by Cynthia Hand
TWENTY-NINE
Jane
Jane now knew why they called it a broken heart. It was a physical pain in her chest. It was a malady as strong as influenza, and for the first few days, she wondered if it was an illness.
“Feel my forehead,” she’d said to Charlotte many times. Charlotte humored her each time, but Jane never had a fever.
“He was an evil man who treated you terribly,” Charlotte said.
“I know,” Jane said. “It’s just that my heart hasn’t yet received that information.”
Helen sighed. “If only our hearts had brains.”
“And what if he’s the only man who will ever fancy me? I’m poor and plain, with little to recommend me. He was supposed to be my hero out of a Jane Austen novel.”
“There, there,” Charlotte said, patting her hand.
“I always knew something was wrong with that man,” Helen said. “I mean, I don’t want to say I told you so—”
“Then don’t!” Jane exclaimed.
Charlotte raised her eyebrows.
“Sorry, Helen was in the middle of saying she told me so.”
“That’s not helpful, Helen,” Charlotte said.
“I wish Mr. Blackwood would hurry up and get here,” Jane said.
“Me too,” Charlotte said. “Purely for informational purposes. And not for any other . . .” She cleared her throat.
Jane glanced up to see Charlotte’s face had turned red. “Charlotte, dear friend, do you have feelings for Mr. Blackwood?”
Charlotte put her spectacles to her eyes and became very interested in counting the books on the bookshelf.
“Charlotte?” Jane prodded.
“Well, I know you weren’t particularly fond of Mr. Blackwood.”
“That was before he saved my life! Tell me, friend, what are your feelings?”
Charlotte didn’t get a chance to answer because of the sound of hoofbeats approaching. Someone was coming up the road. Charlotte leapt up from her chair. She met Jane’s eyes.
“Do you think that could be . . . ?”
“Mr. Blackwood,” Charlotte murmured.
There was a knock. Charlotte tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. She opened the door, already smiling, but then her smile faded.
Because it wasn’t Mr. Blackwood standing at their doorstep. It was the Duke of Wellington.
Charlotte raised her glasses, and nodded to herself as if to confirm that yes, this man was indeed not Mr. Blackwood. Her face fell. “Sir, what brings you to Haworth at such an hour?” Charlotte said.
Wellington removed his hat and held it in his hands. “Miss Brontë, Mr. Brontë. And you are Miss Eyre, I presume. Good evening. I wish I could be here under better circumstances, but I’m afraid it is tragic tidings that bring me.”
Jane felt a knot in her stomach, and Charlotte let her glasses droop for a moment, her face ashen.
“What is it?” Charlotte said breathlessly.
“It is about Mr. Blackwood.” The duke’s face was grim. “He is dead.”
“No!” Charlotte exclaimed. She started to sink to the floor, but Bran dashed to her and helped her to the sofa. “That cannot be.”
“So Mr. Rochester killed him?” Jane said.
“Yes. Yes, that is exactly what happened.”
Jane found her own legs to be weak, and sank onto the sofa. Then Bran found his legs to be weak, and plopped down next to her.
“No, not Mr. Blackwood,” Charlotte said, tears pricking at her eyes. “It is too unbelievable.”
Wellington shook his head. “I still cannot believe it myself. I’m sure you all gathered from my treatment of Alexander that I considered him very nearly my own son. I raised him.”
Jane heard a sniffle, and turned to see Bran wiping his eyes.
Charlotte seemed to be trying every position of contorting her body in an effort to stanch the flow of inevitable tears. “Well, hmmm.” She stood, and then sat, and then stood and then paced the small parlor. “Oh, dear.” She put her glasses to her eyes, and then back down to her waist. She looked left, then right. “Shall I make some tea?” She started toward the stove but then bumped right into a table. “Mr. Blackwood loved his tea.” Sniffle.
Then she sat on the floor and the tears began to flow. “The smoke from that fire seems particularly strong this morning.” She stood up and reached for a poker.
Jane rushed to her side and gently urged the poker out of her hand, before Charlotte burned the whole house down.
“Charlotte, sit. There, next to Bran.”
Charlotte’s brother took her hand and held her close.
“Please, Your Grace, give us this time to collect ourselves,” Jane said.
“Of course.” The duke took a chair in a darkened corner of the room.
The Brontës and Jane held one another, and, as often happens with a grieving family, they took turns wiping away tears. Mr. Blackwood had been so brave, so strong, facing Rochester. Jane could not believe it had ended so. Especially at the hands of the man she’d been in love with.
Bran seemed distraught, but for Charlotte, linear thinking did not seem possible, like a train jolted from its tracks.
“Let’s see, we need some tea,” she would say.
“We have tea, dear,” Jane answered.
“We must make up a bed for Mr. Blackwood, I am sure he will be here.”
Jane would run her hand over Charlotte’s hair. “He is not coming.”
“I see. Yes, I know, Jane. I know.”
And then the wind would cause a branch to make a scratching sound against the window and Charlotte would spring from her chair.
“Perhaps that is he.” Then she would put her spectacles to her eyes and stare at nothing in particular, but the spectacles seemed to help her see things clearly: that Alexander Blackwood was not coming back.
After the news sank in, the duke once more approached the group.
Jane spoke for them. “Sir, this is the most grievous news. But why come to tell us in person? Is Rochester in custody? I am sure the Society has much work to do now.”
“That’s just it,” Wellington said. “We do have much work, but we are down a few good agents.”
He looked at Jane pointedly. She waited patiently for him to continue.
“Miss Eyre. Your service is required.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your king and country need you. Your skills are undeniable. You can see ghosts, and you are a Beacon, which means you can influence ghosts.”
“I’m a what?”
“A Beacon. It’s a special kind of seer. Didn’t Mr. Blackwood tell you?”
Charlotte raised her hand. “I started to tell her, but she was just so stubborn.” She put a hand to her mouth. “I mean she was not in the right frame of mind to hear me.”
The duke sighed. “Ghosts are attracted to Beacons, and they can also be influenced by them.”
Helen snorted, then placed her finger on her cheek, thoughtfully. “Wait a second.”
“Beacons are extremely rare. We’ve been looking for one for decades. We’ve found you, and who knows if we’ll ever find one again. Please, you must return to London with me.”
Jane stood still for a long moment. Helen came to her and studied each side of her face. “I think she’ll speak yet,” she said, as if she were a doctor diagnosing a patient.
Jane shook her head briskly. “Sir Duke, I believe you know I was recently possessed and almost married.”
“Yes,” Wellington said.
“And that I then spent days on the moors, starving and cold.”
“I figured as much.”
“And that I was recently proposed to again?”
Bran’s cheeks went red.
“No, I hadn’t heard that one.”
Jane took a deep breath. “My point is, I believe I have been through enough for one lifetime, let alone one month of one lifetime.”
Wellington frowned. “At least consider it. I implore you.”
Bran looked at Jane. “It’s what Mr. Blackwood would have wanted.”
Jane sighed. She had only just begun to like Mr. Blackwood. She wasn’t ready to change her life for it.
Charlotte dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes. Jane’s feelings for her were an entirely different matter. “We have only just learned of Mr. Blackwood’s death, sir. I need time.”
“Very well. Miss Brontë, may I impose on your hospitality for a night?”
Charlotte nodded. “Of course. Anne? Emily?” The sisters appeared from the kitchen. “Would you take the duke’s bag up to the guest room?” She emphasized the words guest room and Jane inferred it to mean, quickly clear out your room and make it look like a guest room.
Jane poured the duke a cup of tea, while Charlotte and Bran scurried about preparing for a guest.
“So, what do you think of my offer?” the duke said.
“It has not been nearly enough time for me to consider it.”
“Right. Right.”
They sipped in silence for a moment.
“I am so sorry about Mr. Blackwood,” Jane said. “I did not know him as long, or as well, as you, but he will be missed.”
“Yes,” the duke said. “His absence will be felt for some time to come. In mourning him, my mind turns toward one thought.”
“What is that?” Jane asked.
“How best to avenge his death. And the best way is with your help.”
“Sir!” Jane exclaimed. “I will not be made to decide tonight. In fact, I believe this is the appropriate time to bid you good evening.”
She went to rush out, just as Bran was coming in. “Did someone say avenge?” Bran asked.
“One last thought before you sleep on this, Miss Eyre,” the duke said. Jane paused at the door. “There is but one way to make Alexander’s death have any worth.”
She closed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh. How did the task of avenging Mr. Blackwood’s death end up at the feet of a poor plain orphan? Up until a few months ago, Jane’s only concern was staying alive. Finding enough food. And now she was supposed to avenge a death?
“Good night, sir,” Jane said. She made her way to her shared room with Charlotte. But before she got very far, she overheard Bran say, “If things are so dire at the Society, perhaps you need more seers.”
As Jane and Charlotte (and Helen) lay in bed, Jane could hear sniffles coming from her friend.
“Charlotte, you must be in such pain.”
“Truly, I am in as much pain as one would anticipate, upon learning an acquaintance has died. Yes, that is the amount of pain I am feeling. The expected amount. No more. No less.” Sniffle.
“What did he mean when he said Beacon?” Helen said. “You can command ghosts?”
“Helen, please,” Jane said. “Quiet.”
“All right,” Helen said. After a few moments, she whispered softly, “Wait, am I saying all right because you commanded me? Or because I want to be quiet?”
“I am not commanding you,” Jane insisted.
“Have I ever made any decisions for myself?” Helen said.
Charlotte sniffled loudly.
“Helen, please. Charlotte needs us right now.”
“No, I don’t,” Charlotte said. “I hardly knew him.”
“I’ll be quiet, but that’s because I want to,” Helen said.
“Thank you,” Jane said. She turned to Charlotte. “You did know him. You spent quite a bit of time with him.”
“Only as much as propriety called for. No more. No less.” She sniffed again and then blew her nose. “My, this room must be dustier than I am used to. I do believe it has gotten in my eyes.”
“It’s dusty?” Helen said. “Maybe you should command me to wipe it down.”
Jane sighed loudly. She decided not to spend any more time convincing Helen she wasn’t commanding her and convincing Charlotte that Mr. Blackwood had meant something to her.
Jane spent the restless night considering her choice. She was not interested in revenge. She was not interested in prestige. She was not even interested in the five thousand pounds.
But she was interested in her friend’s broken heart.
The following morning, at tea, the duke shifted uncomfortably in his chair. And then he shifted some more. He took a sip of tea, which was too hot, and spit it out. He stood and walked to the window and stared out trying with all his might to appear calm and pensive. Charlotte and Bran bustled about trying to look busy.
“I’ll go,” Jane said, deciding to put him out of his misery.
The duke whirled around. “You will? Miss Eyre, you will not regret it. With your seer ability, and your Beacon ability . . . you will be a star.”
“A star of what?” Jane said.
“Why, a star agent!”
Jane set her teacup down. “I don’t have any desire to be a star anything. I only wish . . . well, you don’t need to know my reasons.”
The duke bowed his head.
“I will pack at once.” Jane gazed at Charlotte and Bran, wishing she didn’t have to part with the closest people to family she’d ever known. Then she looked to Helen, who had been sitting in the corner, arms folded, pouting. “Do you want to come with me?”
Helen shrugged. “You tell me.”
“I’m asking you,” Jane said. “Old friend. Dear friend.”
Helen sighed. “Yes, I will come with you.”
Jane turned back to the duke. “Where are we going?”
The duke smiled widely. “London.”
THIRTY
Alexander
Alexander existed in pure agony for what felt like days. Weeks. Months. The cut on his head throbbed in time with his shuddering heartbeat, slowing as blood flowed out and out, into the dirty river.
Vaguely, in a faraway sense, he knew he had to climb out of the water. That he would drown if he slipped off the carriage door he’d managed to grab. It had been a frantic scramble as he’d heaved the top part of his body onto it, and already, his shirtsleeves were shredded from the ragged wood edges, and splinters dug into his cheek and neck where they pressed against the damp wood.
Still, he could feel himself slipping, gravity dragging him deeper into the river. Objects bumped against his legs and feet. Trash tangled around his limbs, drawing him off the carriage door. But when he tried to kick, to gain just a little momentum and haul himself farther out of the water, his body refused to obey. Whether that was from the cold or his body’s slow betrayal, it was hard to tell.
I need to climb onto the bank, he thought, but his mind was so sluggish that the thought could hardly form at all. I need to go after Wellington. I need to find Miss Brontë and Miss Eyre.
But his body did not respond.
He floated on the door until the force of the earth, the river, and all the debris finally succeeded in drawing him down far enough that the door tipped.
And he slipped under.
“Welcome,” whispered the ghosts who’d drowned here.
What Alexander did not see—could not see—were their eyeless forms, the shriveled echoes of their skin picked to shreds by fish. They reached for him, translucent fingers drifting through his ribs and face.
He didn’t see them because he’d fallen unconscious again, but even without his guidance, his body fought for survival. His lungs held fast against the urge to breathe in. His mouth pressed tight against the temptation of falling open. Even as his blood pumped into the water and his body began to shut down from the lack of air, that human desire to live kept him going.
Until even that failed.
“Welcome,” said the ghosts that surrounded him.
Suddenly, water whooshed away and air surged into his body.
He felt heavier as he was heaved onto solid ground, and half the Thames exited his lungs in a sputtery cough.
Rocks dug into his hip and shoulder, but he was definitely alive. When his breathing became steady, he was distantly aware of being lifted into strong arms and carried.
&nb
sp; Reader, though Alexander spent much of this time barely aware of his surroundings, focused mainly on his heartbeat and the throbbing in his head, we feel confident in painting this picture for you. What we describe is based on separate accounts of no fewer than one hundred ghosts:
A tall, radiant woman had approached the water, her hair gleaming, her skin glowing. She’d drawn the attention of every single ghost in the Thames, which meant when she asked about a missing young man, they were able to lead the way.
Then she’d dived into the water and pulled him onto the shore, where she and a man made sure he was alive. Satisfied, the radiant woman lifted the young man into her arms and bore him into a building off the river.
“Will you stand guard for me?” she asked, and every single ghost scrambled to do her bidding. They ringed the building, ready to alert her at the slightest suspicious activity.
Gentle reader, by now you’ve probably guessed the woman’s identity: Bertha Rochester. Indeed, she and Mr. Rochester had left Thornfield almost immediately upon reuniting, rushing to London to confront Wellington. Instead, Wellington had dumped Alexander in the river, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Alexander, it seemed, was going to live.
Even so, he was mostly dead all day.
When Alexander finally came to, the sun was down and only a candle glowed in the warehouse where Mr. and Mrs. Rochester had taken him. He’d been stripped of his outer clothes and wrapped in layer after layer of blankets, but in spite of those attempts to warm him, chills still racked through his body. Probably from the blood loss, he realized. And his head felt light and floaty. Also probably from the blood loss.
But he seemed to be alive, so that was something, and Wellington wasn’t there. More good news.
Both Rochesters were sitting with their heads bent together, discussing something in hushed tones, but when Alexander groaned, they looked up.
“You’re safe,” said Mr. Rochester. “And we won’t be disturbed.”
Alexander wasn’t sure how comfortable he could feel with Mr. and Mrs. Rochester looking over him and offering assurances, as one had been possessed for years and the other had been locked in the attic. But the former seemed a changed man from the one Alexander had known during his time in Thornfield, and the latter was clear-eyed and clean.
