by Cynthia Hand
Alexander did it again with a third cup.
Nothing.
Maybe it wasn’t a cup, then. But he’d been so certain. Of course it had to be a cup, didn’t it? What if it had been the cookies? He’d have no clear talisman. It could be a spatula, a mixing bowl, or even the oven.
As Alexander reached for a fourth cup, Brocklehurst lashed out and struck a painting off the wall.
At once, screams filled the parlor. The ghosts stayed in place, but the living moved toward the exit at top speed.
Brocklehurst, for his part, threw more things onto the floor: cups, pens, books.
Alexander had to act quickly. Brandishing the fourth cup, he pursued the angry ghost.
“Stop hitting my head with cups!” screamed Brocklehurst.
“Not until I know which cup it was!” Alexander tried again, and this time the ceramic thudded firmly against the ghost’s forehead.
Immediately the ghost of Mr. Brocklehurst was sucked into the teacup. The ceramic trembled in Alexander’s gloved hands, like the ghost was struggling to escape.
“Please work,” Alexander whispered. And then there was a flash of light and the shuddering stopped. He’d trapped Mr. Brocklehurst.
Carefully, he wrapped the teacup in a scrap of burlap. Handling these talismans was a delicate business, and why he always wore gloves: touching a talisman could lead to possession by the ghost trapped within. Society agents always wore gloves, to be safe.
“Are you going to make any arrests?” Miss Brontë asked, returning to the now-empty parlor.
Alexander shrugged. “My job isn’t actually to solve murders. I capture ghosts. Though sometimes that involves solving murders. I just didn’t need to this time.”
Miss Brontë pressed her lips together. “Mr. Blackwood, are you going to relocate the other ghosts in Lowood? I imagine there are a lot after all these years.” There was a look in her eye. A sadness, as though she’d lost people she cared about.
Alexander shook his head. “I can relocate any the school finds troublesome, but to relocate them all would take a lot of time and it’s not strictly necessary, unless the spirits begin causing problems.”
The girl’s shoulders relaxed. “No, no. I mean, unless they want to go with you. But perhaps they’re happy here. Even though they’re dead.”
“Perhaps.” Alexander’s encounters with ghosts were rarely happy ones. People never called him because of friendly ghosts.
“Well, good day to you.” Miss Brontë pulled out her notebook and wandered away, busy with whatever story she was telling now.
Alexander just hoped it wasn’t a romance.
Back at the inn, Alexander pulled out a pen and slip of paper to send a note to the Duke of Wellington.
Sir, I’ve encountered a seer. Her name is Jane Eyre. Unfortunately, she has declined my initial offer to join the Society. I will endeavor to persuade her. —A. Black
When the ink was dry, he sealed the paper closed with a drop of wax and secured the note to a pigeon’s ankle. Soon, the bird was off to London and the Society headquarters.
Alexander had dedicated his life to the RWS Society at the tender age of four, when three important things had happened: (1) His father was killed. (2) He gained the ability to see ghosts. (3) The Duke of Wellington took him in and began training him to become the best agent the Society had ever seen.
This was where the side business came in. Yes, Alexander was the star agent of the Society, and usually that was good enough for him, but his father hadn’t just been killed.
He’d been murdered.
This meant that Alexander’s side business was actually the revenge business, though to be completely honest he had just the one customer: himself.
For fourteen years, he’d been working toward avenging his father’s murder, but he didn’t have much to go on at the moment, only the fuzzy memories of a frightened young boy. Which made revenge quite difficult. So he poured himself into his day job at the Society, tracking down troublesome ghosts, reading newspapers in search of new recruits, and generally trying to keep the struggling Society on its feet.
Reading a newspaper was how he’d found his apprentice, who’d been the perfect age to join the Society, and at the perfect place in his life. He’d had no other attachments that might prevent him from doing his job. (Sometimes people did.) And he’d had the gift. (Not everyone got it, even under all the right circumstances.) Over the years, Alexander had offered jobs to several people, and most were happy to join. But ever since the king cut funding, recruitment had been far more difficult.
Just as night fell, and Alexander finished writing up a formal report to go along with the teacup and Brocklehurst incident, a pigeon arrived with a note from Wellington. (Yes, this does sound like a remarkably fast reply for the day, and it was. But Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, possessed the fastest racer pigeons in all of England. One could even say that they were almost supernaturally fast.)
Alexander snapped the wax seal and unfolded the note.
I trust you. —A. Well
For the next several minutes, Alexander thought back to his approach to the job offer. Everything had been hectic. She’d been flustered, he thought. Perhaps an impromptu relocation hadn’t been the best time or place for such a proposal (no matter that he’d gone there with that intention in the first place).
Very well, then. He’d go back and he’d try again, and this time he would get it right.
FOUR
Charlotte
As you, dear reader, could have probably guessed, the students at Lowood school were no longer remotely interested in the murder of Mr. Brocklehurst. Now all they wanted to talk about was the dashing and impossibly enigmatic Mr. Blackwood—sigh, Mr. Blackwood—with his fine wool coat and his fine black hair. That such a person—an actual boy!—had taken an interest in Jane Eyre—the most unremarkable girl, so plain!—was the most sensational gossip ever to grace the halls of Lowood. Even if Mr. Blackwood wasn’t exactly handsome, per se (his jaw was simply too square), he was definitely wealthy—I mean, look at his coat—which was all that truly mattered. And there’s just something about him, don’t you think, that makes him the most interesting person you’ve ever encountered? That coat. That hair. That mask, so very mysterious, framing those piercing eyes. (There’d been a fierce argument over the color of those piercing eyes. Some said they were a deep and mossy green; others said a storm-tossed blue.) And let’s not forget the way those piercing eyes had gazed at Jane Eyre—so intently, so very, well, piercing—sigh—Don’t you wish someone might gaze that way at you?
Charlotte was a bit weary of the gossip, truth be told. Of course she was interested in Mr. Blackwood. She’d noted that he had quite an arresting manner and very shapely hands. But her main interest in Mr. Blackwood was on account of his position as a member of the RWS Society. He had the best job in England, in Charlotte’s opinion. The idea of traveling the country, gathering information, taking notes, tracking down ghosts, capturing them: it was the most glamorous form of employment that Charlotte could envision. She could only imagine the stories she’d collect at such a job.
Mr. Blackwood had returned to the school twice after the initial visit. He’d presented himself the next morning and requested to be given a private audience with Miss Eyre. To discuss his earlier proposition, he said. (At this point, several of the girls had fainted in sheer delight—a proposition!) But Jane had refused to see him.
Undeterred (he must be so very besotted with her, speculated the girls), Mr. Blackwood had reappeared the following morning. Same time. Same reason.
“I have nothing to say to him,” Jane had said stiffly. “Please tell him to go away. Politely.”
Charlotte couldn’t fathom that Mr. Blackwood had actually asked Jane to marry him. They’d only just met. Charlotte believed in love at first sight, of course—she dreamed that one day, at some unexpected moment, such a thing might even happen to her—but she firmly disapproved of marriage at fi
rst sight. Instead she thought that this whole business with Mr. Blackwood and Jane must have something to do with Jane’s night at the Tully Pub. Something significant must have happened.
There was a story there. She could feel it in her bones. Something that perhaps she could work into her Very First Novel about Miss Jane Frere.
“Perhaps,” Charlotte had relayed to Mr. Blackwood back in the parlor, “if you could enlighten me as to the nature of your request, I could entreat Miss Eyre on your behalf?”
Mr. Blackwood shifted uneasily on the sofa. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details with anyone but Miss Eyre. I simply wish to know if she has reconsidered my . . .”
Oh, my, perhaps he had proposed. Charlotte lifted her spectacles to see his face. His cheeks were slightly flushed. And his eyes, she noticed, were a deep sable brown.
She leaned forward. “Yes?”
“. . . if she would reconsider my offer of employment at the SRWS.”
Charlotte blinked at him. “You wish to employ Jane Eyre? At the Society?”
“Yes.”
“Am I to understand that the Society is recruiting new agents?” She leaned forward even further. “Female agents?”
“Yes.”
He was rather monosyllabic, wasn’t he? But never mind that. This was wonderful news.
“Well, sir,” she said rather breathlessly. “Jane seems to have made up her mind.” (Jane was mad, clearly. What could she be thinking, refusing such an offer?) “I know her well, and once her mind is made up about something, there’s little changing it.” She was thinking in particular about Jane’s response that time when Mr. Brocklehurst wanted to cut the girls’ hair so that they wouldn’t become vain. But then she didn’t want to bring up Mr. Brocklehurst.
Mr. Blackwood exhaled—a small, frustrated breath—and scratched at the side of his face. Charlotte got the impression that no was not something that this man was used to hearing. “I did not anticipate that she would refuse to even see me. If she would only hear me out, I’m sure I could—”
“No, sir,” Charlotte said gently. “If she said no, she most likely means it.”
He looked crestfallen. And also like he was trying to hide how crestfallen he was. He straightened. “Well. This is most unfortunate. Not many people would pass up such an opportunity.”
Charlotte completely agreed. She gave a nervous laugh. “I wonder—” She took a fortifying breath and summoned her courage. “I wonder if you might consider employing someone else.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “Someone else?”
“One of the other girls at Lowood.” She was now leaning so far forward in her seat that she almost tumbled to the floor. “Namely, me, sir.” Before he could reply, she rushed out with her qualifications. “I’m at the top of my class. I’m a quick study—I could pick up any skill you required with veritable ease. I’m hardworking. Resourceful. And I’ve a keen eye.” She thrust her dratted spectacles into her pocket and squinted at him. “I could be entirely useful.”
Mr. Blackwood cleared his throat. “I’m sure that you are a bright and enterprising young woman.”
“I am. I really am, and I’m not just saying so because it’s terrible here, and I’m desperate to leave.”
“Tell me something.” Now he was leaning forward, too. “Are we alone?”
She pulled out her glasses again to glance around the room. “Relatively,” she answered. “Miss Scatcherd is standing just outside the door, of course, to chaperone, but other than that, we’re quite alone.” Her heart thundered in her chest. He must be about to tell her something confidential.
He nodded as if confirming something he already knew, then sighed regretfully.
“The offer is for Miss Eyre, I’m afraid. No substitutions.” He stood and gave a stiff bow. “Miss Brontë.”
Disappointment clawed at her. She stood, too, and curtsied. “Mr. Blackwood.”
“I hope you’ll urge Miss Eyre to reconsider. She knows, I suppose, where to find me if she changes her mind.”
“Yes,” she managed. “Yes, I shall urge her.”
He did not return. The girls at Lowood had decided therefore that they were witnessing some great romantic tragedy, and that Jane had been jilted and was now probably going to die of a broken heart. Which was nonsense, Charlotte knew very well. Jane was the jilter, not the jiltee. And this was not about romance. This was about ghosts, Charlotte was certain. Adventure was knocking at Jane’s door! But to Charlotte’s utter dismay, Jane stubbornly refused to open it. And even worse, she offered no further details about the mysterious job offer.
“It’s a simple misunderstanding,” she said to Charlotte for the umpteenth time as they sat down to breakfast a few days later.
“A misunderstanding of what, exactly?”
“It’s of no consequence.”
“It’s of great consequence!” Charlotte argued hotly. “Why must you be so deliberately obtuse?”
The dining room had fallen silent. The other girls were staring. (This was the inception of a particular rumor that Charlotte Brontë was also madly in love with Mr. Blackwood, and she and Jane Eyre would now be forced to compete for the man’s affections. Bets were then taken regarding which of the girls would win Mr. Blackwood’s heart. Most thought it would be Jane. Both girls are plain, but at least Jane is not blind as a bat. Those spectacles are simply dreadful.)
“Why must you be so melodramatic?” Jane whispered.
Charlotte was almost pleading at this point. “What happened in Oxenhope that night that so affects you? Why did the Society seek you out? I must know.”
“Then you must get used to disappointment.” Jane’s mouth tightened into a line as if she were sealing her lips with glue, and Charlotte knew she’d been defeated. Since then, Jane and Charlotte had hardly spoken at all. But Charlotte had continued to watch Jane closely, and Jane had continued to speak to herself, more than ever, when she thought no one could hear her. She’d been distracted during lessons, sometimes drifting off mid-lecture, lost in thought. And she had left off painting, which to Charlotte was the greatest indication of all that Jane was not herself.
“All right,” Charlotte had heard Jane cry out this morning in the washroom. “You’re even worse than Charlotte. If you don’t stop talking about that horrible Society perhaps I’ll poof you into a pocket watch!”
Jane knows something troubling about the Society, Charlotte scribbled into her notebook. She also has a pocket watch. She glanced up from her writing to look at Jane, who was now demurely seated in the study near the window, away from the students who were doing their needlework and not-so-subtly gossiping about her love life. Jane was angrily darning a single sock.
Miss Temple appeared in the doorway. “The newspaper is here.”
The girls all sat up straight and tried to catch Miss Temple’s eye. Every week, only one newspaper was delivered to Lowood, and this one newspaper had to be shared by more than fifty girls. Miss Temple always chose a special student, a girl she wished to reward for good behavior, to look at the paper first. Then it was a matter of seniority—the older girls, then the younger. Sometimes the paper was in tatters by the time Charlotte got to read it, but she always read every sentence on every page.
Miss Temple glanced around the room. Charlotte smiled up at her hopefully.
Miss Temple turned to Jane. “Miss Eyre, would you like to read the paper? I know I typically pick a deserving student, but I thought . . .”
Miss Temple was so kind. She knew that Jane had suffered a trying week.
But Jane shook her head. “I’ll stick to my sock.”
This was also a sign that something was off. Normally Jane loved to read the newspaper almost as much as Charlotte did.
“All right.” Miss Temple sounded a bit offended. She scanned the room again. “Miss Brontë, then. You’ve been so helpful lately.”
She handed the newspaper to Charlotte, who laid it carefully on the table next to her notebook—she’d be takin
g notes on current affairs now, of course, to find the best stories—and unfolded the pages, relishing the heady aroma of the fresh-printed paper and ink. Then on to reading. There was something about King William having yet another row with the Duke of Wellington over some political disagreement or other. An impassioned essay by a young man named Charles Dickens about the state of the poor in London. A list of persons who had recently died from the Graveyard Disease. A recipe for plum pudding that made Charlotte’s stomach rumble. But not much that she found newsworthy.
She turned to the advertisement section last, in which she came upon this notice:
WANTED: A GOVERNESS FOR ONE ADORABLE CHILD.
THE YOUNG LADY IN QUESTION SHOULD BE AT LEAST EIGHTEEN YEARS OF AGE, WELL EDUCATED, PROFICIENT IN THE PIANOFORTE, ABLE TO CONJUGATE LATIN VERBS, AND WELL VERSED IN CLASSIC LITERATURE. MOREOVER, IT IS PREFERRED THAT SAID YOUNG LADY HAVE A CHEERY DISPOSITION, ROSY CHEEKS, AND ABSOLUTELY NO WARTS. SHE SHOULD BE AMENABLE TO PLAYING GAMES (ALL SORTS).
IT IS ALSO IMPERATIVE THAT THE YOUNG LADY IN QUESTION SPEAK FRENCH.
TO APPLY FOR THIS POSITION, PLEASE CONTACT MRS. FAIRFAX AT THORNFIELD HALL.
Charlotte read the advertisement again, because it struck her as so unbelievably specific. That, and it nearly perfectly described someone she knew. Not herself, of course, as she was only sixteen and not remotely interested in becoming a governess. And not the rosy cheek part. But everything else.
She bit her lip. Coming upon this ad at this precise moment had an air of providence to it. Some might even call it destiny. But surely the position Mr. Blackwood had offered Jane was a great deal better than being a mere governess. Surely, given time, Jane would realize that. She’d try for a larger destiny. She’d . . .
No. Jane was not going to change her mind. She had set herself against it, and would not be unset.
Charlotte stood and walked over to Jane, who was still furiously darning her sock by the window.
“Darn,” Jane muttered. “Darn. Darn.”
