by Cynthia Hand
Charlotte sat back and stretched her arms, feeling pleased with herself. (But she was a writer, so while she did get this moment of thinking herself somewhat brilliant, it would soon be offset by a crippling doubt that she had a gift of words at all. Such is the way with all writers. Trust us.) She liked what she’d written because it felt true. Better that a boy not be overtly handsome, she thought, if one was plain. Better that there were simply individual parts of said boy to admire. Like the shape of his hands. Or a smile. Or . . .
There was a soft tapping at her door. Charlotte startled, nearly upsetting her bottle of ink. It was the dead of night, the house entirely still. Perhaps she’d imagined the sound. She listened. It came again, a gentle rapping, rapping at her chamber door. She stood and put on her dressing gown and went to open it. Then she lifted her spectacles to see who it was.
Mr. Blackwood was standing there—not in his nightclothes, but fully dressed, though uncharacteristically rumpled, frowning this troubled little frown.
“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately. “You look as if you’ve seen—”
Well, it would be ridiculous to say he’d seen a ghost. He was accustomed to seeing ghosts, after all.
“This is inappropriate,” he said dully. “I . . . I shouldn’t have come. I . . . I just . . .”
She didn’t know what to do. She should definitely not invite him into her bedroom.
She stepped back and held the door open for him. “Come in.”
He strode past her and straight across to the other side of the room, as if keeping some distance between them might preserve some semblance of propriety. He drew back the curtains and stared out the window into the moon-filled night. Charlotte closed the door gently.
“Do you wish to sit?” she asked, gesturing to an armchair.
“Yes.” He crossed to the chair and sat, then stood up again. “No. No, I can’t.”
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Rochester murdered my father.” He rubbed his hand across his face. “Well, I think he did.”
She felt instantly cold. “Mr. Rochester.”
“He was there, that night, the night of the explosion. They argued. There was shouting. I remember it.”
“The explosion?”
Mr. Blackwood quickly relayed the details of his father’s death, his voice wavering. Her heart swelled, picturing the little boy he had been. What he’d been through.
He drew a letter out of his pocket and handed it to her. She read it. “So they had a falling-out, over the Society, it seems. But . . .”
“Rochester’s a traitor,” Mr. Blackwood spat out. “He’s a villain of the worst kind. I . . .” His hands were shaking. “It must have been him. Who else would have reason to hurt my father? There’s no other explanation.”
“Oh, Alexander, I’m sorry,” she said.
His expression hardened. “He’s the one who will be sorry. I will kill him.”
She felt the color drain from her face. “Well, that’s a terrible idea.”
He scowled. “I suppose you’d like me to confront Mr. Rochester about his crime and have the authorities deal with it.”
“Why, yes,” she affirmed. “That sounds much more reasonable.”
“Do you suppose that Mr. Rochester will simply confess? That I’ll accuse him of this vile act, which is a crime worthy of death—and then he’ll respond with, ‘Yes, yes, that is exactly what happened. Arrest me, please’?”
“You need proof, obviously,” she agreed. “You will need to build a case against him.”
“I heard him arguing with my father. I saw him leave the building, just before the explosion. I saw him.”
“None of that proves that he actually murdered your father,” Charlotte pointed out. “You have no evidence that isn’t circumstantial.”
“So again I say, I should simply kill him. It’s what he deserves. Everything in my life has been leading up to this point.”
She shook her head. “Then you will get arrested for murder yourself, which would be a great embarrassment to the Society, I imagine. And it will fail to bring about the justice you seek. It’s a terrible plan, do you see?”
“I suppose you have a better one.”
“Of course I do.” She smiled up at him, her mind grasping at several wild ideas. She settled on one. “You’re going to carry on with the ruse. You are Mr. Eshton.”
“Impossible,” said Mr. Blackwood. “I cannot pretend any longer.”
“Now is not the time, Mr. Blackwood, to cry revenge and reveal all of your cards. You must wait. Watch. Remaining here, quietly, will allow you access to his home and his private life. Then you can gather the evidence you need to put him away.”
“I’m not a very good actor,” he confessed.
“You’re fine,” Charlotte assured him. “You’ve handled yourself brilliantly so far.”
“But it’s different now.”
“I know. This situation is entirely more important.”
Some of the fire seemed to leave him. He was quiet for a long moment.
“All right. I’ll remain Mr. Eshton. For now.”
Over the course of their conversation she had slowly traversed the room, to where she was presently standing just before him. She put her hand on his arm. “I will help you.”
“Thank you.” He seemed suddenly aware of the inappropriateness of their current circumstance. He rubbed at his forehead, then stepped back. “I apologize. I should not have burst in here. I . . .”
“You needed someone to talk to.”
He nodded. “I will go. It’s very late.” His brows squeezed together. “Why were you not asleep?”
“I was writing.” She gestured toward the small desk and her notebook. The candle had long since sputtered out. “I’ve been feeling inspired, as of late.”
“Inspired by what?” he asked.
She glanced away. “Um . . .” She couldn’t very well tell him that she was writing a romance now. Starring, as it happened, Mr. Rochester. Oh, dear. Mr. Rochester was now potentially a murderer. Which would make him entirely inappropriate as a knight in shining armor for Jane.
This would ruin her story.
Or possibly improve upon it. Charlotte wasn’t sure. It was important, though, that Jane be informed of Mr. Rochester’s alleged crime. Oh, double dear. What an awful thing to have to tell her. How exactly does one tell one’s friend that the man she’s in love with could be a nefarious villain?
At that very moment, the night was pierced by a fearful shriek. (Charlotte would later write this moment and describe it as “a shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall.”)
She and Mr. Blackwood froze. The cry had come from the east wing.
“What was that noise?” Mr. Blackwood said.
“It sounded like someone in need of help,” Charlotte replied, shivering.
“Help! Help! Help!” screamed the voice.
“See?”
“WILL NO ONE COME?”
They dashed out into the hall. It was crowded with the various guests of the house—Charlotte saw Bran looking dazed and the Ingrams and Colonel Dent—all milling around exclaiming things like, “Who is hurt?” “What has happened?” “Are there robbers about?”
Then Mr. Rochester appeared at the end of the gallery, holding a candle. Miss Ingram ran to him and seized his arm.
“What awful event has taken place?” she cried.
Mr. Rochester’s expression was completely, bone-chillingly calm. “It’s all right,” he answered. “It’s a mere rehearsal of Much Ado About Nothing.”
What? Just . . . what? Why was he talking about a play?
“A servant has had a nightmare; that is all,” he added. “Now all of you, go back to bed. I have things handled. There is nothing to fear.”
Was it a rehearsal or was it a servant with a nightmare? This story was not making sense.
The guests began to shuffle back into their various rooms. Charlotte glanced over at
Mr. Blackwood. His dark eyes were still fixed on Mr. Rochester. His jaw clenched. His hands in fists. She touched his shoulder.
“Not now,” she whispered. “Remember the plan.”
He blinked, then looked around like he’d forgotten where he was for a moment. Then he turned to Charlotte again.
“Where is Miss Eyre?” he asked.
Charlotte’s breath caught. She turned around wildly, looking. Everyone was here—everyone . . . except Mr. Mason. And Jane.
Where was Jane?
TWENTY
Jane
A loud knock came at Jane’s bedchamber door. She startled.
“Jane.” It was Mr. Rochester’s voice. “Miss Eyre, I need your help.”
Jane was still trying to recover from the scare of that scream. When she’d gone to see what had happened, Mrs. Fairfax had intercepted her and said the master of the house required her help, and she should stay in her bedchamber until called upon.
It had been a tense wait.
Jane pulled her robe tighter around and answered the door.
Mr. Rochester was there with a candle. “Follow me.”
Helen whooshed to her side. “I don’t like the sound of this. And why does he need your help?”
“And quietly,” Rochester whispered.
He rushed through one hallway and down the next. Jane had to work to keep up and stay quiet. Helen gave up walking and just floated.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she said.
Jane didn’t want to admit that she felt the same way, but it was the middle of the night, and there was that scream. Of course they should have a bad feeling about this.
Mr. Rochester opened a door at the bottom of the east wing and they began to climb a spiral staircase.
“Jane, do you faint at the sight of blood?”
“Well, that sounds ominous,” Helen said.
“I don’t think so,” Jane said.
At the top of the stairs, Rochester opened the door into a smallish anteroom. Mr. Mason lay on the sofa there, looking pale and drenched in sweat. A ball of bloody rags lay beside him, the freshest still bright red.
“What has happened to her?” He moaned. “She . . . has . . . killed . . . me. She’s gone mad.”
Helen’s mouth fell open. “What. Is. Wrong. With. The. Living?!”
“Jane, sit with Mason,” Mr. Rochester said. “Press the rags into his wound. I will ride into town and bring the doctor.” He pushed Jane into a chair and shoved more rags into her hand. “And do not say anything to Mason, nor he to you. He is too weak to speak. Do you hear me, Mason? You are too weak to speak.”
With that he blew out the door. Jane pressed the rags to the wound, and Mason groaned.
“Helen? I’m scared,” Jane whispered.
But Helen was no longer staring at Mason. Instead she was pacing the room and grabbing her hair. “Something’s not right in here,” she said. “Something feels strange.”
“Stranger than the fact that this man is bleeding to death right in front of us?” Jane said.
“I am?” Mason groaned, apparently more lucid than Jane had thought.
“No, no, sir, you will be fine. Just . . . shhhhhhhhh.”
Mason clenched a fist. “I should have known she wouldn’t want me here. I wouldn’t have come, but . . .”
Helen groaned. “Why would Mr. Rochester ask you to do this? You’re a governess, not a doctor.”
“Stay calm, Helen. We have to keep our wits about us,” Jane said.
A door on the opposite end of the room rattled. Then rattled again. As though someone were kicking it.
“What’s that?” Helen said.
“I don’t know,” Jane said. “Go through the wall and find out.”
This time Mason lifted his head, causing a fresh stream of blood to spurt out. “Go through the wall? Are you telling me to leave this mortal world?”
“No, no,” Jane said. “You are hallucinating. You’ll be fine. Sleep. Shhhh.”
Helen went toward the door, trembling the entire way, but just as she reached it, she stopped.
“It’s not letting me go through,” Helen said. She tried again.
Suddenly a scream came from the other side of the door. And then Helen screamed. Jane froze.
“I can’t get through the wall or the door!” Helen began to turn in circles, pulling at her hair again. “I don’t know what is going on!”
The door rattled again and then a window blew open, the strong gust dousing the candles. The room fell dark and silent.
“Helen?” Jane whispered. There was no response. “Mr. Mason?” She reached out and felt for his forehead. It was cold and clammy. “Mr. Mason?”
Again, there was no response.
And then time stood still.
When you are counting the passage of time by the breaths from your lungs, it moves very slowly, and that was what Jane was doing. She was up into the hundreds of breaths. Maybe even thousands. But that’s all she had in this tiny room. The sound of her breathing, and the feel of her hand pressed into Mr. Mason’s wound.
What had happened here? Who was Mr. Mason talking about when he said she’d killed him? Grace Poole had set Mr. Rochester’s bed on fire. Could it be the same culprit? Could Mr. Mason be talking about Grace Poole?
Helen came back in. For some reason, she could only stand staying in this room for minutes at a time. Jane had never seen her so distressed.
“Something is very wrong here,” she said.
Jane had to agree.
The sound of footfalls came from the staircase, and Mr. Rochester burst through the door, followed by the doctor. Finally, there was some candlelight.
Jane backed away and let the doctor near Mr. Mason.
The door at the other end of the room rattled loudly.
“What is that?” Jane said.
“I heard nothing, especially not the door,” Rochester growled. His face grew stern.
Jane stood there, open mouthed, as Rochester and the doctor carried Mason out the door. When they were gone, she collapsed onto the chair next to the sofa. She knew she hadn’t fainted, because she was very aware of not collapsing on the couch with all the blood on it.
“He almost died,” she said to Helen.
“I know.”
“Why does Mr. Rochester act like the things that should matter don’t really matter at all, and the things that don’t matter . . .” Jane couldn’t even finish her sentence.
“I know,” Helen said.
Jane’s eyes stung, tears pricking the corners. “I’m so confused. And I’m scared.”
Helen stood and held her hand out. “Come, friend. Let’s get to bed and lock the door.”
But then Mr. Rochester stormed in. “Jane. Would you accompany me on a walk?”
“No,” Helen said.
“Yes, sir,” Jane said.
Helen sighed loudly. “I’m going to bed.”
Jane followed Mr. Rochester down the stairs and out to the garden. The sun was just starting to light the roses.
“Jane, I knew you would do me good, the moment I met you.”
This was perhaps the third or fourth time he’d said those exact words to her. “You mean the moment I sprained your ankle?”
“You bewitched my horse. And not only my horse.”
Jane looked at the ground.
“You have passed a strange night, here. Were you frightened when I left?”
“Yes, sir. What happened?”
“Sit, please.” He motioned to a bench.
Jane obeyed.
“I cannot give you the details of what transpired this evening. It’s a private family matter. But I can say that I made a mistake many years ago that I am still paying for. And for the longest time, I have been mired in hopelessness and despair. Until someone entered my life. Someone fresh and healthy, without soil or taint. Should I risk the judgment of others to get her?”
Could he be speaking of her? And the judgment over the discrepa
ncy in their stations?
Jane was about to say, yes, risk the judgment, but then Colonel Dent appeared. Mr. Rochester shot to his feet.
“So, yes, I am very satisfied with Adele’s educational needs. That will be all, Miss Eyre. Good morning, Colonel Dent. Mr. Mason has already risen and departed our company, but there are still many here to entertain you. Come, let’s go to the stables.”
And Jane was left sitting there, her heart in her throat. But she wasn’t alone for long.
“Jane!” Charlotte appeared at the archway to the garden. She rushed to her side and took her hand. “We’ve been so worried.”
Mr. Blackwood had followed her. He bowed his head.
“I’m fine,” Jane said. “Why were you looking for me?”
“Why, because there was that awful scream in the middle of the night, and you were nowhere to be found. Didn’t you hear it?”
“Yes. But I was fine. Mr. Mason had an accident, and I was attending to him while Rochester—Mr. Rochester—fetched a doctor.”
“What kind of accident?” Mr. Blackwood said.
Jane pressed her lips together. Mr. Rochester had said it was a family matter. She would protect his privacy.
Mr. Blackwood cleared his throat. “I don’t believe you understand the nature of what’s going on here.”
“I understand enough,” Jane insisted. “And what I don’t understand, I trust Mr. Rochester’s intentions.”
“But why?” Mr. Blackwood said. “You hardly know him.”
“I know him better than you do.” The words were louder than Jane had intended.
Charlotte put her hand on Jane’s shoulder. “Jane, dear, please don’t be upset. We are only thinking of you. There is something strange going on here, and if we can, we want to help. Can you tell us anything about what happened?”
Charlotte’s expression was so sincere, so understanding. She knew Jane’s heart and she hadn’t judged her for it. Jane sighed.
