by Cynthia Hand
“My father died.” He bent his head as if the sight of his feet intrigued him.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply. “When?”
“Fourteen years ago,” he said. “I was just a boy when it happened, but . . .”
She was tempted to put a hand on his shoulder, but there were people walking about the garden who would have found that gesture inappropriate, even between supposed cousins. So instead she offered a sympathetic smile.
“I know something of how it feels to lose a parent. My mother died when I was around that same age. I was so young I hardly remember her, besides a few flashes.” Like once when she’d had a fever. She could remember the coolness of her mother’s hand against her face, how very comforting that single touch had been.
She glanced up again at Mr. Blackwood. He was looking at her now, his brown eyes fixed on her face. She felt her cheeks heat.
“Anyway,” she continued. “Mr. Rochester knew your father?”
“They were best friends, I think. More and more is coming back to me.” Mr. Blackwood gasped. “I can even remember dinners here, at this very house. Mr. Rochester and his . . .” He paused. “His wife. He had a wife. I thought she was so very beautiful.”
“She must have . . .”
“Yes, she must have died,” Mr. Blackwood said. “A shame.”
“And now he’s going to marry Miss Ingram. An even greater shame,” Charlotte added. “Being that she’s such an insufferable human being.”
Mr. Blackwood gave a startled laugh. Charlotte laughed, too. Then they smiled at each other, the somberness between them broken.
“So will you tell Mr. Rochester that you are your father’s son?” Charlotte asked.
Mr. Blackwood nodded sheepishly. “I have been expecting him to recognize me. I know that sounds absurd, but I have the look of my father.”
“But if you were to tell Mr. Rochester about your connection, it would reveal that you are not, in fact, Mr. Eshton,” Charlotte pointed out. “So it’s fortunate that he hasn’t recognized you.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Fortunate.”
She was about to say more, but then Bran appeared before them like a happy puppy.
“We’re going on a picnic!” he said excitedly. “I adore picnics!”
Mr. Blackwood and Charlotte exchanged amused glances.
Charlotte smiled. “I think I feel a headache coming on.”
After the others had gone, Charlotte sought Jane out and found her in the library, where Adele was conjugating irregular verbs.
“Oh, hello, Charlotte,” Jane sighed when she looked up to see Charlotte standing before her.
“Do you have a moment?” Charlotte asked. “To talk?”
Jane sighed again. “I suppose.”
They went off into a corner where they would not be overheard. Charlotte straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath.
“I do wish you wouldn’t bother,” Jane said before she could get a word out. “Nothing has changed since the last time we spoke.”
“Oh, but it has,” Charlotte said eagerly. “Jane. You won’t believe this. But the Society is willing to offer you five thousand pounds a year to become an agent.”
Jane just stared at her.
“Did you hear me?” Charlotte asked. “Did you hear me say five thousand pounds?”
“Yes,” Jane said in a small, strangled voice. “But why—”
“Do you remember Sarah Curshaw, from Lowood?”
“The one with the green eyes?” Jane said.
“Yes. And how she went into that church that random day and met Mr. Bourret, who was so immediately taken by Sarah and her green eyes that he simply had to marry her? It was the biggest scandal, because Sarah’s family was penniless, and Mr. Bourret brought in four thousand pounds a year.”
Jane looked weary. “What’s your point, Charlotte?”
“If you became an agent, you’d be richer than Sarah Curshaw, the richest girl we know. You’d be set for life.”
“I don’t understand,” Jane said. “Why would they be willing to pay me such a sum?”
“Because you’re special, Jane,” Charlotte answered, pressing down the stab of jealousy she felt in her chest. “You’re what’s called a Beacon. You can—”
Jane held up her hand. “Stop. No more, Charlotte. I don’t want to hear it.”
“But—”
“I am no one special,” Jane said. “I am just a girl. I can see ghosts, yes, but it has only ever brought me trouble!”
“But, Jane, if you would only—”
“No. I don’t need another minute to give you my final answer. No. No, no. Go away, Charlotte. Stop playing your little game.”
Charlotte felt the heat rush to her face. “You’re a selfish girl, Jane Eyre. You’ve been given an opportunity that some of us would—well, not exactly kill for, but desire very much, and be willing to work incredibly hard to attain. And this miraculous chance is offered to you, freely, but you turn your nose up at it. You’re throwing it all away, Jane! You’re a fool!”
There was a moment of thunderous silence. Then Jane said, under her breath, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it. You’re not trouble.”
Charlotte thought Jane was trying to make amends, but then she realized that Jane was not speaking to her. She was speaking to Helen.
“She’s here right now, isn’t she?” she asked. “Helen Burns?”
Jane’s eyes flickered with surprise. “How did you know?”
“Mr. Blackwood can see her. He’s not here to relocate her,” she added quickly, as Jane’s face filled with alarm. “I wish you would have told me yourself. I thought . . . I thought we were friends.”
“We are,” Jane said.
“Tell me the real reason, then, that you won’t accept the Society’s offer.”
Jane bit her lip. “There’s no real reason. I am simply content to stay at Thornfield Hall.”
“But why?”
“It’s warm here—so warm, my toes are nice and toasty every night, no chilblains, ever—and the food is very good, and I am becoming so fond of my little pupil, and then, well, there’s . . .” Jane sighed. “Rochester.”
“Rochester?”
“Rochester is a good and decent man. He’s been so kind to me. He’s not what you might consider classically handsome, I know, but he’s tall and dark, at least. And there’s something so appealing about his broody mannerisms. His scowl is so . . . attractive. And sometimes when we talk I feel that he’s the only person who really understands me. It’s like my soul communes with his. It’s like he—”
“Oh, blast. You’re in love with Rochester,” Charlotte observed. And then everything suddenly made much more sense.
Jane’s face colored. “No. Of course I’m not in love with Rochester. That would be entirely inappropriate. He’s my employer. He’s . . .” Charlotte stared at her. “Is it that obvious?”
“Jane,” Charlotte began.
“I know he’s a bit older than I am. But that just makes him wiser, don’t you think?”
“Oh, Jane.” This was a distressing development. Charlotte could contend with Jane’s low opinion of herself, her unfair prejudice against the Society, her unwillingness to picture herself as respectable or wealthy. But if Jane was in love, well, that was that. Jane would not be coming to London with them or joining the Society.
Love trumped everything in a woman’s life. More than ambition. Respectability. Common sense. Love, they’d both been taught, conquers all.
“So you’re in love with Rochester,” Charlotte said with a little sigh. “When did this happen? How did this happen?”
Jane shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know. He made me love him without even looking at me.”
Charlotte wasn’t sure how that worked, but she said, “And you think he loves you, in return?”
She nodded. “Once, he put his robe around me when he thought I might be cold.”
Charlotte gasp
ed. “That is romantic. And scandalous. Jane!”
“I saved him because his bed was on fire,” she confessed, and then she recounted the entire story of her time with Mr. Rochester, including their unusual introduction on the road, the strangeness that was Grace Poole, the incident with the fire, and their moment yesterday in the garden. By the end of the tale Charlotte, too, was convinced that Jane and Rochester were indeed soul mates.
“And then he said, I knew you would do me good from the first moment I saw you,” Jane finished up.
Charlotte propped her head in her hand and sighed dreamily. “He said that? That sounds just like Mr. Darcy.”
“I know! That’s what I told Helen! He’s said it more than once, actually. So you see, I am needed here. I am doing him good.”
Charlotte frowned. “But why, then, is he leading everyone to believe that he’s going to marry Miss Ingram?”
Jane stared off into the distance again. Her hand, Charlotte noticed, was trembling.
“So it’s true, then? Mr. Rochester is going to marry Miss Ingram?” she whispered.
“Yes, they’re getting married. At least that’s what everybody says. Including Miss Ingram.”
“She’s not even that pretty,” Jane muttered. “Who needs such glossy hair, anyway? And her neck . . .”
“Swanlike,” Charlotte sighed.
“People really shouldn’t have necks like swans,” Jane said. “It’s absurd. She’s a bird neck, is what she is.”
“Plus, Miss Ingram is the worst, haughtiest, most unkind of persons. I’d feel sorry for anybody who ended up with her,” Charlotte added.
Jane looked at her and smiled brilliantly. The smile transformed her from very plain to quite pretty in an instant. “Oh, thank you for saying that. That makes me feel much better.”
“Anytime.” Charlotte really did believe that Jane was a greatly superior human being compared to Miss Ingram. “But Miss Ingram definitely has the impression that she’s to be Rochester’s bride. . . .”
Jane grabbed Charlotte’s hand. “But why does Miss Ingram think she’s marrying Mr. Rochester? Has he asked her? Surely he hasn’t asked her, or he wouldn’t act so friendly with . . .”
“He hasn’t asked her,” Charlotte said.
Another transformative smile. “He hasn’t?”
“She thinks he will ask her on this visit.”
Clouds darkened Jane’s expression. “Oh, she does, does she?”
“Don’t you worry about Miss Ingram,” Charlotte said generously. “I’m sure it will work out. It sounds like he loves you.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. I see, now, why you can’t leave him.”
“But you won’t tell anyone? We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes. We’re friends. I’ll just tell Mr. Blackwood that it’s no use. You’ve made up your mind,” Charlotte said.
She could only imagine how he was going to take the news.
SEVENTEEN
Jane
The guests came back from the picnic and still Mr. Rochester hadn’t returned. Jane mulled over her conversation with Charlotte. She couldn’t believe her feelings for Rochester had been so obvious. More disheartening was the fact that everyone in the party thought Rochester would propose to Blanche Ingram sooner rather than later.
And the third most disheartening thing was the pressure she now felt to join the ghost-hating Society.
“Five thousand pounds,” Helen said.
Jane was trying to focus on her work with Adele, but Helen’s pacing and frequent outbursts about the money were making it difficult.
Still, she’d rather try to teach Adele than meet up with the guests in the parlor. Mr. Rochester wasn’t back. He would never know that she wasn’t there.
“Do you know what you could do with five thousand pounds?” Helen said.
“Do tell,” Jane whispered. Adele was still conjugating verbs and didn’t hear her.
“You could . . . you could . . . buy all the burlap in the world and then burn it in one big bonfire, which would also keep you so cozy warm.”
Jane couldn’t help smiling.
“Besides that, Mr. Rochester is by no means a sure thing, but five thousand pounds is.”
Jane couldn’t help frowning.
A knock came at the door, and Mrs. Fairfax entered.
“Miss Eyre, I have a rather peculiar request. An old fortune-teller has come to Thornfield. She has entreated that all of the ladies in the house visit her in the master’s study to have their fortunes revealed.”
Jane gave her an incredulous look. “I have no fortune, Mrs. Fairfax, let alone one that could be told.”
“Not yet,” said Helen. “But if you go with Mr. Blackwood—”
“Please, Miss Eyre. She is quite persistent, and you’re the only lady yet to be seen.”
“Why the ladies?” Jane asked.
Mrs. Fairfax ignored the question and made a shooing gesture toward the door.
Jane glanced toward Helen, who shrugged. Perhaps Jane needed something to take her mind off Rochester. And Charlotte. And the Society. And the blasted Ingrams.
“Very well. I will come down at once.”
Mrs. Fairfax led the way to the study, followed by Jane and Helen.
“Well, this is all very exciting,” Helen said. “Perhaps she’ll tell you some glamorous thing that lies in your future. Like five thousand pounds.”
Jane didn’t answer.
When they arrived at the door, they found it closed and locked. “I believe Miss Ingram is finishing up,” Mrs. Fairfax said.
Sure enough, moments later, the latch unhinged and out came Miss Blanche Ingram. Her face was dark, and her frown pronounced.
“Miss Ingram, are you feeling all right?” Mrs. Fairfax inquired.
“I am quite well,” she said in a curt voice. “Only it is unfortunate I wasted away a quarter of an hour listening to nonsense.”
She stomped away to join the others in the library.
Mrs. Fairfax turned toward Jane. “She certainly seems upset by her future. Now, Jane, be certain not to take this fortune-teller’s words to heart. She is almost certainly full of lies.”
“Do not worry, Mrs. Fairfax. I won’t listen.”
Inside the study there hung a tapestry, separating the door half of the room from the window half. A lone chair sat by the drape.
“Ah, the last of the single ladies of the house. Please do sit,” came a gravelly voice from the other side of the tapestry.
Jane sat, and Helen knelt beside her.
“Are you shaking, girl?” the old woman asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not afraid.”
“Are you not worried about my supernatural powers?”
“I don’t believe in them,” Jane said.
“You speak most confidently, for someone who hides such a large secret.”
A breath caught in Jane’s throat.
“There now,” the fortune-teller said. “I see this affects you.”
“I don’t have a secret,” Jane said, though her voice quivered.
“I know you’re an orphan.”
Again, Jane took in a breath.
“Wouldn’t you like to sit closer to the fire?” the fortune-teller asked. “I think at Lowood school, you were starved for heat.”
Okay, this was getting ridiculous. And just a touch frightening.
Helen stood and walked through the curtain. What if the fortune-teller truly had skill in the occult and could see Helen?
But Helen returned almost immediately.
“It’s Mr. Rochester!”
Jane raised her eyebrows in question.
“Yes! It’s him. It’s him! I promise.”
“Did you hear me, girl?” The fortune-teller/Mr. Rochester said. Now that Jane was listening for it, she could definitely hear a marked resemblance to the master’s gruff voice.
“I did. Yes, I do appr
eciate fire, but I’m sure there are very few who don’t. Except maybe Mr. Rochester, who was nearly burned in his sleep a few nights ago.”
There was throat clearing on the other side of the curtain. “And what about this secret of yours?” Rochester asked. “Is there no one you can confide in?”
“No. Not really,” Jane said, wondering what secret Rochester was referring to. Surely he didn’t know she could see ghosts.
“What do you think of this party of guests here at Thornfield? I think there is one in the party who does occupy your thoughts, isn’t there? Someone you might have feelings for?” Mr. Rochester nudged.
Jane couldn’t deny the fact that it was his face, lately, that had dominated her thoughts.
It was a good thing Mr. Rochester couldn’t see her, or hear her racing heartbeat. “No one’s face, in particular. Although Mrs. Fairfax always looks pleasant.”
“But what of the master of the house? What do you think of him?”
Jane knew better than to mine her own heart for this answer. She thought back to Mrs. Fairfax’s description that first day. “He is a good master. Loyal. Pays his staff in a timely fashion, though he owes me fifteen pounds that I have yet to see. But that’s between you and me.”
Mr. Rochester coughed a few times. “But what of the master’s character?”
“I’ll leave his character description to the woman who’s captured his heart.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Miss Ingram, of course,” Jane continued. “I believe their engagement is as good as settled. So I intend to advertise for a new place of employment.”
The curtain flew to the side, and out stepped Mr. Rochester. “You are not leaving!”
Jane frowned. “Mr. Rochester, I knew it was you.”
“Hah!” he cried. “You are a witch.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “I’ve no intention of going anywhere until necessary. But, sir, pretending to be a fortune-teller to get me to talk?”
Rochester opened his mouth as if to argue, but then shook his head and smiled. “No, you are right, Jane. It is not fair. But how else am I to find out what’s going on in your mind?”
Helen stomped her foot and the end table near her rattled. “Can’t he simply ask you? Converse with you? Acknowledge you in certain company? There are a million things he could’ve done to figure out what was going on!”
