion of his healing will depend on the sort of care and rest he gets now. To that end, I’ve inquired after the services of a healer, a Mrs. Pendragon, who lives several miles away, closer to Millcote. I hope you don’t mind me taking this liberty.”