by Cynthia Hand
“Yes. I couldn’t stand seeing you happy.”
Uncle Reed bowed his head. “I am sorry for you, Jane.”
For a moment, Jane was angry. And really, given the revelation, she should’ve stayed angry. Family: it was the only thing she’d ever longed for, and now to learn she could have had it?
“Twenty thousand pounds?” Helen said. “You could’ve had twenty thousand pounds?” She took a few steps toward the bed. “No, we will never forgive you!”
“Helen, please,” Jane said.
Because the truth was, she felt sorry for her aunt. To harbor such hatred. To house it inside her heart, and protect it with such passion that it ate her alive.
“I forgive you,” Jane said.
“What??” Helen exclaimed.
“If I didn’t forgive her, I would end up as wasted away as she is now,” Jane said to Helen.
Uncle Reed let out a sigh of relief. Then he looked at Jane’s face, as if seeing her for the first time. “Jane Eyre, you are a sight to behold. To have gone from such a plain child . . .”
“I love you, Uncle,” Jane said. “I hope you can move on, now that this is done.”
Uncle Reed nodded. “Take care, dear niece.”
She wet a cloth in the basin next to Aunt Reed’s bed, and then placed it on her forehead. “Sleep well, Aunt. And know that I hold no ill will for you.”
Jane and Helen walked out, leaving her uncle to take leave of his wife on his own.
When they returned to Thornfield, the remaining guests had all left. Jane thought perhaps Mr. Rochester would be gone as well, but Mrs. Fairfax said he was in residence.
“But I don’t expect him to be here for long,” she said over tea. “I believe there to be a proposal very soon. Ingram Park is a day’s ride, and I am sure the master will be taking great pains to make the trip very soon and very often.”
Jane frowned.
“What’s the matter, dear? You’ve hardly touched your biscuit.”
That evening, Mr. Rochester found Jane in the library.
“Miss Eyre. It’s about time you came back to us. What kept you?”
“I’ve been gone three days,” Jane said. She literally could not have returned any sooner.
“It’s too long. Come, let’s go for a walk. It’s a lovely evening.”
They went to the garden, and Jane decided once and for all she could no longer take the not knowing. She could handle anything—Aunt Reed, her lost uncle, she could even handle Mr. Rochester getting married—but she could no longer handle the not knowing.
Helen pointed her finger at Rochester. “Are you going to marry Miss Ingram, yes or no?”
Jane signaled Helen to be quiet. But the ghost had a point.
“Sir,” Jane began. “I am wondering about my future at this estate, and I hate to be indelicate, but should I advertise for a new governess position?”
Mr. Rochester stopped under a tree, the long branches of which blanketed the grass in shade.
“Jane, you know I am soon to be married.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet pouch. He opened the drawstrings and took out a pearl necklace. “These are to be a gift for the future Mrs. Rochester. What do you think?”
Jane frowned, trying to imagine the necklace on Blanche Ingram. “They will suit her bird-neck—I mean, they will suit her very well.” Because everything suited the likes of Blanche Ingram very well. “I guess I will advertise.”
Mr. Rochester grunted. “Miss Eyre, listen to me. I believe there is a string below your rib, and it stretches across class and age to me, and it is attached beneath my rib. And if you find another suitable position, and leave me, you will pull it out. And I will bleed.”
“What do you mean?” Jane said.
“It sounds rather obvious, and slightly disgusting,” Helen said. “He’ll bleed.”
Mr. Rochester placed his hands on her shoulders. “Jane, I do not wish to marry Miss Ingram.”
Jane glanced up. “Excuse me?”
“I wish to marry you.”
Helen gasped. “What?”
Mr. Rochester grabbed Jane’s hand. “Say yes, Jane. Say you will have me.”
“No,” Helen said. She made a move to grab Jane’s other hand, but of course her hand passed right through Jane’s. “Please, Jane, my oldest and dearest friend. Please don’t answer right away.”
Jane looked frantically from Mr. Rochester to Helen, back to Mr. Rochester, and back to Helen. He was everything she’d ever dreamed about. Tall. Dark. Brooding. But he also had a penchant for lying, and making Jane think she was crazy, and not telling her the full story.
“Please, Jane,” Helen said. “For me. Say you need time to think.”
He was handsome and charming, and Mrs. Fairfax did say his bursts of anger were often not often.
But Mr. Blackwood and Charlotte had doubted his good intentions and questioned his very nature.
As much as Jane believed herself to be in love with Mr. Rochester, a little time to think surely couldn’t hurt. “Sir, I will consider your proposal.”
Rochester looked incredulous. “What?” He squeezed her hand. “Jane, I have never been more earnest about anything in my life. Say you believe me.”
Jane tried to wrestle free, but his grip tightened. (Yeah, we know. *shudder*) “Please, sir, may I have the night to gather myself and my thoughts?”
Rochester sighed deeply through his nostrils. His voice became an angry growl. “Bloody hell, Jane. It would’ve been so much easier if you’d just said yes.”
He grabbed the strand of pearls, and before she could move away, he threw it over her head and around her neck.
Here, dear reader, is where your faithful narrators must step away from Jane’s mind, for the pearls were a talisman that held a spirit. And that spirit now inhabited Jane’s body. Which meant Jane’s spirit was squeezed to the side in a most uncomfortable and frustrating (for Jane) manner.
“My dearest,” Mr. Rochester said. “We shall marry in a fortnight.”
Alt-Jane looked at him, her smile wide. “I cannot wait.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Alexander
Alexander had always felt like he belonged in Wellington’s office, partly because everyone said Wellington was grooming him to take over one day (which meant Alexander should practice being comfortable in this room), and mostly because he never got in trouble. He was the star agent after all.
At least, he had been.
Alexander tried not to slouch as he approached the duke, who stood at his desk with his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders set in a thoughtful manner. “What’s on your mind, Alexander?”
What wasn’t on his mind? His chest still ached with the cruel way he’d treated Miss Brontë as they parted. He should have been kinder. Her questions had been fair. Why hadn’t Wellington told him everything about Beacons, or that he’d been acquainted with Rochester? There’d been plenty of time. The note he’d sent telling Alexander not to stay at Thornfield could have mentioned that fact.
He should have been kinder to Miss Brontë, though, and as it wasn’t proper for a single man to write letters (let alone visit!) to a single young lady, this might very well be the way she remembered him for the rest of her life.
Alexander touched the letter in his pocket. “Sir, it’s about Rochester.”
Wellington nodded. “What about him?”
“I believe Edward Rochester is the man who murdered my father.” Alexander pulled the letter from his pocket, careful not to rumple the paper even more.
Wellington took the letter and read through it twice before folding it and offering it back to Alexander. “This is your evidence?”
Alexander nodded and tucked the letter away again.
“It proves nothing.”
“I remember seeing him that night.”
“You were four years old.” Wellington placed a hand over Alexander’s shoulder. “I believe you. I do. But this won’t be enough proof to do anyth
ing about it.”
Alexander closed his eyes and exhaled. He knew that. He did. But he’d waited so long to learn the killer’s identity and now it seemed he may have waited too long. “The letter makes it appear as though they were friends,” he muttered. “And when I was introduced to Rochester in Thornfield Hall, he seemed familiar, as though we’d met before. But he didn’t know me.”
Wellington nodded. “They were friends. Here, sit down a moment.” He motioned Alexander to the nearest chair, and together they sat. “You may not know this, though the records are public, but Rochester used to be a member of the Society. His wife, too.”
“Is that how you know him?” Alexander guessed.
“Yes,” Wellington said. “Mrs. Rochester was our Beacon at the time, and the best agent the Society had ever seen. Mr. Rochester joined us because of her. Although their marriage had been arranged, they seemed to feel real affection for each other.”
“What happened to her?”
“The stress of the job became too much for her. Women have such delicate faculties.”
That made no sense. Granted, Alexander had little experience with the fairer sex, but Miss Brontë and Miss Eyre were two of the strongest people he knew. “That hasn’t been my experience, sir.”
Wellington frowned, only for a moment. “Well, it was true for Bertha Rochester. She did very well until one day, the stress of this job wore her down. To put it bluntly, she went mad, and shortly after died.”
“That’s very sad.”
“The loss of Bertha Rochester affected the entire Society. As I said, she was a Beacon, and her death dealt a great blow to our productivity. We still feel her loss today.” Wellington leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I’m afraid her death is what drove Mr. Rochester to abandon the Society.”
“Where does my father fit into this?”
“He was killed—” Wellington’s voice caught. He paused, then tried again. “I’ve always believed that his death was one of the events that pushed Mrs. Rochester over the edge. They were friends, as you know. He died. She went mad and died. And then Rochester left.”
“Why would Rochester kill my father, though? I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” Wellington shook his head. “Perhaps . . .”
“Perhaps what?”
“In that letter”—Wellington motioned toward Alexander’s pocket—“Nicholas wrote about the ‘travesty’ in the Society, and that I—for I’m most certainly the ‘AW’ mentioned—must be stopped.”
Alexander sat very still. He’d been curious, of course, but unsure how to bring it up.
“I’m afraid the travesty was that I had sent Mrs. Rochester back to Thornfield to rest. She’d been working so much that the stress was beginning to get to her. I wanted her to have time to recover, then come back, but perhaps I hadn’t been clear in my intentions. The three of them—both Rochesters and your father—believed I’d fired her because she was a woman. Your father wanted to confront me, while Mr. Rochester wanted to permanently leave the Society. I cannot fathom how that disagreement led to your father’s death, though. I’m as shocked as anyone. And now our new Beacon is with him. . . .”
Alexander’s head was reeling with all the information. And really, look how forthcoming Wellington had been. Miss Brontë had worried him for nothing.
“I’ll write to Rochester,” Wellington said. “We’ll get our Beacon. Now, take a few moments to collect yourself, and then I need you on this assignment. It’s time-sensitive.”
“It can’t wait? I’d like to pursue more evidence against Rochester.” Alexander didn’t usually resist Wellington’s directives (that time he completely ignored the letter telling him to come home notwithstanding), but surely the Lord President still understood that this was a special case, one he’d been working on since he was four years old. He had leads. He had a suspect. This wasn’t the time for random ghost jobs.
Wellington crossed his arms. “This won’t take you long. And it is your duty. Your purpose.”
Alexander sighed. Wellington was right. Of course he was. It was just so hard to be taken from the revenge business when the revenge that had evaded him for so long finally felt within his grasp.
“It’s my privilege to obey your commands, sir.” Alexander stood and waited for his orders.
“I’m glad you think so.” Wellington opened a drawer in the massive desk and removed a large envelope. “As I said, this won’t take you long. All the work is already done, except of course capturing the ghost. We have an address. We have a key. We even have the talisman. We only need the seer to see the ghost and capture it.”
That did sound rather simple. Most jobs were not nearly so well prepared, and left him to do much of the investigation.
“I’ll send a note to Branwell and have him meet me at the location.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Wellington said quickly. Perhaps too quickly? “You don’t need to bother him with this. Branwell has other things on his mind right now, I’m sure.”
Guilt needled at Alexander. He should have tried harder to make his case for Branwell, but at least the boy hadn’t been dismissed.
Wellington cleared his throat.
“I’ll capture the ghost immediately, sir.”
“I expect the talisman returned by the end of the day.” Wellington slid the envelope across his desk, which Alexander took. “And, oh, by the way,” Wellington said as Alexander began retreating from the office.
“Yes?”
“We’ll get Rochester. It will just take time.”
Alexander nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“Now,” said Wellington, “fetch me that ghost.”
Here was the strange thing.
The talisman.
Oh, true to Wellington’s words, the envelope did contain everything that Alexander needed, including a list of grievances against the ghost, which ranged from loosening the cobblestones to trip people walking down the road, to making branches tap against windows they wouldn’t normally reach, and generally creating a lot of noise.
But the talisman was a strange thing, because it was a ring. And not just any ring, but a heavy gold band with the King of England’s crest engraved on top.
It was the king’s signet ring.
That truly begged the question of why.
Generally, talismans were objects that had taken a part in murder (like the teacup), or items of importance to the ghost (the pocket watch), so this was unusual to say the least.
Perhaps it was a mistake.
Or a copy.
But no, Alexander had seen signet rings before, and this one had the weight and heft of real gold, and the details on the crest were correct. Though he was no expert, Alexander was reasonably certain this ring was authentic.
Though the information in the dossier had given him no insight, perhaps the ghost would be willing to offer answers. Alexander had dealt with more than a few ghosts who wanted to go on (and on and on) about their lives. Miss Brontë would say perhaps they simply wanted someone to listen, and if he did, they might be more willing to get bopped on the head.
This ghost was recently deceased, apparently, and the family could not sell the house until the bothersome spirit was gone. Which was where the Society came in.
Knowing that, and guessing that the ghost would be furious to realize his family was more concerned about selling the house, Alexander might be able to offer himself as a friendly listener and get a few answers, satisfying his curiosity.
The house in question was a modest dwelling not far from the heart of London, on a tree-lined street filled with children playing and flowers blooming. It was quite lovely, if one didn’t know there was a rude ghost in residence.
Alexander approached the house with caution, taking stock of the exits, the number of people around, and even the angle of the sun relative to the windows, so that if the ghost tried to fight him, he wouldn’t risk being blinded by sunlight with the wrong move.
He
bounced on the balls of his feet, rolled his shoulders, and after a few deep breaths, he marched into the house.
The ghost was sitting on the sheet-covered sofa, waiting for him.
“Hello.” He was a mousy chap, with limp brown hair and a permanent squint, and with trousers that didn’t quite reach long enough down his legs, and jacket sleeves that didn’t fit down his arms. . . . It wasn’t even that he was a large man; rather, it was simply because he hadn’t known how to dress himself well in life, and so he was trapped like this until the end of his afterlife.
Though he was the most unassuming ghost to cause such a ruckus, that was hardly the most surprising thing about him.
No, the most interesting part of all this was that Alexander knew this ghost. “David Mitten?”
The ghost nodded. “How are you, dear boy? You look well. Just like your father.”
“You’re a ghost.”
Mr. Mitten nodded again. “Quite put out about it, as you can imagine.”
“You seem to be handling it well.” Alexander took the ring in his gloved hand.
“Surely you’ve heard the noise complaints,” said Mr. Mitten. “That’s why you’re here, right?”
Alexander shrugged. “Mr. Mitten, why are you a ghost?”
“Because I died.”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
“How?”
“Slipped and hit my head.”
Alexander scowled. “That seems unlike you, sir.”
Mr. Mitten shrugged, and behind him, some sort of green sludge slid down the wall.
“What’s that?” Alexander asked.
“What’s what?”
“That slime behind you.”
“There’s no slime behind me.” Mr. Mitten didn’t even turn around. “What’s that slime behind you?”
Alexander looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, the green goop dripped over the door. It was everywhere now. How unsanitary.
All right. So David Mitten was the ghost he was supposed to bring in. And Mr. Mitten was in a chatty mood. But this raised even more questions than before, because Mr. Mitten worked for the Society . . . and the king. He had been, in fact, the liaison and the king’s secretary, which explained (maybe) his connection with the signet ring. He’d probably handled the thing more than the king himself.
