My Plain Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  “And you believe Miss Eyre’s affection is reciprocated by Mr. Rochester?” the duke questioned.

  “He has said some things to her, very nice things, that would make it seem so.”

  “Interesting.” The duke was smiling yet again. It was a chilling sort of smile, which made the small hairs on the back of Charlotte’s neck stand up. All at once she perceived that the duke was not exactly as he seemed. “Well, perhaps we could make use of that,” he said almost to himself.

  “What do you mean, make use of it?” asked Mr. Blackwood.

  “I am acquainted with Mr. Rochester, as it happens,” said the duke. “I did him a large favor some time ago, and he owes me a debt. Perhaps I can prevail upon him to influence Miss Eyre. Yes. What a fortunate turn of events. I’ll send a message to Rochester at once.”

  Charlotte lifted her glasses to see Mr. Blackwood’s face. He was pale. His mouth tight. She waited for him to tell Wellington about the letter and his suspicions that Rochester had murdered his father. But he did not say anything.

  “Now, if you don’t have anything else for me today, there is much to be done,” the duke said.

  “I wish to speak with you,” said Mr. Blackwood urgently. “Alone.”

  “All right. Come back to my office. There’s a job that requires your attention as well.” The duke nodded curtly at Bran and Charlotte. “I must bid you farewell.”

  “But . . .” Bran gulped in a breath. “What about . . . what about my sister, sir, and her desire to join the Society?”

  The duke waved him off. “Oh, well, plenty of people wish to join the Society, don’t they? Have her prove to me that she can offer us something that no one else can, and perhaps I will consider it. Good day.” The duke began to walk briskly back to the main corridor, but then paused. “Oh. You are still in possession of an artifact, are you not? The one containing the headmaster. Mr. Brocklehurst, I believe his name was. We should add that to the Collection Room before we return to the surface.”

  Alexander’s face reddened. “I have the cane from the carriage ghost, sir, but I no longer have the teacup. It was lost.”

  Surprise registered on the duke’s face. “You don’t often make mistakes, my boy. What happened?”

  “It was . . . lost,” Alexander said.

  Charlotte wanted to hug him. For all the strangeness he must be feeling now about Jane and Rochester. And for protecting Bran.

  Bran, for his part, did not want to be protected. He cleared his throat.

  “Sir, it was my fault. I handled the talisman improperly, and the spirit of Mr. Brocklehurst possessed me for a time, and then I . . . I broke the cup.”

  The duke removed his spectacles. “So the ghost escaped.”

  Bran swallowed, a hard jerk of his prominent Adam’s apple. “Yes, sir.”

  “I see,” said the duke.

  “I await your discipline, sir, with eagerness, in fact, as I know I much deserve it,” Bran said.

  Charlotte stepped forward. “He meant well, sir. He was trying to help a child in need.”

  The duke turned and walked unceremoniously back to the library. He sat at the desk, relit his pipe, and took a long, hard look at Bran. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Brontë in private for a moment.”

  “Sir,” Mr. Blackwood said in protest. “I am to blame as well. I should not have left him alone.”

  The duke didn’t appear to have heard. He simply waited for them to comply with his request. Mr. Blackwood sighed and exited the room. Charlotte stayed. She felt she would burst with all that she wanted to say. It was just a mistake. Anybody could have made such a mistake. Well, maybe not anybody. But Bran meant well. He always meant well.

  Charlotte’s hands clenched into helpless fists.

  “Charlie,” Bran said. “Go.”

  Charlotte and Mr. Blackwood waited in the hall for several long minutes. Then Bran emerged again, pale-faced but smiling bravely.

  “Are you all right?” Mr. Blackwood asked.

  “Fine,” Bran said. “It was just a slap on the wrist, it turns out. I’ll be fine. All will be well.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” said Mr. Blackwood. “You’re fortunate. The duke is not generally the type to give second chances. I’ll walk you out now. I have some further business to attend to with the duke myself.” His eyes caught Charlotte’s, and she tried to give him an encouraging smile.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Brontë,” he said as they made their way back to the main entrance. “I know that you wanted to become an agent.”

  She nodded. “Well. I did. I do. But . . .” She bit her lip again. “Mr. Blackwood, do you ever get the feeling that the duke is not telling you everything?”

  “Wellington is like a second father to me,” he said. “He practically raised me. Of course he tells me everything.”

  “He did not tell you about the Move-On Room,” she pointed out.

  “There was no occasion to tell me,” Mr. Blackwood said stiffly, drawing away from her a bit. “Like he said, we have not had a Beacon in our employ since before I came to the Society.”

  “But that’s a rather significant detail for him to leave out.”

  “It’s a detail. Nothing more.”

  “And don’t you find it odd that he’s acquainted with Mr. Rochester? And don’t you think—”

  “Miss Brontë, I appreciate your concern,” he said in a voice that conveyed that he did not, in fact, appreciate it. “But everything is fine with Wellington. I know him. I will talk to him and sort it all out.”

  “Of course. But there’s something important that we don’t yet know. I can feel it.”

  “You can always feel it.” He crossed his arms. “You should stop poking your cute button nose where it does not belong.”

  “My what?” She shook her head. “But, Mr. Blackwood. Don’t you think it’s all just a tad suspicious? Don’t you think—”

  “No. I don’t.”

  They were out on the street by now, and it was harder to hear him with the bustle of people moving about. Bran was just behind them. He had not said another word since his tête-à-tête with Wellington.

  “Mr. Blackwood,” Charlotte tried again.

  “Just stop,” he said. “Stop overthinking everything. Stop trying so hard. Just accept that things are what they appear to be. There is no great mystery here, Miss Brontë. There is no story.”

  “But—”

  “Go home, Miss Brontë,” he said.

  And this time, she felt, he actually meant it.

  She drew herself up to her full, unformidable height. “Very well. It was a pleasure working with you, Mr. Blackwood. I am sorry that we apparently will be unable to work together in the future. I can . . . I can see myself home.”

  He sighed. He could obviously tell that he had hurt her feelings. “Miss Brontë, I—”

  “Good day, Mr. Blackwood.” She gave a half-hearted curtsy, deliberately not lifting her spectacles to look at him.

  “Miss Brontë.” Mr. Blackwood tipped his hat and then spun on his heel and went back into the building, leaving Charlotte and Bran on the street.

  “Are you all right, Charlie?” Bran asked after a moment.

  “Don’t call me Charlie.” She sighed. “What a strange day.” She was trembling, she discovered. And her eyes were a bit wet. “Come on, let’s go. I’m excited to see your flat, Brother.”

  “It’s a room, not an entire flat. And the landlady is mean.”

  She waited for him to order a carriage, but he said he’d rather walk. So they walked and walked, more than a mile, until they came to a dilapidated house on a darkened street—the kind of street where unpleasant things occurred on a nightly basis. Bran unlocked the front door and led Charlotte quickly and quietly through a hall up the back stairs. To a room the size of a closet.

  Charlotte sat on the bed, because that was the only place available to sit. She caught the strong scent of mold. And mouse droppings. “It’s very nice, Bran,” she said faintly. “V
ery cozy.”

  Bran took off his hat and tossed it into a corner. He ran his hands through his wild red hair, making it ever wilder. Then he looked around and gave a bitter laugh. “Well, that’s one good thing. I won’t have to endure this wretched place any longer.”

  “What do you mean? Have they found you a better place?” She shivered. “A warmer one?” It was odd, how used to being warm she’d gotten, after only a few weeks at the Ingrams’ and Thornfield.

  “No,” Bran said. “But I’ve been given until the end of the month to vacate this one.”

  “But why?” she asked.

  “I’ve been relieved of my position as Mr. Blackwood’s apprentice,” he reported. “And I’ve been cast out from the Society.”

  Her heart ached for him. “Oh, Bran, I’m sorry.”

  Bran swallowed. “The duke said I don’t possess the qualities of a true member.”

  She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “He was angry, understandably, about the incident with the teacup. But perhaps he will reconsider. They need agents, after all. Perhaps—”

  “No,” Bran said hoarsely. “You heard what Mr. Blackwood said. The duke doesn’t give second chances.”

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  “Go home, I suppose. Help Father with the parsonage.”

  “No, you can’t,” Charlotte cried. “It was just one mistake. The duke can’t fire you for one simple mistake.”

  “Oh, but he can,” said Bran. “He wasn’t angry. He didn’t mean me any ill will, Charlie. But he cannot abide incompetence within the Society. They are like a clockwork machine, and I have proved to be a faulty gear. I must go.”

  “But, Bran,” she said. “Surely—”

  “He wants nothing to do with me. I always found it a wonder that I was inducted into the Society in the first place. Besides, I don’t want to work for an institution that will not accept you as well. They’re fools, if they cannot see how valuable you are, Charlie. You’d be a magnificent agent.” He sighed and scooted over to her, slung his arm around her as if he were the one comforting her. “So. That’s that. I’ll go home. You’ll go back to school. And things will return to normal.”

  “I don’t like normal,” she said.

  “Neither do I,” Bran said.

  “I detest normal.”

  “I abhor it,” he agreed.

  “I simply loathe normal,” she said, and Bran gave a weak laugh. And then they got up and made some tea.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Jane

  “There’s a letter for you,” Mrs. Fairfax said at breakfast.

  “For me?” Jane said. Charlotte and Mr. Blackwood had only just left Thornfield, and Jane couldn’t imagine anyone else sending her a letter.

  Mrs. Fairfax pushed it across the table toward Jane, who opened it with curiosity.

  It was from Bessie, Jane’s nursemaid from Aunt Reed’s house.

  Dear Miss Eyre,

  Your aunt Reed has taken ill and is confined to her bed. She has requested to see you. Please make haste, as her time on this earth shan’t be long.

  Jane frowned.

  “Is everything all right, Miss Eyre?” Mrs. Fairfax inquired.

  “No. It is my aunt. She is dying and has requested to see me.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. You shall pack your things at once. Eliza!” A kitchen maid entered. “Please help Miss Eyre pack her things.”

  “But can you spare me for such a trip?” Jane asked.

  “We can and we will,” Mrs. Fairfax said.

  “I thank you. But I will not need Eliza’s help. My belongings are few.”

  “Very well,” Mrs. Fairfax said.

  Jane lowered her gaze. “I will, however, need some money. I have not yet received my wages.”

  “You must take that up with the master,” Mrs. Fairfax said, returning her attention to the morning’s post.

  “Right,” Jane muttered, not looking forward to such an uncomfortable conversation.

  She returned to her bedchamber to pack her meager belongings.

  Helen was not quiet with her feelings about the trip. “Your aunt Reed doesn’t deserve to spit in the same room as you.”

  “She’s probably rather dehydrated, and will not be spitting at all,” Jane said.

  “Nevertheless, I’m glad you are leaving Thornfield Hall, and Mr. Rochester. He is not a good man.”

  Jane frowned. “You don’t know that.”

  “He’s deceitful.”

  “We can’t be sure.”

  “Fortune-teller. Bloody man. Screams from behind the door.” Helen ticked these off on her fingers.

  “Okay, maybe he has, on occasion, not been fully forthcoming with the truth. . . .” Jane had to admit the ghost had a point.

  When she went to approach Mr. Rochester about her wages, she found him in the drawing room, speaking in hushed tones, with Blanche Ingram. Jane felt a pang in her chest.

  “Does that servant want you?” Miss Ingram said.

  Mr. Rochester glanced up and when he saw it was Jane he excused himself immediately, leaving Miss Ingram frowning behind him.

  “What is it, Jane?”

  “I have to leave.”

  “What?” He didn’t bother hiding the disappointment in his voice. “Do not tell me that whole business with the Eshtons has changed your mind about staying here.”

  “No. I have a sick aunt. She has asked to see me.” Jane pulled the letter out of her pocket and handed it to him.

  He took it and glanced it over and handed it back. “This is the aunt that cast you off and sent you to Lowood?”

  “Yes. I will not deny a dying woman her request. I should only be gone a week or so.”

  “A whole week or so?” He sighed and let his head drop. “If you must, you must.”

  “One more thing,” Jane said, feeling incredibly awkward. “I have no money. You haven’t paid me.”

  “I haven’t paid you? But isn’t that one of the things my staff says about me, that I pay in a timely fashion?” He smiled and her heart went boom. “How much do I owe you?”

  She lowered her voice. “Fifteen pounds.”

  He pulled out his wallet and dug through its contents. “Here’s fifty.”

  “I can’t take fifty!”

  He rolled his eyes and then looked through his wallet. “Then I only have ten.”

  “That will do, sir. But you still owe me five,” Jane said with a smile.

  “Then promise me, Jane, you will not spend one more minute than you have to with your awful aunt.” He took her hand, and Jane saw Blanche Ingram look away. “Promise me you’ll come back for your five pounds.”

  “I promise,” Jane said in a breathless whisper.

  “He didn’t have five more pounds?” Helen said incredulously. They were in the carriage making the trip to Aunt Reed’s, and Helen could not get over the fact that he hadn’t paid her all of her wages.

  “I’m sure he does, just not on him at the time.”

  “You know what’s better than five more pounds? Five thousand more pounds.”

  The carriage bumped and jostled along the road, and in the few hours it took to get to Aunt Reed’s, Helen wondered about Mr. Rochester’s shortchanging of her wages no fewer than seven times.

  At her aunt’s house, Bessie met Jane at the door. “I’m so glad you are come, Miss Eyre. My, how you have grown into an elegant lady! Not quite a beauty, but never mind that. You have come just in time. She’s already died once, just before she sent for you. I fear the next time, her death will be permanent.”

  She ushered Jane immediately to the bedchamber, where her aunt’s frail figure barely formed a lump in the mattress. A tall translucent man stood beside her, watching her. It was the ghost of Jane’s uncle.

  Helen ducked behind Jane.

  “Who’s that?” came a gravelly voice from the bed.

  “It’s Jane Eyre,” Jane said. “You sent for me, Aunt Reed.”

  “Jane Eyre. I hated that willf
ul ungrateful child.”

  Helen snorted indignantly and stepped forward.

  The ghost of Uncle Reed shook his head and spoke to the lump under the sheets. “That is not what we discussed, my dear.”

  Aunt Reed turned away from him. Oh, Jane realized. She can see him now. Her short bout with death had turned her into a seer. This should be interesting.

  “Aunt, I am Jane Eyre. You sent for me.”

  Aunt Reed eyed her up and down. “You are Jane Eyre. And I can see you’ve brought one of your heathen friends.”

  Helen looked right and left. “Is she talking about me?” She rolled up the ghostly sleeve of her ghostly dress. “Are you talking about me?”

  “Quiet, dear,” Jane said. “Aunt Reed, how can I be of service?”

  She coughed and wheezed. “I am supposed to confess and make amends before I die.”

  “What do you wish to confess?”

  Aunt Reed stubbornly pressed her lips together, and Uncle Reed poked her under her ribs. She flinched.

  “I promised your uncle I would take care of you. And love you. I didn’t.”

  “I know. I already knew that, Aunt.”

  “And . . .” Uncle Reed prompted.

  “And . . .” She said the next bit as if it were one word. One four-letter word. “Ibelieveyouaboutseeingghosts.”

  She winced, as if it were physically painful to admit such a thing.

  “Thank you, Aunt.” Jane made a move to leave, but her ghost uncle cleared his throat.

  “One more thing,” her aunt said. She gestured to her desk, on top of which was a letter. “Three years ago, I received a message from an uncle you never knew existed. He had asked for your whereabouts. He wanted you to live with him. Wanted you to inherit his fortune. I wrote back to him and told him you were dead.”

  “What?” Jane said.

  “I am the reason you did not inherit his twenty thousand pounds.”

  “What??” Helen said.

  But Jane wasn’t preoccupied with the money part. “I have another uncle?” she said. “I have family and you kept him from me?”