by Cynthia Hand
He should return to the front parlor, he knew, but Alexander moved forward just enough so that he could see Miss Eyre and Miss Burns. They faced each other, their hands in each other’s—almost.
There was something luminous about Miss Eyre ever since the Great Fire. It was the same sort of glow Mrs. Rochester had, the light of being a Beacon that even the living could see.
Tears shimmered down Miss Eyre’s cheeks. “I think you’ve been staying here because I’ve needed you all these years.”
“And now you don’t?” Miss Burns wiped her cheek on her shoulder.
“Oh, my dearest friend, I’ll always need you. But I have to think about what you need, too. I’ve been selfish in keeping you here. Selfish in wanting you by my side always.”
“I’m all right with that.” Miss Burns let out a small hiccup. “I want to stay with you. I don’t know what happens in the afterlife.”
“It’s something good,” Miss Eyre whispered hoarsely. “It has to be.”
Alexander held his breath, watching the two. Wishing he could go back to the parlor like he’d never walked in on this exchange. Knowing that he could not, because pieces of this conversation echoed in his heart. For most of his life, he’d carried his father’s ghost with him. Not a literal ghost, of course, but the figurative ghost.
“What happens when I’m eighty years old,” Miss Eyre went on, “and you’re still fourteen?”
“We’ll be best friends.” Miss Burns bit her lip. “Won’t we?”
“Of course!” Miss Eyre threw her arms around Miss Burns, but the embrace passed right through. She backed away, tears shimmering on her cheeks. “We will always be best friends. Forever. But our friendship isn’t limited by life and death.”
“Obviously.” Miss Burns forced a brave smile.
“And it’s not defined by whether you’re here or there. If you stay here, I will still love you. If you move on, I will still love you.”
Alexander’s heart ached for the two of them. His throat and chest felt tight with the tension of his own ghost. What Miss Eyre said was true, wasn’t it? Death could not stop true love, whether that love was paternal or platonic or romantic. Love extended across worlds.
“You think I should move on, though.” Miss Burns’s voice was so small.
Miss Eyre nodded. “I think you deserve to find peace.”
Miss Burns wrapped her arms around her waist. “I’m scared of being without you.”
“I’m scared of being without you, too.” Miss Eyre’s smile wavered. “But we both have things to do. I must live my life, and I can’t drag you through it with me. That’s not fair to either one of us. So I have to be brave.”
“Me too, then.” Miss Burns straightened her spine. “I’m going to do it.”
“When?” Now it was Miss Eyre’s voice that cracked.
Warm light spread throughout the kitchen, coming from Miss Burns. “Now,” she said. “I think I’m going now.” She seemed less substantial than before. More there than here.
“Helen!” Miss Eyre’s cry brought Miss Brontë and Branwell to the kitchen door, next to Alexander, but no one dared enter when they saw what was happening.
“I better not see you for eighty years.” Tears sparkled on Miss Burns’s cheeks as she looked up and up, and suddenly a wide smile formed—
And she was gone.
The room dimmed to a normal brightness.
“Good-bye,” Miss Eyre whispered.
Then, Miss Brontë rushed forward toward her, and the pair embraced.
“We should . . .” Branwell wiped his face dry. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Take them to sit,” Alexander said. “I’ll make the tea.”
When he was alone in the kitchen, preparing a tray of cups and sugar and cream, Alexander glanced at the place Miss Burns’s ghost had occupied. It was amazing how quickly she’d gone, once she’d decided to go. And she did deserve peace.
Maybe Alexander deserved peace, too. From revenge. From the figurative ghost he’d been dragging through his life. From his single-minded devotion to the Society.
He decided to let it go. All of it. Oh, he’d stay with the RWS Society, in whatever form it took. He was good at relocating ghosts, and he enjoyed traveling. But it didn’t have to be his whole life. Not anymore.
When the water boiled, he placed the teapot on the tray and returned to the parlor. To his friends.
“Mr. Blackwood?” inquired Miss Brontë in that curious voice he was coming to know so well. “I have a question of the utmost importance.”
“Of course you do.” He gave her a cup of tea.
“It’s regarding the letter that your father wrote to Mr. Rochester. The one you found when you were rakishly breaking into the study at Thornfield.”
“I recall the letter quite well.”
“The man who wrote the letter signed his name as a Mr. Bell.”
He had thought this detail had slipped her notice. But nothing ever slipped Charlotte Brontë’s notice. “Yes. My father was Nicholas Bell. After he died, Wellington thought it would be prudent if I chose a new name for myself.”
“So your name is Alexander Bell.”
“Outside of Wellington and the Rochesters, you’re the only one who knows the truth.”
She smiled. “What’s your middle name? I bet I can guess.”
He bent his head. “You’d never guess.”
“No, but I think I might. Alexander . . . Bell. It feels there’s an obvious middle to that.”
He tried not to grin. “My middle name is Currer.”
“Oh.” She laughed. “You’re right. I never would have guessed.” She held out her hand to him. “Then I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Alexander Currer Bell.”
He took her hand. “And I yours, Miss Charlotte . . .”
“I have no middle name, I’m afraid. The only one of us who received a middle name was Emily. Emily Jane.”
“Miss Brontë, then.”
“Mr. Bell. Although I suppose I must go on calling you Mr. Blackwood.”
“You could call me Alexander, if you wished.”
Her eyes widened behind her spectacles. “And you could call me Charlotte.”
Indeed.
Epilogue
The morning was dawning bright at the Brontë residence. Jane and Charlotte could already be found, even at this early hour, in the garden behind the house. Jane was wearing a painter’s smock over a pale blue dress and an expression of fierce concentration as she made a series of rapid yet delicate brushstrokes onto the canvas before her. Charlotte was perched on a bench a few paces away from Jane, wearing her new spectacles—the kind that she could see out of without having to lift them, as in permanent, over-the-ears glasses. Which was a fortunate thing, as she was hard at work herself, scribbling away furiously into a new notebook. (One without a bullet hole.)
That notebook was almost full to the very last page of the most engaging story.
“Read that last part back again,” Jane instructed.
Charlotte cleared her throat delicately.
“Reader . . .” she began.
Jane’s brow furrowed. “Are you certain you should address the reader that way? It seems forward.”
Charlotte smiled and said stubbornly, “I’m sure the readers like to be addressed. It draws them into the narrative, makes them part of it. Trust me.”
“All right, then. Continue.”
“Are you sure?” Charlotte’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “No more suggestions for improvement of that one word I’ve read to you so far?”
Jane laughed. “No. Proceed.”
“Ahem. Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose names have most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I have done. I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely for and w
ith what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest—blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband’s life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am. I know no weariness of Mr. Rochester’s society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together.”
Jane gave a wistful sigh. “That’s so good, Charlotte.”
“It’s not too much? I think it might be too much.”
Jane shook her head. “It’s a little long. But it’s romantic. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a story that’s so perfectly romantic. Your readers will eat it up.”
Charlotte bit her lip nervously. “I don’t have any readers, currently. Except family. And Alexander.” She felt greatly embarrassed sometimes when she thought of Alexander reading the story, because so much of what she’d written about Jane Eyre’s feelings for Mr. Rochester had been inspired by what she herself felt for a certain Mr. Blackwood.
But then she smiled at the thought of Alexander.
Jane smiled at the word family. She was part of Charlotte’s family, you see, and not just because she lived at Haworth now, too, but officially. (And no, this was not because Jane Eyre had married Branwell Brontë.) No, the way Jane had become family to the Brontës was the result of a funny coincidence, actually.
Some weeks after they’d all returned from London, smoky and slightly singed but still victorious, a lawyer had arrived. He’d informed them that he was acting on the behalf of the estate of Arthur Wellesley, the recently and tragically deceased Duke of Wellington. Who had been the estranged uncle to the Brontës, didn’t they know?
They did know, it turned out.
Their estranged uncle Arthur had left behind quite a fortune when he’d passed, the lawyer had informed them. In the sum of twenty thousand pounds.
“To us?” the Brontës had asked incredulously. That seemed unlikely. Considering.
“Well . . . no,” said the lawyer. To a mysterious person the duke didn’t know he’d ever met. The duke, it turned out, had another sibling—a lost sister who’d died in childbirth long ago, who’d left behind an orphan, who’d been missing this entire time, who’d been reported as deceased herself, but it had recently come to the late duke’s attention that this girl was not, in fact, deceased. She was very much alive. A teacher at Lowood school. And to this modest little teacher, the duke had left his entire fortune. So the lawyer had gone searching for the girl at Lowood, and he’d tracked her to Haworth. Where he was now seeking none other than—you guessed it—our very own Jane Eyre.
It was a bit of a convoluted story, but this was the gist of it: Jane was a cousin to the Brontës. And now she was apparently loaded.
Well, that had changed things for everyone.
You’d think that Jane would have been overjoyed about the money. It was twenty thousand pounds. But Jane hadn’t cared about the money. In fact, she’d immediately shared her inheritance with the Brontës, as she felt they stood to receive a portion of the duke’s money equally. What had mattered to Jane, what had always been what mattered to Jane, it turned out, was that now she had family. She had actual blood relations, and she delighted in every new member of her familial circle—Charlotte and Bran, of course, and Emily and little Anne, who they’d brought home immediately from school. They’d all settled down at Haworth together, and spent their days writing stories and drawing pictures and painting and generally having the very best time imaginable.
Which brings us back to Jane and Charlotte in the garden, Charlotte reading to Jane a complete draft of what was going to become one of the most famous novels ever written.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to write it as it really happened?” Charlotte asked Jane.
Jane shook her head, her expression thoughtful. “No. Your Jane Eyre should end up with Mr. Rochester, I think.”
Mr. Rochester, they knew, had taken his wife and little Adele to the South of France, where they were, as far as the Brontë clan was aware, living in blissful obscurity and recovering from years of abuse and separation. But Jane still thought about Mr. Rochester from time to time. And it pained her. Charlotte could tell.
She sighed. “The truth was ever so much more exciting.”
“But who’d believe it?” Jane argued. “Ghosts and possessions and people who trap the wayward spirits of the dead? What a tall tale, indeed. Besides, we’ve all agreed that the Society should be a secret. Now that Mr. Blackwood is running things. No, it’s my story, in a way, my name anyway, and I want it to be a love story.”
Charlotte nodded. It was Jane’s story, and Charlotte had felt privileged to be allowed to write any part of it at all. But at the same time what she’d written made her feel sad for Jane. Jane had not actually been allowed to be part of any great love story. It was like she’d been robbed of her own well-deserved happy ending.
But Jane claimed that she was content with her life. She turned back to her painting, which was turning out to be the best she’d ever attempted. She stretched her arms and gazed out on the hillside before them, where the spring-green grasses of the moors swayed in the breeze. But Jane was not painting the moors. She was not painting a young woman with golden hair in a white dress, either. Today Jane was working in all reds and oranges, reconstructing the vision of a fire—the House of Lords and Commons ablaze against a night sky. When she looked at it she could still feel the heat of that fateful night, the smoke, the uncertainty and then relief of their victory over Wellington. It’d been a terrifying ordeal, but she also believed that it was the night her life had truly begun.
“There is one mystery left to be solved, however,” Charlotte said to Jane.
“What mystery?”
“Who killed Mr. Brocklehurst?”
“Oh.” Jane cringed. “That was Miss Temple.”
“The obvious choice.” Charlotte sounded disappointed.
“Well, Miss Temple gave him the tea. Miss Smith made the tea. Miss Scatcherd procured the poison.”
“Oh. Oh . . . So it was a group effort.” For once, Charlotte didn’t ask another question, because at the same time both girls heard the sound of hoofbeats on the road. Then happy squeals from Emily and Anne inside the house. And presently Alexander appeared on the garden path. His gaze locked with Charlotte’s, and she blushed, her eyes bright behind her glasses.
“Mr. Blackwood,” she murmured.
“Miss Brontë. You’re looking well.”
“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Jane asked. “Is everything all right?”
“As good as it can be, although we’re eagerly awaiting your return,” Alexander said. “We need our Beacon.”
Jane nodded. “Soon. But for now I am enjoying my time here.”
“I’ll go,” said Charlotte, and blushed again.
“We would gladly have you,” Alexander replied, smiling with his eyes. “We can always use persons of great wit, intelligence, and veracity. And I would welcome it, especially.” He straightened his cravat and cleared his throat. “But that’s not what I’ve come about. There’s been an interesting new development.”
Charlotte and Jane exchanged glances. They didn’t know how many more “interesting developments” they could handle.
“Come,” Alexander bid them. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
They followed him back into the house and into the parlor, where they found a slender, smartly dressed young man standing at the window with his hands clasped behind him.
“Edward,” Alexander said. “May I present Miss Charlotte Brontë and Miss Jane Eyre?”
The boy turned. Jane’s breath caught. It wasn’t that he was attractive—although he undoubtedly was. He was young, probably sixteen or seventeen, at most. And he was tall. Dark. Handsome. His black hair had a charming curl to it as it fell to just below his ears, which made him seem slightly wild and windblown—or it could have been because he’d just been out in the Yorkshire
wind, who knows. His smile contained a hint of playfulness. His forehead, Jane thought, was the kind to inspire sculpture.
But what had caused Jane to catch her breath was the young man’s eyes. There was something so entirely familiar about his dark, intelligent eyes. A certain brooding intensity. She was overcome by the sudden notion that this boy possessed the ability, not only to see her, standing there awkwardly in her blue dress and her paint-smeared smock gaping up at him, but into her as well. Like he could see into her very soul.
“I’d like you to meet Mr. Edward Rochester,” Alexander said.
“Edward . . . Rochester?” Charlotte tilted her head, frowning.
“The Second,” the boy clarified.
“As it happens, before Edward and Bertha Rochester withdrew from the Society, before Edward was possessed and Bertha imprisoned in the attic, they had a son,” Alexander explained. “As her last act of defiance against the duke, Bertha sent the boy away to the West Indies with Mr. Mason, to be raised by her family and kept secret and safe. But now it’s time for him to be restored to us.”
“Edward Rochester,” breathed Jane.
“The Second,” added Charlotte.
“Hello,” the boy said. He gave a slight bow. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Brontë.” He looked at Jane and smiled. “Miss Eyre. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Say something, Jane,” hissed Charlotte.
“Hello,” said Jane.
Acknowledgments
Hello again! It’s us, your friendly neighborhood Lady Janies. We’re back to the part where we’d like to thank an incomplete list of the people who need to be thanked.
We’d like to start with the Society for the Revision of Wayward Novels, aka our agents (Katherine Fausset, Lauren MacLeod, and Michael Bourret) and editors (Erica Sussman and Stephanie Stein—sorry we killed you in fiction, but it’s out of love). And thanks to our publicists (the incredible Rosanne Romanello and Olivia Russo) and our amazing cover designer (Jenna Stempel-Lobell, who created another winner for this book!).
To the incredible authors who blurbed My Lady Jane, Tahereh Mafi and Jessica Day George, we say thanks! Your words make us blush pre-Victorian blushes.
