My Plain Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  “Can you keep a secret?” Bran asked.

  Charlotte reached for her brother’s arm. “Bran—er, Louis,” she hissed near his ear.

  He shook her off gently. “Well, can you?” he prompted Miss Ingram.

  Her dark eyes flared with curiosity. “Of course.”

  He bent his head closer to hers. “You’re not to tell anyone,” he murmured conspiratorially near her ear.

  “I . . . I promise,” she agreed. She seemed almost frightened. “Is there something wrong with Mr. Rochester?”

  “Can I have a word with you?” Mr. Blackwood said tightly.

  Bran, incredibly, ignored him.

  “No, nothing like that,” he said to Miss Ingram. “Nothing wrong with Mr. Rochester himself, that is. He has a ghost, is all.”

  “A ghost?” She frowned. “You mean to say that there’s a ghost in Thornfield Hall?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean to say,” Bran confirmed. “And Mr. Rochester is actually fond of this ghost, as it turns out, but it’s a disruptive ghost. A malevolent ghost, in fact.”

  “That would explain a lot,” Miss Ingram mused. “Who is the ghost, did you say?”

  “Uh . . .”

  Bran had no idea. Charlotte looked to Mr. Blackwood. He had no idea. Charlotte lifted her chin.

  “It’s the ghost of his brother,” she said. She’d heard, in her rumor-gathering session in the village, that Mr. Rochester had been at odds with his brother at the time of his death. Something about an unfortunate incident in the West Indies many years ago.

  Miss Ingram’s large eyes were round as saucers. “Of course. His brother.”

  “We’ve been sent to remove this apparition from Thornfield,” Mr. Blackwood filled in smoothly. “But we mustn’t let Rochester know that’s what we’re doing. And we mustn’t alert the ghost to our presence, either, because the more upset a ghost becomes, the more difficult it is to remove it.”

  “I understand.” Miss Ingram shook her head. “You should have told me that from the start. I wouldn’t have made such a fuss. I’ll send word that I want to visit him as soon as possible.”

  “Perfect,” Mr. Blackwood said. “Thank you.”

  After Miss Ingram was gone, Bran sighed. “She smelled really good, didn’t she?”

  Charlotte kicked him in the shin.

  “Ow. She did, though.”

  “You have no business smelling Miss Ingram.” She turned to Mr. Blackwood. “So it’s all turning out well, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he admitted grudgingly. “It seems to be.”

  Charlotte thought about Jane, so close by, unaware of this great surprise that was about to befall her. She wondered what Jane was doing now, and if she was content in her place as the governess. Charlotte hoped for her own sake that Jane was not content. Charlotte had a great deal riding on the idea that she’d be able to waltz into Thornfield Hall, take Jane aside, and convince her friend to become an agent in the Society.

  She’d been working on what she was going to say, but she wondered if it would be enough. If Jane turned them away again, then Charlotte knew that her own ambitions to become an agent—or if not an agent, exactly, an assistant or employee of some sort—would most likely fail.

  That night she got on her knees beside her bed and sent up an earnest prayer.

  “Dear Lord,” she whispered. “I’ve been thinking. Please, if it’s not too much to ask, could you cause something to happen to Jane at Thornfield—nothing too serious, mind you, but something, please, to cause her to rethink her position there.” She stopped. She’d never wished ill on anyone before. But this was serious. Both Jane’s and Charlotte’s futures were hanging in the balance. “Please,” she said again. “Could you send Jane just a bit of trouble?”

  ELEVEN

  Jane

  Rochester’s bed was on fire.

  Literally, Rochester’s bed was on fire, and he was in the middle of it, in a deep sleep.

  Let us back up a bit. Jane had been working at Thornfield Hall for several days, rarely seeing its owner. On this particular night, she had gone to bed with a full stomach and warm feet. Sleep had come quickly, for it was the kind of sleep that came to a comfortably warm and fed person.

  But a strange noise in the middle of the night woke Jane with a start. Helen popped upright as well.

  “Did you hear something?” Jane said.

  “Yes. Did you?” Helen said.

  “I must have, considering I’m awake. Let’s be quiet and listen.”

  They both sat in the bed, perfectly still. Floorboards creaked down the hall. The faint sound of laughter floated in from the corridor. Or maybe it was the normal sounds of an old mansion.

  After a few moments, another sound, as if something had swept the panels of the bedchamber door.

  “It’s right outside,” Helen whispered.

  “You’re a ghost,” Jane whispered back. “You don’t have to whisper. And since you’re a ghost, why don’t you peek out into the hallway?”

  Helen shivered, and the bed shivered along with her. She must have been very afraid.

  “You think this is something alive, and not something . . . not alive?” Jane asked. Helen didn’t like the word dead.

  Helen nodded.

  “It’s probably Pilot,” Jane said. “The other night, he came and scratched at our door, looking for you, no doubt. It’s probably him,” she repeated, as though repetition might make it true.

  The brushing sound came again.

  “Then you go out there,” Helen said.

  “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Pilot, would you, dear?”

  They both sat frozen, so long that Jane’s mind began to imagine she heard the noise again.

  A maniacal laughter broke their trance. It seemed to come from the keyhole of their door. Jane and Helen jumped out of bed.

  “Who’s there?” Jane asked.

  A door from somewhere down the corridor squeaked and then slammed shut.

  Jane flew from her bed and flung the door open.

  “No!” Helen exclaimed.

  The hallway was murky, with only two lit candles obscured by smoke. Jane ran down the hall, following what she believed to be the source of the smoke. She turned and dashed down another corridor and ended up in front of a door, at the bottom of which still more smoke was pouring out. It was Mr. Rochester’s bedchamber.

  She threw the door open, propriety be darned. But right before she did, she made sure her nightgown was buttoned all the way up, because propriety shouldn’t be totally darned.

  A fire was licking at the fringe of one of the drapes that hung from the four posters of Mr. Rochester’s bed. It cast a warm light through the gloom, illuminating his face while he slept. The glow became him; as the fire danced, its darting light softened the severe lines of his brow and lip.

  “Please fall in love with me,” Jane whispered. It shouldn’t be totally out of the realm of possibility. After all, Mr. Darcy fell in love with the nearly destitute Elizabeth Bennet. It could be like one of those stories Charlotte and the other girls at Lowood were always telling—the ones with rich, handsome suitors, not the ones about murder.

  Wait.

  Murder.

  The bed was still on fire.

  During her admiring, the flames had grown onto the canopy, and one burning piece of fabric had dropped to the bed, igniting the blankets.

  “Sir!” Jane screamed. “Sir, wake up!”

  She wanted to shake him, to rouse him, but she couldn’t reach him without becoming engulfed in fire herself. “Helen,” she cried. “Help me!” She didn’t really believe Helen would come, though, as Helen was more afraid of getting hurt than anyone Jane knew.

  But suddenly, Helen leapt through the flames and onto the bed. She looked at Jane. “What do I do?”

  “Jump!” Maybe, if she was afraid enough, she could shake the bed, as she’d done in their room not ten minutes ago.

  Helen nodded frantically and began to jump, but
she was only able to jostle the sheets a bit.

  “Sir!” Jane exclaimed again. Mr. Rochester didn’t budge. How could someone sleep so heavily through a raging fire? Perhaps he’d had too much wine at dinner.

  The flames crawled across the bed, closer and closer to the master of the house.

  Jane rushed to his washbasin. Fortunately, it was filled with water. She carried it over and deluged the bed, hitting Mr. Rochester’s face as well. Still, no movement. Jane hurled the basin up and over the flames.

  It hit Mr. Rochester squarely on the forehead.

  “Ah!” he grunted. “What the devil?”

  It took him a moment to figure out what was happening; then he was on his feet, ripping off sheets and curtains and using them to smother the remaining flames.

  The room fell into smoky darkness.

  “Jane Eyre, is that you?” he said gruffly. He coughed a few times.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you just hit me with something?”

  Helen scoffed. “That should be the least of his worries right now.”

  “You were almost burned alive,” Jane said. “I heard a noise, a laugh, and I followed the smoke to your bedchamber.” She squinted, willing her eyes to adjust to the dark. Then she remembered the lit candles down the hall. “Be right back.”

  “You’re leaving me here alone to stumble about?” he said.

  Jane rushed out the door, followed closely by Helen.

  “Stumble about,” Helen said. “As if he’s never walked in the dark before.”

  Jane shushed her and fetched both candles from the corridor. She returned to Mr. Rochester’s room and handed one to him.

  Their candlelit faces stared at each other for a long moment. The glow had a certain way of illuminating his features that made Jane decide then and there that his face should only ever be lit by candlelight.

  Much better than bed-firelight.

  Helen glanced from one face to the other. “What are we looking at?”

  Jane ignored her. “Sir, someone’s tried to kill you. You need to find out who. Shall I fetch Mrs. Fairfax?”

  “What the deuce is Mrs. Fairfax going to do about it? No, let her sleep.” He grabbed his robe and draped it over himself. “Stay here, Miss Eyre. Stay here and I’ll find out what’s going on.”

  “But . . .” Jane shivered.

  “Are you cold?” Mr. Rochester asked softly. He took the robe from around his shoulders and placed it on Jane’s. He then led her to the chair in the corner of the room, sat her down, and put her feet on the stool. “I’ll be back momentarily. Please, stay here until I return.”

  With that, he left.

  And Jane’s racing heart began to slow.

  Helen plopped down on the stool beside Jane’s feet. “How odd,” she remarked.

  “What’s odd?” Jane said.

  “What’s odd?” Helen repeated. “Um, maniacal laughter, scratching at our door, bed fire. And now he wants you to just sit here and wait?”

  “Of course he does. It makes perfect sense.” Jane grabbed the robe and held it to her face, inhaling his scent, as she gazed wistfully out the door. Reader, it smelled of fire.

  “How does it make sense?” Helen waved her hands above her head. “A lunatic attempted murderer is on the loose inside the walls of Thornfield, and he leaves you here, at the scene of the crime, by yourself, unprotected.”

  “Everyone knows the arsonist would not return to the scene of his crime so quickly.” Jane felt her cheek at just the spot where Mr. Rochester’s hand grazed it. Her skin was warm under her fingertips. Was it from the excitement or his touch?

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Helen said. She flapped her hands and glanced nervously at the door.

  “You don’t think what’s true?”

  Helen groaned. Jane stared at the door, each second growing longer and longer. The hallway beyond was pitch-black. Where was he? Did the culprit catch up to him in another part of the house? Was he lying on the floor, bleeding somewhere?

  At last Mr. Rochester appeared, and Jane sighed in relief. She stood and went to him. She felt strangely weightless every time she was near him.

  “I figured out what happened,” he said breathlessly. “It is as I thought.”

  “What was it?”

  He folded his arms and looked at the floor, and then said in a peculiar tone, “Um . . . I forget. Who did you say you saw in the corridor?”

  “No one,” Jane said. “I only heard someone laugh.”

  “And you have heard this laugh before?”

  “Yes. I think it was Grace Poole.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Miss Eyre, you have solved it without any help from me. It was indeed Grace Poole. It is near four in the morning. Servants will wake in the next couple of hours. I will sleep in the library. And, Jane, I expect you to say nothing of this. I will explain everything. Now, please return to your own room.”

  “But, sir,” Jane protested.

  “Please, do as I say,” Mr. Rochester said. Jane found his commanding attitude to be quite dashing.

  “Yes, sir. Good night,” Jane said. She stepped backward.

  “Wait, you would leave me so?” he said, a complete turnaround from what he had just ordered her to do.

  Jane immediately slid forward. “You asked me to go.”

  “Not like that, though. You saved my life tonight, and you were about to walk on by as if I were some stranger you met on the road.”

  Helen said mid-cough, “He is some stranger you met on the road.”

  Jane elbowed Helen in her ribs, hitting nothing but air of course.

  “At least shake my hand,” Mr. Rochester said. He held out his hand. Jane took it, and then he covered her hand with both of his. A shock thrilled through her at their touch, and she wondered, and hoped, that maybe he would pull her closer.

  “I knew you would do me good from the first moment I laid eyes on you,” Mr. Rochester said, his fierce gaze piercing her soul.

  “Wasn’t that the same moment he called you a witch?” Helen said.

  Not now, Jane thought. For the first time in her life, she was having a Moment! For the first time since meeting Helen, she wished to be alone. Not alone alone, of course. Alone with Mr. Rochester. Obviously. Sure, this might not be the Moment she’d dreamt about, what with the fire, the strange laugh, the frightening noises, the lingering odor of smoke, the fear for her life, and the strange need Mr. Rochester felt to lift her feet onto the stool as if she couldn’t do it herself. But it was a Moment, nonetheless, and she wanted to enjoy it.

  “Is someone going to say something?” Helen said.

  Mr. Rochester sighed. “But if you must go, you must. Good night, Miss Eyre. I am in debt to you.”

  “You owe me no debt.” She tried to leave, but Mr. Rochester’s grip on her hand remained tight.

  “So does he want you to go, or doesn’t he? I’m confused,” Helen muttered.

  “Why do I find myself reluctant to let you go?”

  Jane’s breathing was ragged, and she could find no words.

  “Jane, promise me this incident won’t scare you away.”

  “Why do you think I would ever leave?”

  “You are young. Young people love to travel. Have adventures.”

  “Young people with means, maybe,” Jane said. “But I am not leaving.”

  He finally released her hand. “Sleep well, Miss Eyre.”

  Sleep was nonexistent for Jane. She could not help but remember each moment. Her fear upon entering his room, that he might already be dead. Her panic trying to wake him. The sound of the basin bonking him on his head. The way his fingers grazed her cheek as he placed his robe around her shoulders.

  The warmth of his touch, as he cradled her hand.

  “Who would want to hurt Mr. Rochester in such a way?” Helen said, breaking Jane’s reverie.

  “Shhh,” Jane whispered. “I’m sleeping.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Jane returned
to her contemplation. Mr. Rochester was everything one could want in a match. He was handsome, kind, interesting, thoughtful.

  “He does have a nice dog,” Helen said.

  These were all reasons he would never go for someone poor and plain, like Jane. He could have any number of eligible ladies in far better financial situations. Even Elizabeth Bennet wasn’t so poor as to not have servants. She didn’t require employment, as Jane did.

  Jane turned away from Helen, and pulled the soft sheet above her head.

  They’d had a Moment, though, hadn’t they? He held on to her as if he never wanted to let her go. And then he asked her to go. But then he’d seemed unwilling to let her go.

  It was all so very confusing. But romantic?

  She’d saved his life. That had to mean something.

  (Reader, your narrators understand Jane has fallen for Mr. Rochester rather quickly. The reasons for this could be threefold: first, it was pre-Victorian England, and courtships could last the length of an egg timer. Second, Jane’s lack of experience with men. And third, Jane’s perception of men, which was gleaned mostly from books and art that tended to glorify tall, dark, and brooding ones. The broodier the better. And Mr. Rochester was among the broodiest.)

  Back to Jane Eyre. Yes, she had fallen hard, and yes she had romance on the brain, and for the first time in her life, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she deserved a happy ending.

  Jane woke after luncheon. She was surprised no one had come to rouse her, but maybe Mr. Rochester had said something to Mrs. Fairfax. How thoughtful of him.

  “You slept a lot,” Helen said.

  Jane stretched her arms above her head. “I know.”

  Jane made her way downstairs, an extra hop to her step. She hoped to catch a glimpse of Mr. Rochester, but there were no signs of the master of the house. Perhaps he was catching up on sleep as well. She went to the kitchen, again hoping to run into Mr. Rochester, but again she was disappointed. Mrs. Fairfax was conferring with one of the maids. A plate covered with a towel sat on the table. Jane assumed it was for her.

  Helen whooshed through the door. “Oh, look! Food. For you. Again. My, they just keep feeding you here, don’t they?”

  Jane smiled and started over toward the plate, when movement in the corner caught her eye. It was Grace Poole, sitting in a rocking chair by the fire, mending the curtains from Mr. Rochester’s bedchamber. (Given the size and violence of the fire, we’re as surprised as you that there was anything left to mend but we did the research, and Grace Poole was indeed mending the curtains. Somehow.)