My Plain Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  “I would do anything to know what you are thinking,” Mr. Rochester said.

  Jane blushed. Why would someone like Mr. Rochester care what was inside the head of a lowly servant? She was at a loss for words. What was she to say? The silence dragged on.

  Helen knew exactly what to say. “Never in any Jane Austen novel did the love interest pretend to be a fortune-teller,” Helen said. “Why would someone do that? Jane, you must confront him.”

  Jane was having a difficult time ignoring her friend. Surely they couldn’t expect any real person to compete with Mr. Darcy.

  “Did you know there is another visitor to Thornfield?” she blurted.

  “No,” he said. “Who is it?”

  “He says he’s an old friend. A Mr. Mason.”

  Mr. Rochester’s expression remained blank. “I see. You may go.”

  Jane frowned.

  “I must attend to my new guest.”

  Jane walked stiffly to the door.

  “And I expect you in the drawing room.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jane said.

  “Well, that was strange,” Helen said. “Even you must admit it.”

  Jane nodded slowly. “I admit it.”

  The two of them went to the drawing room, where Jane took a seat next to Adele, partially hidden behind a panel.

  Yes, for the umpteenth time, someone is hiding behind a panel. Apparently in pre-Victorian England, there were panels everywhere, and people hid behind them. Frequently. From what we could discover during our thorough research of the subject, panels were advertised by how well someone might hide behind one.

  So, Jane was sitting behind a panel, as usual, when Mr. Blackwood entered.

  “Mr. Blackwood!” Helen exclaimed, waving. “Hi! Do you have employment for a ghost? I can be most useful.”

  Jane shot her a confused look and said, “Sit down, dear.”

  Helen dropped to the floor. Before Jane could question Helen about her sudden enthusiasm for Mr. Blackwood, Mr. Rochester threw open the drawing room door and strode inside.

  “I am sorry for my absence, my esteemed guests. The storm kept me.”

  Mr. Mason crossed the room, his hand extended. “Rochester, my dear fellow.”

  Mr. Rochester’s eyes narrowed and he took the tiniest step back. “Mr. Mason.”

  Mr. Mason hesitated at the cold reception, and the two men stiffly shook hands.

  “Very well,” Mr. Rochester said. “I understand you all had fortunes told. I can’t wait to hear about it, but for now, dinner is ready. If you’ll follow me.”

  He held his elbow toward Miss Ingram, and she took the offered arm, a little less enthusiastically than she had in the past, Jane thought. She and Adele watched as the party went, two by two, out of the drawing room. Mr. Blackwood and Charlotte made the final pair, and both of them looked over their shoulders at Jane as they exited.

  Helen watched them leave and then shook her head. “Five thousand pounds.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Alexander

  As a general rule, Alexander found everything suspicious. Like, why didn’t women’s clothes have pockets? And why did most mammals walk on four legs while humans used only two? And especially why did we see only one side of the moon? What was the other side trying to hide?

  And then there was Rochester, who did suspicious things all the time. And Mason, who skulked about the house in the middle of the night. What was their relationship? Their greeting had been so odd and uncomfortable, as though the two men didn’t agree on their shared history. And after dinner, Mason had tried to pull Rochester aside, but the latter just hissed gruffly, “She’s not here. You should go home.”

  That wasn’t the sort of warm friendship Mason had indicated when he’d arrived.

  Then, when Mason and Rochester separated, Mason caught Alexander’s eye and saw he’d witnessed the exchange. “Family business,” he muttered, frowning, but he seemed more confused and hurt than anything.

  Family business probably wasn’t Alexander’s business, but what did that mean about Mason and Rochester’s relationship?

  All of this might have been Alexander’s suspicious nature; as we said, he found everything worth raising an eyebrow at. Nevertheless, it was enough to keep him up a second night in a row. (That and the fact that he hadn’t worn his mask in more than a week. The lack of his mask made him feel exposed. Practically naked.)

  On the other side of the room, Branwell snorted in his sleep, groaned, and turned over.

  Resolved to find answers, Alexander dressed and started out of the room, only to realize Branwell was suddenly standing in the doorway. Fully clothed.

  “What are we doing?” asked the apprentice.

  “Snooping.”

  “I love snooping.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’m coming along.” Without waiting for an invitation, Branwell was out the door with Alexander.

  It would have been better, he thought, if he had to have “help,” if that help could have come from Miss Brontë; the young lady had proved her cleverness in getting them in to Thornfield Hall, though tonight she’d seemed to avoid him before dinner, and during dinner, and then when he tried to corner her after dinner, she wanted to talk about the tomato soup. But it wouldn’t have been proper, him sneaking around the house with a young lady. He shuddered to imagine the talk.

  “Who are we snooping on?” inquired Branwell as they slipped through the hall.

  “You should have asked before you decided to join.”

  “I didn’t say I’d rescind the offer of help. I was just asking for details.”

  “Rochester.”

  Branwell gave a little hop. “I can’t wait.”

  Shortly, they reached Rochester’s study, and Branwell stood watch while Alexander picked the lock with his penknife. At first glance, they found . . . everything in perfect order. No strange memory-altering artifacts. No device that removed the ability to speak French.

  “What are you looking for?” Branwell at least had the presence of mind to keep his voice low.

  “Anything that tells me about his relationship to my father, or why Mr. Mason is here and behaving so squirrely.”

  “Squirrely, sir?”

  “It’s a word, Branwell.”

  “I know, but it’s not one I thought you’d use.”

  “There are lots of squirrels in London. I’m familiar with how they behave. And Mason is behaving like a squirrel.”

  Branwell nodded. “What about Rochester? Are you turning him into an animal as well?”

  Alexander clenched his jaw. Really, he would have preferred to come in here alone, if Branwell was going to interrogate him like this.

  “Maybe he’s not really a bad chap and you just don’t like him because you don’t like people,” Branwell mused as he dragged his finger over the spines of books on a shelf.

  “That’s not true. I like plenty of people.” Alexander was focused on the large mahogany desk, opening drawers and flipping through papers.

  “Who do you like?” Branwell asked. “Name one person.”

  Alexander had to think about that. There was Wellington, a man he deeply respected, though respecting someone wasn’t the same as liking them, he supposed; he didn’t know Wellington well enough on a personal level to say he liked the man, just that he didn’t dislike the man.

  And, well, there was . . .

  “Ah!” In searching through the drawers, Alexander had come across a false back. He removed the pens and jars of ink from the front, then used his penknife to open the secret compartment. It was filled with old letters, the papers yellowed with age.

  “What is it?” Branwell abandoned his search of the bookshelves and brought his lamp close. “Did you find something incriminating?”

  Alexander riffled through the pages, skimming names and dates. He removed several of them, long enough to glance over the text. “Most of these are about Rochester’s late wife,” he said. “Her illness, treatment
s, something about a woman named Grace Poole. Nothing that would be remotely useful for us to know.”

  But then he paused. On one of the letters in the back, a familiar name jumped out: his father’s.

  “Who’s this?” Branwell asked. “Do you know him?”

  “No one of consequence,” Alexander muttered. “This is nothing. There’s nothing here.”

  Branwell frowned. “You seem really upset about something that’s nothing.”

  “I’m sorry, Branwell. You should go back to bed.”

  “So I helped you break into Rochester’s study for nothing?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Alexander’s hands were shaking as he stuffed the letter into his pocket. Branwell could see it, surely, but the assistant didn’t comment. Instead, the boy just left the study with a concerned frown on his face.

  Finally, Alexander was alone in the room. He swallowed, then traced a finger across the bottom of the letter where the name N. Bell had been carefully signed. That was his father’s signature. There were so few items of his father’s left after the explosion, and here was a letter in his own hand.

  He swayed a little, then leaned on the side of the desk. The letter begged to be read, but if he looked at it now, there would be nothing new for Alexander to have. No more anticipation.

  He closed his eyes and breathed, trying to calm himself. He’d suspected something strange about Rochester. That was why he’d sneaked into a gentleman’s study and riffled through his desk.

  But memories were persistent, funny things. They lifted up at the most inconvenient times.

  Alexander’s father had been part of the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits, years and years ago, back during King George III’s reign. He’d worked in the treasury, not as an agent; as far as Alexander knew, his father hadn’t been able to see ghosts. But he’d believed, and he’d done his part to improve the lives of citizens of England.

  The day his father died was seared into his memory. He’d replayed it in his mind for years, polishing it until he felt he could recall every detail. Wellington had warned him that some of those details might be fantasies. He’d been so young. How could anyone remember everything exactly? But Alexander knew the truth. He’d heard the argument between the killer and his father. He’d felt his father’s anger as the killer left the house in a fury. And he remembered the impacts of his footfalls as he, a young boy, went racing after the killer.

  Then. The explosion.

  At that moment, the man had turned. And he’d looked triumphant.

  And while the killer had watched Alexander’s house explode, and his father’s life extinguish within, Alexander had gone racing back, as though he could save him.

  He’d returned to the house, coughing at the smoke, ashes stinging his eyes.

  It was there he’d died.

  For a moment.

  That was when Wellington had found him and rushed him to a doctor. He’d breathed in too much smoke, that was all, and Alexander had been (physically) fine after that. But he’d died. Briefly.

  That had been the trigger. After that, he’d been able to see ghosts.

  But not his father’s.

  And now Alexander held this letter from his father. To Rochester. It was dated mere weeks before the explosion.

  He took a deep breath and began to read.

  My dear friend Rochester, the letter began.

  Alexander had been right; his father had known Mr. Rochester. They’d been friends. Not just acquaintances or passingly friendly, but dear.

  The beginning of the letter was all formalities, updating Rochester on the activities in London and their mutual acquaintances. There was even a note about Alexander—My son is full of energy and curiosity. I fear I won’t be able to keep up with him—which Alexander read over and over, burning the words into his heart. He wanted to remember forever some of the last thoughts his father had about him.

  Then: I know you and I have not agreed in the past about what to do about AW, but I’d still like to avoid violence if we can. We should meet in person to discuss how we might save the Society and bring this travesty to an end.

  Alexander read the letter five more times. A hundred more times. Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place. Rochester had come to London to see Alexander’s father. To discuss something about the Society. To avoid violence.

  But there had been violence. The explosion.

  Perhaps the disagreement had been stronger than his father had realized.

  What if his father had died at the hands of Edward Rochester?

  NINETEEN

  Charlotte

  The candle was almost burnt out, but Charlotte kept writing. She’d felt a rush of inspiration ever since this morning’s conversation with Jane. It was a new story, a better one than she had ever attempted. The mystery of Mr. Brocklehurst had flown from her consciousness. This story she was writing now—the one she’d been waiting for—the one, she knew, she was meant to compose, was not a murder mystery. Murder mysteries were rather base, weren’t they? It was not a ghost story, either, although it may have supernatural elements, Charlotte supposed. No, this new story was a romance. It was drawn in large part from Jane’s situation. It had come to Charlotte all in a rush as she’d listened to Jane reflect on her relationship with Mr. Rochester. There’d been this gleam of love in Jane’s eyes. Jane Eyre—little plain Jane—was in love. She had no right to be in love, of course, a girl of her status, especially seeing as the man of interest was the master of the house. But in love, Jane was. And it sounded as if the love were, at least in some aspect, reciprocated.

  Charlotte could imagine it all so well. Jane and Mr. Rochester were bound together, no matter how improper it appeared. She sighed. Someday, perhaps, she’d find love, too. Or it would find her, as it had with Jane. How was it that Jane had described it? “He made me love him,” she’d said, “without even looking at me.”

  For now, Charlotte would have to be content to write her own version of their story. She’d already filled a quarter of her notebook with her tiny, laborious scrawl about Jane in love. At the moment, as the candle burned perilously low, she was trying to write the perfect description of Mr. Rochester.

  The fire shone full on his face, Charlotte wrote, drawing her lip between her teeth and holding it there as her mind whirled with words. I—she’d been writing it so far in first person because it felt more natural to her to try to feel as she thought Jane must feel, and to give her a voice—not the voice of some wise, presumably male narrator, judging her, but her own, pure voice, speaking for itself. (And also, if we’re being honest, Charlotte could live through Jane a little, if she wrote that way.) I knew my traveler, with his broad and . . . She frowned . . . jetty . . . yes, jetty . . . eyebrows, his square forehead, made squarer by the horizontal sweep of his black hair. I recognized his decisive nose, more remarkable for character than for beauty. She smiled at the line, dipped her pen into the inkwell and carried on in trying to describe his face. His grim mouth, chin, and jaw—yes, all three were very grim and no mistake.

  She paused. There was indeed something grim about Mr. Rochester. Something ominous. She’d felt it every time she’d been in the man’s presence. But this was the man Jane professed to love. Charlotte, as Jane’s friend, should try to be supportive. And love was blind, was it not? Mr. Rochester possessed all the qualities that a young lady should yearn for. He was rather old, she could admit, but not feeble or senile. He was wealthy. He had an amusing talent—he was a decent actor, she’d seen when they’d played charades earlier. And he owned a very nice dog.

  He would do. And Jane loved him, which was what truly mattered.

  Charlotte turned back to her work. His shape, now divested of cloak—I suppose it was a good figure in the athletic sense of the term—broad chested and thin flanked, though neither tall nor graceful.

  She paused again. For some mysterious reason her mind drifted to Mr. Blackwood. Mr. Blackwood was graceful. In her mind she conjured the
way he walked, so purposefully and yet light on his feet. How he folded his hands when he sat. His serious expression—but then there was the way he tried not to smile even when something struck him as humorous—the way his eyes would give him away and the tiniest upturn in the corner of his mouth would appear for a flicker of an instant before he’d banish it. She did like the smile, even though it meant that he might not be taking her seriously, she supposed. Lately when he’d told her to “Go home, Miss Brontë,” that hidden smile had been present, too, as if he were only saying it out of habit now, but he didn’t mean it. He wanted her there.

  Charlotte brushed an errant curl from her forehead. Focus, she told herself. Back to Mr. Rochester. She concentrated on picturing the man’s face, his stern features and heavy brow, his eyes and gathered eyebrows looking . . . ireful and thwarted. Yes.

  But Mr. Blackwood . . . he could appear stern as well. Tonight, for instance, he’d borne an air of sharp determination as he’d pursued her about the house. He’d wanted to speak with her about her conversation with Jane. He expected her to report on Jane’s answer to the proposition of five thousand pounds.

  And Charlotte had, well, avoided him. She wasn’t ready to tell him yet, that their endeavor to recruit Jane was futile. Jane had just divulged all the deep secrets of a woman’s heart. Mr. Blackwood couldn’t possibly understand.

  And he was clearly wrestling with his own feelings concerning Mr. Rochester.

  She sighed. Perhaps she was not ready to admit to herself yet that this had all been for nothing. That Jane would not become an agent, and therefore Charlotte’s life was likely to return to the way it had been before. Boring. Starving. Languishing at Lowood.

  And she and Mr. Blackwood would have no reason for further contact. She would never truly get to know him, the way she had lately been feeling she was coming to know him.

  Ahem. Mr. Rochester. Charlotte turned back to her writing. She supposed that if Mr. Rochester had been too good-looking, Jane would have been intimidated by him. She nodded to herself, then wrote, I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry, fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.