My Plain Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  For a moment, they simply gaped at him.

  “Well, that was an amusing little display,” the duke said finally. “But do you take me for a fool?”

  “I would never take you for a fool,” Mr. Rochester growled. “A traitor, yes. A two-faced, serpent-tongued blaggart, absolutely. But not a fool.”

  “Now, now. No need for name calling,” said the duke. “Why don’t we all just sit down and have a little chat?”

  Charlotte felt Mr. Blackwood coil like a spring beside her. “We’ve talked enough. Give us the ring.”

  Wellington tsked. “I wish I could say it’s good to see you, dear boy. But you not being dead right now is inconvenient for me.”

  “I trusted you.” Mr. Blackwood’s voice betrayed his agony at the duke’s deceit. “I thought of you as a . . . father to me, when my own was gone. And all this time, I should have sought revenge upon you.”

  “I never did like your father,” said the duke. “He was the sanctimonious sort. It seems the apple doesn’t fall far from that tree. Now sit down.” He drew a pistol from his waistcoat and pointed it at Mr. Blackwood with an expression that made Charlotte’s heart beat fast. “Please,” he added.

  But Mr. Blackwood had drawn his own gun. Where had he gotten a gun? For a moment, the two men faced each other down, but then the duke smiled and swung his arm around so that it was pointing, not at any of them, but at the king. “Put your weapon down, or I will murder him,” he said. “I’ve done it before. George III was such a bother. And David here won’t mind—he’ll just inhabit the next in line for the throne. I already have that all arranged.”

  Mr. Blackwood took a step forward. Wellington cocked the pistol. “I will do it. I will be very cranky if I must do it. It will cost me time and immeasurable effort. But I will. And then you’ll be responsible for the death of a king. And when the guards arrive I will tell them that you killed him. And who will they believe? I wonder.”

  Mr. Blackwood’s arm dropped. “We could duel,” he said softly. “You and me, here and now, and then it would be over.”

  The duke shook his head. “I know how good you are, my boy. I taught you myself. No, I think not. If we dueled, one of us would die. Probably you, but why chance it? And besides, perhaps I was hasty in trying to dispatch you earlier. You’re of more value to me alive, dear Alexander. I’ve always been fond of you. If you would only see the importance in what I am doing here, we could be allies once again. Help me. Support my cause. Surely you can see all that I’ve accomplished, and all that I will accomplish, as prime minister, and as . . . advisor to the king.”

  “So it’s true,” Mrs. Rochester said. “You mean to rule England.”

  “Of course I do. The king is a moron. The members of Parliament, only more so. The people require a firm hand to guide them. To lead them.”

  “We will never join you,” said Mr. Blackwood.

  “Speak for yourself,” said the duke.

  “Never,” said Mr. Rochester.

  “Never again,” murmured Mrs. Rochester. The Rochesters took hands. “Jamais. This time we will stop you,” she said darkly. “We will see this evil ended.”

  “You two have always been tiresome,” the duke said. “I should have done away with you at the same time I dealt with his father.”

  Mr. Blackwood gave a choked furious cry, but did not, to Charlotte’s surprise, attack the man who had killed his father. “You will pay,” he growled instead. “You will pay for all of it.”

  The duke ignored him. He turned to address Jane. “Miss Eyre, I meant every word I said about how much the Society needs you. I would entreat you to stay in your position with us, serve as my star agent, my Beacon of light, and help me to usher in an era of peace and prosperity the likes of which this nation has never seen.”

  “Go to hell,” said Jane. (Which was really shocking language for a woman of this time. But she was obviously starting to become annoyed at people telling her what to do.)

  “Oh, well. Perhaps . . . Mr. Brontë.” The duke moved on. “I could reinstate you immediately. You could be a credit to your family, instead of an embarrassment.”

  “He is a credit to our family,” Charlotte said before Bran could answer.

  The duke’s eyes flickered to her. “And you, the charming but unfortunately nearsighted sister. You could be initiated as well. I am sure you could be quite useful to us . . . in some way I haven’t yet discerned. Did you know that I’m your uncle?” He chuckled darkly. “I had two miserable sisters, once.”

  “What?” Charlotte gasped, shocked. “Our mother?”

  “I’d be willing to make you my heirs. Think about it. That twenty thousand pounds a year, after I die. You’d be rich.”

  “Twenty thousand pounds!” came Helen’s voice from behind them.

  “Oh, Helen. You can’t take it with you,” said Jane.

  “Go. To. Hell,” Charlotte enunciated plainly.

  The duke smiled. “Oh, dear. Do you at least have my book? You checked it out, Miss Eyre, but you did not return it in a timely fashion. Give it back to me at once, or there will be consequences.”

  A shudder made its way down Charlotte’s spine. There was nothing so disturbing to her as an overdue book. Possible fines. It was very scary.

  Jane held up the Book of the Dead. “We’re going to keep it, thank you. You’ve clearly been abusing its power.”

  The duke sighed dramatically. “Well, this puts me in a rather awkward position. I, of course, wish to remain as I am, as the prime minister and the caretaker—you might say—to the king. You obviously mean to stop me, and will not be reasoned with. Therefore I must get rid of you. The easiest way would be to kill you all. I have a gun, but then so do you, and I find that I am outnumbered. Obviously that won’t work.” He sighed again. “So I’m afraid I’ll have to stick to my initial plan of killing poor old William IV.” He was still aiming the gun at the king’s head.

  “All right,” said the king. “But it’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”

  “Only for a moment.”

  “But then you’ll put me back into the next king,” the white-haired man said slowly.

  “Yes. After I frame Mr. Blackwood and his friends for regicide.”

  “Wait a second.” King Mitten hesitated. “Isn’t the next in line for the throne actually a woman?”

  “It’s a girl. Victoria, I think her name is.” The duke chuckled. “As if a woman could ever rule a country without a man behind her secretly pulling the strings.”

  Charlotte’s mouth opened. “That doesn’t make sense. Elizabeth was a great queen!”

  “But . . . a girl?” Mitten looked doubtful.

  “You’ll get to be young again, and beautiful, and rich,” said the duke.

  But the man who resembled the king was frowning deeply. “I don’t think I would be comfortable, you know, in a woman’s body.”

  “You’d get used to it,” argued the duke.

  “No, I wouldn’t. Even being in this old fellow is a bit odd. His back aches from all the sitting, and he has too much hair in his nose, but at least the equipment’s all the same. I don’t want to be a girl.”

  “You’ll be what I say you’ll be.” Wellington sounded angry. “Now hold still.”

  “No!” The king (or the ghost inside of the king) jumped to his feet. “I don’t want to be a girl! I won’t! You can’t make me.”

  The duke scowled and tried to shoot him, but at that moment Mr. Blackwood darted in and grabbed the duke’s arm, at the same time that Bran leapt forward and tackled the king to the floor. Charlotte’s heart seized at the thought that her brother might take the bullet himself, but instead it shattered a rather expensive-looking vase in the corner. The duke shoved Mr. Blackwood back and pointed his gun at Jane.

  “Don’t move or I’ll shoot her!” he cried.

  Everyone—even the king, who had continued to repeat how he did not want to be a girl—froze.

  The duke smoothed his hair back. “I know you
love her,” he sneered at Mr. Blackwood. “Even though she’s so remarkably plain, you love her, and if you try to get at me, I’ll kill her right before your eyes.”

  “What?” Charlotte squeaked. “What did you say about love?”

  “Him?” Jane said incredulously, at the very same moment that Mr. Blackwood said, “Her?”

  “You’re obviously in love,” said the duke. “You kept talking about her—how resourceful she was, and quick-witted, and how you wanted her to be an agent. And you—” He turned to Jane. “You were so devastated when I told you that he was dead. Because you—”

  “She’s more of a friend, is all,” said Mr. Blackwood. “But we’re not—”

  “Right, they’re not in love,” said Charlotte. “You’re reading it all wrong.”

  “I have a thing for Rochester,” confessed Jane. “It’s not healthy.”

  Mr. Rochester coughed uncomfortably. “My dear, I am so sorry at what my brother put you through while he was in control of my body. I couldn’t stop him. I wish there was something I could have—”

  “Oh, no,” Jane said demurely. “I know it wasn’t your fault. I would never blame you.”

  Mr. Rochester gave a short laugh. “And goodness—I’m old enough to be your father, aren’t I? As a matter of fact, we have a—”

  “And you love your wife,” Mrs. Rochester added loudly.

  He turned to gaze at her. “Yes. I love my wife. More than anything.”

  “That’s wonderful,” murmured Jane. “I’m so happy for you. I—”

  “I feel we’re getting off topic,” interrupted the duke. But then he didn’t say anything more. Instead, he grabbed a large painting from the wall—this one actually turned out to be one of William IV, himself, and hurled it at them. They ducked, and the duke took the opportunity to flee, screaming for the guards that there had been an attempt on the life of the king.

  “He’ll go back to his lair—I mean, his library,” Mr. Blackwood cried. “It’s just across the park from here. We should try to catch him before he gets there.” Mr. Blackwood clearly wanted to go after him. But there was still the issue of . . .

  “The king,” Mrs. Rochester said. “Is he all right?”

  “I don’t want to be a girl,” whined Mr. Mitten/the king. “That wasn’t in the agreement.”

  “You don’t have to be a girl,” Bran said kindly. “Although the dresses are pretty.”

  “He’s getting away,” hissed Mr. Rochester.

  “Go,” Charlotte said. “You and Jane can go after Wellesley. Bran and I will see to the king, and then we’ll catch up.”

  Mr. Blackwood gave her a grateful smile. “Come on,” he said to the Rochesters and Jane. “Let’s go catch a duke.”

  Then they were gone. Everything seemed dreadfully quiet.

  “Time to get this ring off you,” Charlotte said, taking the king’s hand.

  But he pulled away. “If you take the ring off, I’ll go back to being dead. I don’t want to be a girl, but I don’t want to be dead again, either.”

  There was no choice. Charlotte and Bran had to hold the man down and wrestle the ring off his finger. But that was a problem, too, because the king’s fingers were rather fat, and the ring was a bit tight, and it wouldn’t simply slide off. They tugged and tugged, the king squirming and hollering the entire while, but they couldn’t remove the ring. Their efforts had caused the finger to swell. And Charlotte was getting impatient. Every minute they wasted here was a minute she could be helping Mr. Blackwood grapple with Wellesley.

  “Perhaps we could try lathering it with soap?” Bran suggested, but there was not a bar of soap to be found.

  “Soak it in cool water?”

  That didn’t work.

  “Butter?”

  He held the king down while Charlotte went to look for some, but she could not find butter.

  “I found something else.” She’d been acting logically, when she’d suggested that Mr. Blackwood and Jane go after Wellesley. Jane was gifted with ghosts. Mr. Blackwood had training in fighting and whatnot. Charlotte knew how to direct Bran. But it was (figuratively) killing her, that Mr. Blackwood could be in danger, and she wasn’t there. She was out of time.

  She pulled the pair of garden shears from behind her back. “I think this will work.”

  Bran’s face went milky. The king started to struggle more than ever, but Bran held him.

  “Charlie, be serious. You can’t mean to . . .”

  “I do mean to.” And she did. Without another moment’s hesitation she knelt beside the king, positioned the shears, and snipped the finger off. The ring (and the accompanying finger) skittered across the carpet. The king’s eyes rolled up, and he went limp. Charlotte used his coat and a string from a nearby velvet curtain to bind his hand. She’d read something about amputation in a book once. She felt a bit woozy on account of all the blood, but she soldiered on.

  “Keep it elevated,” she instructed Bran. “When he wakes, give him the finger.”

  “The finger.” Bran was looking a bit green himself.

  She handed it to him. Then she turned for the door.

  “Charlie,” he said. “Where are you going?”

  “To Mr. Blackwood, of course. I have to go to him. Now that I’ve got him back, I’m not going to lose him again.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Jane

  The night air hung wet and cold above them, but Jane couldn’t feel anything except her heart racing. Mr. Blackwood was running a few steps ahead of her and a few steps behind her was Bertha Rochester. Mr. Rochester brought up the rear, Helen floated among them, calling out words of encouragement.

  They were headed toward Westminster.

  “Wouldn’t he want to hide?” Jane had asked Mr. Blackwood.

  “I know him. His ego won’t let him believe he’s in any sort of danger.”

  Jane’s foot caught on a tree root, and she stumbled but righted herself before she hit the ground. Mr. Blackwood turned to make sure she was okay, but then he tripped and fell flat on his back with an oomph.

  Jane scurried to his side and held her hand out. He took it, bounced up, and they were off again, Mr. Blackwood with a slight limp.

  Mr. Rochester, due to age, was falling farther behind. “Keep going!” he shouted.

  “Mr. Blackwood,” Jane said breathlessly. “If the duke knows that you know that he’ll go to Westminster, aren’t we running straight into a trap?” Jane said.

  “But I know something he doesn’t know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I grew up in this place. I know of a secret tunnel!”

  They continued the run through Saint James’s Park, which Mr. Blackwood said was a shortcut to Westminster. When the looming spires appeared in the night sky, Mr. Blackwood took a left toward the river. Jane followed without question, mostly because she was too winded to form more words. Mr. Blackwood turned right at the river and then darted through some trees and finally came to the base of a wall, where there was an iron grate.

  “Here it is,” Mr. Blackwood said.

  “Wait. That’s not a secret passage. That’s a coal chute.”

  “I know.” He panted. “It just always sounded more exciting calling it a secret passage. Don’t worry. It’s an easy slide.” He picked up a large stick on the ground, dug around in the dirt for a moment, and then pulled out a long iron rod. “It’s still here!”

  He wedged the end of the rod in between the chute door and the wall, and pulled. The door creaked open.

  “We’ll sneak in, and use the element of surprise to our advantage. If we approach him from an unexpected direction, I’m sure we can overtake him.”

  Jane furrowed her brows and looked at the dark and totally uninviting coal chute. Helen was next to her, shaking. “What’s wrong, dear?”

  “I can’t go in,” she said. “This place feels the way Mrs. Rochester’s room felt.”

  Mr. Blackwood nodded. “Of course. The Society knows how to protect pl
aces from ghost entry. Helen will have to stay behind.”

  “Be safe,” Helen whispered to Jane.

  “You too,” Jane said. She glanced at Mrs. Rochester. “Should we let the men go first?” she said.

  Mr. Blackwood nodded. “I’ll be there when you all land.”

  Considering where they were at that moment, and the mess they were in, Jane took no comfort in those words. By this time, Mr. Rochester had caught up. He held the chute door open as Mr. Blackwood went through it. Jane went next, feet first, into the chute.

  It was a short trip, and contrary to what Alexander had promised, she landed hard on her feet, her knees buckling. Pain shot through her legs.

  Mrs. Rochester landed next to her with a disgruntled sigh.

  “Mr. Blackwood?” Jane asked.

  “He is indisposed,” a voice said. It was the duke, the flickering light of a candle illuminating his face.

  And there was Mr. Blackwood next to him, with a knife at his throat, held by none other than Grace Poole.

  “And you thought your little passageway was a secret,” the duke said.

  “Don’t come down, my love!” Mrs. Rochester shouted.

  But in the next moment, Mr. Rochester landed next to her, eliminating their last hope that someone on the outside could save them.

  The duke, along with Grace Poole and several guards, led the four of them to a large and ornate room.

  “Welcome to the Collection Room,” the duke said.

  The room was made up of shelves, aisles and aisles of them, and on the shelves were all sorts of objects; pocket watches, urns, necklaces, rings.

  “Talismans,” Jane said. She turned to the duke. “Why bother bringing us all the way up here? We know your evil motives. Why not just kill us?”

  Mr. Blackwood shot her a harsh glance.

  The duke used his pistol to urge the four prisoners against a wall.

  “Miss Eyre, you and Mrs. Rochester are Beacons. I still don’t think you understand how exceptional that is. Why do you think I kept Mrs. Rochester alive all those years? With Grace Poole keeping her captive? I would sooner destroy priceless works of art than damage a Beacon. Pliable ghosts like Mitten are rare and take a painfully long time to cultivate. Since you are here, I assume you have de-possessed the king. Frankly, I don’t have the time or the inclination to groom someone new. And I won’t need to, with the power of influence of two Beacons. This is your last chance.”