by Cynthia Hand
There were, in Charlotte’s opinion, entirely too many Mr. Rochesters. But that was of no matter. Mr. Blackwood was alive! In London! She blew her nose, put her handkerchief away, and stood up.
“Well done, Bran,” she said to her brother. “Excellent job ferreting out all of this vital information. Now we should go.”
“To London, I suppose,” Bran said faintly. “To find Mr. Blackwood.”
“To find Mr. Blackwood,” Charlotte said, beaming. “And to talk to Jane. The story this ghost has told you does not match up at all with the Duke of Wellington’s account. I fear that Jane is being led astray. She could be in danger. We need to get to the bottom of the matter immediately.”
“All right,” sighed Bran. “I’ll get the horse.”
Upon arriving in London, they went straightaway to Mr. Blackwood’s flat, only to find that Mr. Blackwood was no longer residing there. A young lady had moved in, the neighbors reported. A small young woman, they said. Plain. Utterly unremarkable in every way.
They stood idly across the street for several hours waiting for Jane. Presently she arrived in a carriage that bore the crest of the Society on the door. She had a large garment bag draped over her arm and a strained expression, as if she was bravely facing up to an unpleasant chore. She ascended the stairs to the flat and disappeared. Charlotte and Bran crossed the street as if to follow, but at the last moment a cloaked figure darted out from an alleyway and pulled them both into the shadows.
Charlotte was about to scream, but the man clapped his hand over her mouth. “It’s me,” he whispered urgently. He held his other hand out to Bran, who’d just taken a wild swing at him. “It’s me, Branwell! I must speak with you.” He threw back the hood to reveal his face.
It was Mr. Blackwood. Trembling, Charlotte lifted her glasses to her eyes and drank in the sight of him. His appearance was more unkempt than usual: his clothing rumpled, his dark hair tousled, his face unshaven. He even smelled a bit like the docks. But Charlotte threw her arms around him. “Oh, Mr. Blackwood,” she cried. “I am so . . . pleased to see you again. We were told you were dead.”
“Wellington tried to kill me,” he affirmed. All at once they both became aware that they were holding each other. Mr. Blackwood gazed down into Charlotte’s face, the corner of his mouth tucking up into a smile. “He failed, obviously. I am . . . pleased to see you as well, Miss Brontë.”
Charlotte nodded mutely. For a moment neither of them spoke.
“I saw the ghost of Mr. Rochester,” Bran announced proudly. “He told me you’d be in London, and here you are.”
Charlotte and Mr. Blackwood stepped away from each other. Mr. Blackwood frowned. “The ghost of Mr. Rochester? How’s that? I saw Mr. Rochester alive and well but an hour ago. He and Mrs. Rochester saved my life.”
“He means the ghost of the senior Mr. Rochester,” Charlotte explained. “Mr. Rochester’s father. I know. It’s confusing.”
“Oh. Well, yes, here I am. In London,” Mr. Blackwood said, although he didn’t seem entirely pleased about it. “Unfortunately, I cannot say I’ve made much progress in my new mission to foil the duke’s plans and avenge my father’s death. And it seems that Wellington has replaced me with Miss Eyre in order to accomplish his schemes.”
“So Wellington is the true villain?” Charlotte thought this was a marvelous twist in her story. And also, of course, terrible news.
“The most nefarious,” Mr. Blackwood muttered. “We believe he means to possess the king. I’ve been trying to get to Miss Eyre, to warn her, but she’s always shadowed by the Society.” He jerked his head to one side to indicate a pair of large, surly looking fellows lurking on the corner just outside of Mr. Blackwood’s former flat.
“I could warn her,” Charlotte volunteered. “Wellington doesn’t know that I know of his treachery. I could simply pay a visit to Jane. A social visit. She is my dear friend, after all. What do friends do if not visit each other from time to time?”
“That would be most helpful,” Mr. Blackwood said.
Charlotte blushed. “I’ll go right now.”
Before she could take a step, however, the door to Mr. Blackwood’s former flat opened and Jane popped out in what was possibly the most extravagant gown that Charlotte had ever beheld. The entire dress was simply huge. Jane teetered dangerously several times as she made her way down the stairs, but always managed to catch herself. At the bottom she straightened her hat—the same rose hue as the dress with several bows and a large white feather sticking out the front. Then she pulled up the edge of one elbow-length white glove, and squeezed herself through the door into the waiting Society carriage.
The two surly looking fellows stepped up onto the back of the carriage.
“To Saint James’s Palace?” the driver asked, and one of the surly men confirmed the address.
“This is it,” Mr. Blackwood whispered urgently. “She’s going to the king. We have to stop her.”
The driver cracked his whip, and the carriage pulled away. They watched it helplessly as it swiftly disappeared around a corner.
“Well then, it’s a fine night to pay a visit to the palace, wouldn’t you say?” Charlotte suggested.
A muscle ticked in Mr. Blackwood’s jaw. “Yes,” he said. “A very fine night, indeed.”
THIRTY-TWO
Jane
According to Wellington, the entire future of the Society came down to the success (or failure) of Jane’s mission tonight. Of course, the pressure might have been exacerbated by the dress. Can we talk about the dress? First off, the sheer weight of the thing. Jane was a slight person, yes, but surely even the tallest and stoutest of women would be bothered by the heaviness of the gown. Second, the corset. Jane had found a book on the proper way to string a corset, and the gist of it was this: tighten it until you could barely breathe. Then you were halfway there. Since she was dressing herself, she tied two ends to a bedpost and walked forward to tighten it. But then the bedpost broke, and when the neighbor came over to see what the ruckus was, Jane implored her to tighten the corset for her.
Her neighbor acquiesced and then left her with this piece of advice: “Friends don’t let friends corset alone.”
Next, there were the sleeves. They extended at least four inches out on either side of Jane’s small shoulders, making it impossible for one to walk through a doorway without turning sideways. And then there were the shoulders. Which were bare. As in, showing. Jane fought the urge to cover them with something else, something inconspicuous, something like . . . shrubbery.
Then there was the crinoline, which was a steel-constructed dome-shaped attachment that replaced layers and layers of skirts. It was supposed to make using a chamber pot easier, but Jane wondered what good that would do when the entire dress would prevent her from being able to enter the room with the chamber pot, let alone use it. At her wrist hung a drawstring handbag, inside of which was a mysterious book Wellesley called the Book of the Dead. It was supposed to help her in her mission tonight. It hung awkwardly, but excepting some sort of contraption that would hold it under the crinoline, her wrist really was the best option.
There was only one conclusion Jane could draw from the style and design of the dress and it was this: it had to be thought up by men. Then women could in no way outrun them, and with the lack of oxygen to the brain due to a rib cage the size of a fist, they could not outthink them. And with the bright colors, they couldn’t hide. No running, no thinking, no hiding.
But she had given her word to Wellington, and her silent word to Charlotte, that she would do this work. And Wellington insisted that this outfit was an appropriate one for visiting a palace.
Which she was about to, for the first time in her very plain and simple life. The carriage was bound for Saint James’s Palace, where, apparently, the king required a bit of help with a wayward ghost, and where Jane was also tasked with returning a signet ring.
The king was reluctant to call for the Society, but it was a particularly o
bnoxious ghost who had been rattling the royal shrubbery and knocking over the royal vases. Fun fact: it was the same ghost that was responsible for the “madness” of King George. Asking for help was the first step.
The second step was to squeeze oneself into a ridiculous dress, Jane thought. The third step was to save the Society.
Jane felt uncomfortable carrying the weight of the Society’s future on her very small shoulders, especially since she had no experience and no training, but the duke was convinced that the fact that she was a Beacon would make up for everything else, and the financial situation of the Society was of the utmost urgency.
She didn’t want to be here.
She didn’t want to be here.
But she was here, and it was all for Charlotte, she reminded herself.
The carriage bumped and jostled along the road, and Jane wished she actually were wearing lots of skirts instead of a steel crinoline. At least there would’ve been some cushioning.
One of her guards from the Society sat across from her, his back to the horse side, as was the protocol. He did not look to be in the mood to talk, which was just fine with Jane. Helen sat next to him, staring at Jane and The Dress and The Bows.
“You look like a court jester,” she said.
“Thank you,” Jane said.
“You’re welcome,” Helen responded. Helen was still grappling with the fact of Jane’s being a Beacon. She routinely questioned every single one of her actions.
“Am I walking across the room because you want me to?” she would say.
“Don’t be silly, dear,” Jane would say.
“All right. Am I not being silly because you don’t want me to be silly??”
It was rather exhausting.
The carriage descended upon the palace, and Jane got out and walked slowly up the stairs, because walking slowly was all she could do in the dress. The king was having a ball tonight, and only the elite could gain entrance. This was the most distressing part of all, for Jane was not educated in the ways of high society. She wished she were wearing a Society mask right now, but the king had asked for the utmost discretion. He did not want to scare his dinner guests.
“Miss Jane Eyre,” she said to the guard at the entrance.
“Of where?” the guard replied.
“Lowood . . . Estate.”
“Miss Jane Eyre, of the Lowood Estate.”
Upon entering the palace, Jane curtsied to the king, just as she’d practiced. The king noted her dress, counting the bows, Jane guessed. The duke had sent word to the king that he would recognize Jane by the number of bows on her dress.
The king nodded at her, held her gaze for a split second and then dismissed her with a wave of his hand. Jane assumed he would send for her at his convenience.
She hoped it would be sooner rather than later.
The evening was horribly long. Not being properly acquainted with anyone, and therefore not being able to make conversation with anyone, Jane went around the room pretending she had seen someone she had recognized and was on her way to meet up with them, but the result was that she just wandered back and forth with an expectant smile on her face that never actually landed on anyone. And do you realize, reader, how hard it is to not smile at anyone in particular when you are in a room crowded with faces?
At least Helen was there, but it wasn’t really the same as having company since Jane couldn’t talk to Helen in public. Exhausted, Jane sidled out of the great room and found a small dark alcove, in which she decided to catch her breath, and totally not hide, because she was an agent and hiding would be cowardly.
“Miss Eyre,” a king’s guard said.
Helen made a move to elbow Jane in the ribs.
“Oh, yes, I was just admiring the . . . darkness.”
The guard said nothing.
“It’s lovely, in a palace. The darkness. So much more elegant than . . . regular darkness.”
“Good recovery,” Helen said.
“Follow me.” The guard turned abruptly, and Jane scurried (as much as one could scurry in that dress) to keep up.
She followed the guard down a series of corridors, and ended up in a room that was comparatively smaller than the others she’d seen so far, but still big. Behind an ornate desk stood a wall of ornate robes, and on top of those robes rested long, curly brown locks of hair, and behind all that, Jane assumed, was the king. He started to turn around, and quickly Jane darted forward and placed the signet ring on the desk. She was back in position a moment before he saw her.
She immediately curtsied and didn’t speak.
“You are from the Society?” the king said.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Jane raised her gaze to meet the king’s. That was when she saw him. The ghost. Standing next to the king. One hand on his hip, just like the king.
“I am not fond of the Society,” the king said.
“And I am the King of Prussia,” the ghost said.
Jane tried not to smile.
“I do not believe in this ghost nonsense,” the king said, waving his hand as if brushing a fly away.
“Nor do I,” the ghost said, waving his hand as well.
Helen snorted. “He’s funny.”
The ghost then seemed to notice Jane for the first time, and a wide smile broke out on his face. “My, aren’t you a stunning creature. Tell me, have you ever been with a king?”
Jane’s cheeks went red.
“Oh my,” Helen said.
“Sire,” Jane started.
“Yes?” the king and the ghost said simultaneously.
“I can help you.” She pulled a talisman out of her satchel. It was a brooch that Wellington said most likely belonged to the tree ghost’s beloved grandmother. “But before I do, I need you to do something for me.”
The attendants in the room looked to one another uncomfortably.
“Anything,” the ghost said.
Jane ignored him. “You must know what a help and comfort the Society can be, especially given your current predicament.”
“You are quite overbearing for someone so poor and plain,” the king said.
“Who are you calling poor?” Helen said, gesturing to the myriad bows adorning Jane’s ridiculous dress. “She makes five thousand pounds a year.”
“I can be,” Jane admitted. “Please permit me to help you see the existence of ghosts.”
The king narrowed his eyes. “You mean you wish me to believe. It’s not that I don’t believe in ghosts. I just didn’t understand how bothersome they could be, until this one came along.”
The tree ghost bowed.
“Would it help to talk to him yourself? I can show him to you.” She took the Book of the Dead out of her satchel and set it on the desk. She opened it to a page she’d had tagged and read the words as Helen ducked behind her. When she had finished, the king glanced around the room, noticing nothing out of the ordinary, until he looked behind him.
There was the tree ghost, glancing around the room as well.
“I see no one,” the tree ghost said.
The king startled at hearing the ghost, and stepped backward.
“This is madness,” said the ghost. He glided over to Jane. “I would have you detained were it not for your extraordinary beauty.”
The king went from looking surprised to looking rather puzzled. He shook his head and approached the tree ghost.
“You, sir, must leave the palace at once.”
“Why would I leave my home?” the ghost said.
The king closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he seemed much more calm. “There is a better place for you.”
The ghost scoffed. “Better than a palace?”
The king nodded. “Better than a palace.”
“I don’t believe you. Off with his head!” The ghost flicked his hand toward the king.
The king took a step closer. “I understand you feel an attachment to this place. But you are not meant to be here, walking the grounds as a spi
rit.”
Suddenly, Helen stepped forward, and the king noticed her for the first time.
“Forgive me, Sire,” Jane said. “This is my . . . companion. She is also a ghost.”
Helen stared at the king. “What do you mean, he is not meant to stay here?” Helen asked.
“Sire,” Jane whispered. “Say ‘Sire.’”
“Sire,” Helen said.
The king waved his hand as if she shouldn’t be concerned about such things. Now that he had seen ghosts for himself, protocols seemed unimportant. “He is a spirit,” the king said. “Spirits are meant to move on to the next life, whatever that may be.”
“I would not mind staying with her,” the tree ghost said, raising his eyebrows and looking at Jane.
Before anyone could look surprised again, Jane spoke up.
“I am what’s known as a Beacon,” Jane said. “Ghosts are attracted to me.”
To give the king credit, he hid his surprise well.
“You can come with me,” Jane said to the ghost. “I can help you move on.”
“Why is moving on so good?” Helen said. “Especially if you don’t even know where moving on goes?”
“Helen,” Jane whispered.
The king waved his hand again. “Because it’s supposed to happen that way. We must believe that the god who put us here, with families and companions and food and beauty . . . he has a place for us when we are no longer living. We must have this faith. The faith that we will again be with those we’ve lost. But you won’t discover this promise if you linger here among the living.”
Jane relaxed. She hadn’t had an explanation for what awaited the spirits moving on. She hadn’t wanted to dwell on the thought.
Then she looked at Helen, who was staring at her with a pained expression.
Perhaps she was looking at the why.
“Ghost,” the king said. “Would you like to say farewell now? And follow Miss Eyre? She will take you where you need to go.”
