by Lyndsay Faye
“Then perhaps a Sikh chapel for your rituals?” I ventured next.
“Oh, I’m sure he has plans for the place, Miss Stone.” Mr. Singh smiled effortlessly, passing me a dish of what appeared to be yogurt. “I myself shall be contented when these local stonemasons—good men but rather untutored—stop tracking filth through Mrs. Jas Kaur’s kitchen. I knew her in the Punjab as a saintly woman, and here in England, she is ready to dissolve into fits.”
As am I, I thought, over lack of headway.
• • •
A few hours later, I washed my face and hung my sober black dress and sat in Aunt Patience’s room with the letters from the cottage in my hands, nearly in silent tears already at the prospect of voices from beyond the grave. Wrapping my dressing gown tighter, I edged my chair towards the fireplace. This first missive was written in an older, more palsied version of Agatha’s hand:
Dear Missus Jane, supposing ever you return,
Your aunt weren’t about to do the job herself, but know that I searched and searched for you. Should you find this, well and good, I’ve done what I’m meant to. Should you not, I hope no harm to anyone who may come across it.
That school was as awful as awful can be, I’d wager, and I don’t fault your quitting the place—send word, and we’ll all be just as happy as fish in a lake. I’m to go to——Court,——shire to be with my sister, who’s always been my elder and thus an old woman now in need of some comfort.
This new fellow what owns the estate, Mr. Charles Thornfield, seems both a decent sort and terrible peculiar. He has his winning ways, and his peevish ones, but there’s no faulting a soldier for quirks—they catch them abroad, and there’s an end to the matter.
Mr. Cyrus Sneeves can explain something of the papers. Write to him should you have any questions, but supposing you want to leave well enough alone, I shouldn’t fault you either.
Best of luck always,
Agatha
I examined the rest of the stack. Here were more correspondences between Anne-Laure Steele and Cyrus Sneeves and, like the ones I had read so long ago, they dealt mainly with ensuring our claim to Highgate House; my mother’s penmanship appeared next, her faintly accented voice in my ear as I read:
Rue M——,
2nd Arrondissement,
TUESDAY
Dear Mr. Sneeves,
I wish to thank you for having granted me such a thorough understanding of our situation. The difficulty as I see it lies in the honouring of our arrangement in perpetuity. Patience Barbary is dead set against us—and when I imagine myself in her shoes, I cannot bring myself to censure her. On ne peut rien y faire, however, and it only remains to discover a trusted party willing to visit consequences upon Mrs. Barbary should she ever attempt to disinherit my Jane.
Suggestions to this purpose will be met with gratitude; in the meanwhile, please move forward as discussed.
Je vous prie d’agréer,
Mrs. Anne-Laure Steele
The hairs at my nape bristled. My mother had regarded Patience Barbary with as much affection as she held for dung stuck to the sole of a heeled French boot; yet I read a curious reluctance in her wording, regret over the fact Aunt Patience would be angry, which I had never glimpsed in life.
The reply told me little, meanwhile:
Rue du R——,
1st Arrondissement,
WEDNESDAY
Chère Mme. S——
Trust that our regard for Mr. S——’s memory will allow nothing less than perfect diligence regarding this most delicate of subjects. A local agent must be appointed to make real the fact that thwarting our designs will only lead to unpleasantness, and I should be ashamed to suggest anyone of less standing in the firm than my partner, Mr. Aloysius Swansea. I shall make haste to apprise him of all details, but should you ever require direct contact, he may be found at:
SNEEVES, SWANSEA, AND TURNER
No. 29C Lisle Street, Westminster
Humbly,
Cyrus Sneeves, Esq.
I think it took me eleven seconds to locate a pen and paper and begin a letter to Mr. Aloysius Swansea:
Highgate House,
December 20, 1851
Dear Mr. Swansea,
My name is Jane Steele, and I recently came across documents suggesting that you conducted business with my father, Mr. Jonathan Steele, and my mother, Mrs. Anne-Laure Steele. I would be grateful for any information you could give me upon this topic, and should the written form prove too cumbersome, I can travel to London. Letters will reach me here, but I beg that you address them to Miss Jane Stone, as the unfortunate circumstances of my mother’s unhappy end have necessitated caution in revealing my true origins.
Gratefully,
Miss Jane Steele
The remaining correspondence confirmed what I already knew. I must needs await further instruction—supposing instruction would come. Stuffing the papers beneath my mattress again, I lay down, waiting for sleep to arrive.
No such guest called, however; ants seemed to crawl beneath my sheets, and the dawn greeted a weary soul. Head thinly humming, I stumbled out of bed and splashed enough frigid water over my face to appear human at breakfast.
After all, Mr. Thornfield may have returned.
He had not, though, and I smiled sunnily at Sahjara across the table, a sealed letter resting in the pocket of my dress ready to be posted at my earliest convenience.
• • •
Every brittle, branching fork of each bare tree seemed frost-spangled sculptures worthy of auction at Christie’s private parlour that afternoon. Sahjara had insisted I take to riding again—in particular a bay mare far too perceptive for her own good, for she kept questioning me, and I was not accustomed to surrendering the reins to anyone.
The three-year-old bay’s name was Nalin, or “lotus,” and on the sixth day following Charles Thornfield’s departure, she flew over rills and creek beds as if we had crafted a fragile truce. I sincerely hoped so, for I was remembering the beauty of Nature and questioning why I had abandoned it for the narrow streets of a soiled city. Having a horse beneath me again made me feel as if the wide world and myself were more akin than separate, and that as much as I remained a poisonous creature, I was related to the contrary being under my legs. Admittedly I had no proper riding habit, which vexed me only marginally less than it vexed Sahjara; still, my plain grey governess’s disguise, when topped with a cape-backed cloak and a cloth cap, suited well enough for the countryside.
I had given Sahjara a Sunday holiday, so I never thought of returning to Highgate House until my letter had been posted and the sun sagged and the skies—of a woollen complexion all day—began dusting me with powdery motes of ice. These were not the fat snowflakes one so loves to see in wintertime but the ground glass which stings one’s skin, and thus I cut across a familiar clearing to take the road home rather than risking the half-obscured thickets.
The daylight was nigh expired, but the moon had risen, and the lane to Highgate House was scarce ever used save by the occupants—so I never considered how foolhardy it was to steer Nalin into a leap over a stunted hedgerow until it was too late.
We landed, a shadow materialised, and Nalin reared as she emitted a shrill neigh.
My own sharp cry echoed hers as I fought to regain control; but when she bucked the second time, I flew through the air and landed with a heavy thud upon the frozen dirt.
Bloody hell, I thought, and then yelled it aloud, and then enunciated several more expressions learnt in London.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The shadow approached me; its steps blended with the mocking trill of the last birds left awake in the thickets.
Had I possessed a superstitious spirit, I should have been terrified to look, lest the traveller prove a goblin or a ghoul. One of the advantages to being a cold-blooded killer, however, was that I thought nothing in the woods much more dangerous than I was, so I heaved myself onto one elbow, panting with shock and exertion.
“Stay back!” As if lightning had illuminated my peril, I realised the footfalls were a man’s, and I incapable of flight. “I’ve no money, and a knife in my skirts!”
Happily, this was nothing save God’s truth; a pause ensued, but the menacing steps resumed with greater speed.
Wrenching myself fully up on one arm, I had the blade aimed at the stranger two seconds later; there are commodities some men want on deserted pathways which have nothing to do with currency.
“By all means, come closer, you whoreson bastard,” I shouted. “I’ll cut you to ribbons and laugh at your funeral!”
“Miss Stone, we haven’t been long acquainted, but I had hoped I inspired in you a fonder spirit of camaraderie than that,” came a deep, pleasantly grainy voice.
My heart lurched. I forced myself to breathe, replacing my knife in the pocket obscured by the pleat near my waist.
As Mr. Charles Thornfield approached, still snow-obscured save his broad shoulders and the white gleam of his hair beneath his hat brim, I debated whether instantly switching personas would be canny or dense. I had cursed, threatened, and brandished a weapon when I could simply have screamed.
You never scream when you’re meant to, you dunce.
“I think I’m hurt.” Indeed, my ankle seemed to have burst into flames. “Forgive me, please, I couldn’t see you properly. Is Nalin all right? Are you all right, sir?”
The muffled clop of hooves sounded, and I glimpsed Mr. Thornfield quickly tethering Nalin’s reins to a thick hedgerow branch. Once the mare was secured, his silhouette turned to face me with the moon rising behind him.
“If you never speak to me again, it’ll prove difficult to sack me.” I rolled to my hands and knees and a bolt of brimstone shot up my leg. “Oh.”
He strode swiftly towards me. “The devil take your impatience!”
Attempting to stand, I insisted, “I only—”
“Wait a moment or you’ll make all worse than it need be. Here, please sit down—sit. That’s right. Heavens, but you’re a feral soul at heart, aren’t you? No, stretch your legs out straight.”
Sitting upon the ground with icy granules accumulating in the folds of my skirts as I sprawled awkwardly, I allowed Mr. Thornfield to clasp me round the torso. The wind cut at my ears, and the stones bit through my petticoats. It had not been the reunion I had anticipated; in fact, I had amused myself by anticipating every possible reunion, from schoolroom tranquillity to defending the house from marauding seekers of mysterious boxes, save this humiliating one. With him at my back, I managed to get my hands round my knees and wrench both limbs to the front, shaking with effort and pain.
“All right, hush now. We’ll be fit to conquer the subcontinent in no time.”
“Why hush? I didn’t say peep.”
This earned me a startled chuckle. “’Pon my life, there’s some truth there. No plans on blubbing, or swooning, or stabbing, come to that?”
“Not at present.”
“Capital woman,” said he. “Now, I saw how you landed, and damned if it weren’t a smasher—feel along your legs to the ankle, very carefully, unless you cannot and wish me to do so.”
His scruples, for which I ought to have been grateful, seemed merely irritating. “A highly considerate question coming from a sawbones—I heard you were a medical man, sir.”
Mr. Thornfield huffed, still bracing my spine. “And I heard you were a governess, but not many of that set can say bugger with quite so much purity of conviction.”
A fresh wave of embarrassment washed over me. “I am not yet myself, Mr. Thornfield, but I think my legs remain intact.”
“Blast, what a shame! I was so looking forward to having ’em off here in the road. Would’ve been like old times, I can hear the drum and the fife even now. Make certain all is well, please.”
My brains were addled, my pride dented, and my ankle probably sprained, but nothing permanent had befallen me; that is, supposing I did not lose my position upon the morrow.
“All my bones are inside. I do beg your pardon, sir—had it been someone other than you there in the roadway, I don’t know what I should have done.”
“Called some other whoreson bastard a whoreson bastard, I expect.”
Fully five seconds must have passed with my neck craned round to look into his eyes before I burst into helpless laughter. I waited for dismay to manifest, but Mr. Thornfield only smiled crookedly, and I wondered what could produce that lopsided mirth again.
“I’d every right to expect the worst of you,” I complained as he lifted me easily upright. “Whatever were you doing out here in the middle of an empty dirt path?”
“I requested the local inn to house Falstaff for the night to take a weight off my conscience, for the old fellow was fatigued enough as was, and I trust them, and my mind needed clearing on the route homeward anyhow. My mind, Miss Stone, is now clear as holy water. Shall we see about getting you home?”
I used Mr. Thornfield’s support to take a few steps, nearly gasping at the pangs shooting through my ankle. The joint was already swelling—and I left to the mercy of the man I had just threatened with a pocketknife.
“I think I can ride back,” I suggested.
“Yes, come to that, what are you doing jumping hedgerows with one of my most expensive mares?”
“Attempting to prove myself to Sahjara—we study nothing save horses in every subject.”
For a few lengthy moments, the only sound was the snow crushing under our soles as I limped towards my disappointed steed; Nalin, one of the most intelligent and yet Puritanical horses I have ever met, tapped her right hoof as if to say, You are a disgrace.
“Supposing you desire Sahjara’s respect, shall I assume you don’t want your corpse to be discovered with a snapped neck?” Charles Thornfield asked, regaining his testiness.
By the time we had reached Nalin, my entire body was confused—an ankle ballooning, breath taut and hoarse, rough but kind fingers imprinted upon my torso, roiling anger in my belly at being caught out in such a pathetic state, a strange echoing sweetness in my ears at, Shall we see about getting you home?
“I’ll lead Nalin,” Mr. Thornfield proposed, linking his fingers together and leaning to make a step for me. “Quick, now, before you indulge the urge to faint at last.”
This barbed remark proved all that was necessary to effect a complete cure.
Setting the boot of my uninjured foot in Mr. Thornfield’s hands, I hoisted myself onto Nalin. My other ankle pulsed bubbling tar, but it would keep; as jauntily as I could, I dipped my head in imitation of his first snide bow and calculated the distance from the hedgerow to Highgate House.
A quarter of a mile, I thought: close enough for me to make it without danger of falling; close enough for the master to make it on foot.
“I fear this injury should be seen to speedily, Mr. Thornfield,” I called down. “I’ll send one of the grooms back to fetch you.”
With this insane parting jibe, already anticipating my return to London and imminent penury, I set off on my master’s horse for my own ancestral house.
SEVENTEEN
I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed this sleepless night: I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to meet his eye.
I retired straight to my aunt’s former room wretchedly humiliated and at once sipped at the laudanum bottle I had packed as a precaution against melancholy or sudden disaster. I awoke to an ankle blazing like a lighthouse beacon, a small breakfast tray of broth and cold green rice, and a folded communiqué written in Sahjara’s friendly scrawl:
Dear Miss Stone,
Thank you for seeing to Nalin, as I was ever so worried when I heard there was an accident and the more so for your sake but I was yet glad you returned her to the stables unharmed though you were harmed yourself. Charles has returned! Happy day! He says not to disturb you, but only send you this note and ask that you ring for Mrs. Kaur when you awaken so she might treat your an
kle properly and he won’t let me see you as he says you must rest but know I am thinking of you every second.
Very sincerely affectionately and kindly,
Sahjara Kaur
This brought a smile to my face; but, hark—here was another missive below the first, penned on much more masculine paper and in a matching hand:
Dear Miss Stone,
As you refused my offices so far as to flee the scene entirely and barricade yourself against enemy encroachment, I will not crudely offer them again but rather suggest that Mrs. Garima Kaur has a working practical knowledge of the whereabouts of the human ankle and a steady hand, since I’ve no wish to further alarm you. A repast has been provided, lest your strategy be to remain in your fortifications, but I assure you that should you emerge under the white flag of truce, the natives—though savage and frankly even heathen—will greet you with unparalleled interest.
Your servant,
Charles Thornfield
Groaning aloud did me no tangible good, reader: and yet, groan aloud I did. I rolled over with a twofold whimper—half because it hurt my ankle, half because stupidity (particularly my own) hurts my heart.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Just a moment,” I called.
A glance at the ivory light through the window told me it was already ten if not later; duly considerate of my responsibilities, I stepped out of bed and promptly collapsed.
The door flew open to reveal Mrs. Garima Kaur’s feet. If feet could be amused, I have no doubt but that her toes would have laughed, such was the indignity of my position.
“All right?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
“No,” I admitted.
She entered, tension marring the straight sweep of her scar. After she had got me safely seated on the rumpled bedclothes, she searched my face; this was not simple concern, but rather a critical study—or perhaps I only thought so because her own physiognomy was so very apparent, her face resembling nothing so much as a handsomely clothed skull. Though she spoke English poorly, Mrs. Kaur’s eyes positively radiated intellect, and I wondered what heights of nuance she could achieve in her native tongue.