Jane Slayre

by Sherri Browning Erwin

  "Well, that is beautiful, Miss Jane! It is as fine a picture as any Miss Reed's drawing master could paint, and have you learned French?"

  "Yes, Bessie, I can both read it and speak it."

  "Oh, you are quite a lady, Miss Jane! I knew you would be. You will get on whether your relations notice you or not. There was something I wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything from your father's kinsfolk, the Slayres?"

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  "Never in my life."

  "Well, you know Missus always said they were poor and quite despicable, and they may be poor, but I believe they are as much gentry as the Reeds are. One day, nearly seven years ago, a Mr. Slayre came to Gateshead and wanted to see you. Missus would not admit him. How she screamed when she saw him! And when he came in anyway, she begged him not to slay her. Queer, is it not?"

  "Most assuredly." I remembered what my uncle Reed had said about my uncle Slayre, that he lived too dangerously to care for an infant. But perhaps he'd decided I was ready to start training. Would he not be proud to know how I'd handled the zombies?

  "Missus said you were at school fifty miles off. He seemed so much disappointed, for he was going on a voyage and the ship was to sail from London in a day or two. He looked quite a gentleman, and I believe he was your father's brother."

  "A voyage? To where, Bessie?"

  "An island thousands of miles off, where they make wine--the butler told me--"

  "Madeira?"

  "Yes, that is it--that is the very word. He did not stay many minutes in the house, what with Missus screeching at him. She called him afterward a sneaking murderer."

  It occurred to me, not for the first time, that perhaps he was the one who had taken mercy on my uncle Reed and staked him. After all, how many vampyre slayers would Uncle Reed have known?

  "That's not very nice of her," I returned, "but as to be expected."

  Bessie and I conversed about old times an hour longer, then she was obliged to leave me. I saw her again for a few minutes the next morning at Lowton, while I was waiting for the coach. We parted finally at the door of the Bokorhurst Arms there. She set off for the conveyance that was to take her and her little boy back to Gates-head. I mounted the vehicle that was to bear me to new duties, and a new life, in the unknown environs of Millcote.

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  CHAPTER 13

  I LEFT LOWTON AT 4:00 a.m., and the Millcote town clock was just striking eight in the evening as I sat, in my cloak and bonnet, by an excellent fire in a room at the George Inn. My muff and umbrella rested on the table, and I warmed away the numbness and chill of long exposure to a raw October day.

  Reader, though I looked comfortably accommodated, I was not tranquil in my mind. I thought when the coach stopped, someone would meet me. I looked anxiously around as I descended the wooden steps, expecting to hear my name pronounced, and to see some description of carriage waiting to convey me to Thornfield. Nothing of the sort was visible. When I asked a waiter if anyone had been to inquire after a Miss Slayre, I was answered in the negative. I had no resource but to request to be shown to a private room, and there I waited, while all sorts of doubts and fears troubled my thoughts. I had a few stakes tucked away on my person out of habit, old habit indeed, but my daggers, on which I was sure I could rely, were tucked away in my luggage for safekeeping.

  A half hour elapsed and I was still alone. I thought to ring the bell.

  "Is there a place in this neighbourhood called Thornfield?" I asked of the waiter who answered the summons.

  "Thornfield? I don't know, ma'am. I'll inquire at the bar." He vanished, but reappeared instantly. "Is your name Slayre, Miss?"

  "Yes."

  "Person here waiting for you."

  I jumped up, took my muff and umbrella and hastened into the

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  inn passage. A man stood by the open door, and in the lamplit street I saw a one-horse conveyance.

  "This will be your luggage, I suppose?" the man asked rather abruptly, pointing to my trunk in the passage.

  "Yes." He hoisted it onto the vehicle, which was a sort of carriage, and then I got in. Before he shut me up, I asked him how far it was to Thornfield.

  "A matter of six miles."

  "How long shall we be before we get there?"

  "Happen an hour and a half."

  He fastened the door, climbed to his own seat outside, and we set off. Our progress was leisurely and gave me ample time to reflect. I supposed, judging from the plainness of the servant and the carriage, Mrs. Fairfax was not a very dashing person. So much the better. I never lived amongst fine people but once, and I was miserable with them. I wondered if she lived alone except for this little girl. If so, and if she was in any degree amiable, I would surely be able to get on with her.

  I let down the window and looked out. Millcote was behind us, judging by the number of its lights. It seemed to be of considerable magnitude, much larger than Lowton. I felt we were in a different region to Lowood, more populous, less picturesque, more stirring, less romantic. We passed a church. About ten minutes after, the driver got down and opened a pair of gates. We passed through, and they clashed to a close behind us. We slowly ascended a drive and came upon the long front of a house. Candlelight gleamed from one curtained bow window. All the rest were dark. The carriage stopped at the front door. A maidservant opened it and greeted me. I alighted and went in.

  "Will you walk this way, ma'am?" the girl said.

  I followed her across a square hall with high doors all round. She ushered me into a room that had a double illumination of fire and candle to dazzle me, contrasting as it did with the darkness to which

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  my eyes had been for two hours inured. When I could see, however, a cosy and agreeable picture presented itself, a snug, small room with a round table by a cheerful fire, a high-backed armchair, wherein sat the neatest imaginable little, elderly lady, in widow's cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin apron. She was exactly as I'd fancied Mrs. Fairfax to be, only less stately and milder in appearance. A large cat sat demurely at her feet as she knit. A more reassuring introduction for a new governess could scarcely be conceived. As I entered, the old lady got up and kindly came forward to meet me.

  "How do you do, my dear? You must be cold, come to the fire."

  "Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?"

  "Yes. Do sit down."

  She conducted me to her own chair, then began to remove my shawl and untie my bonnet strings. I begged she would not give herself so much trouble.

  "Oh, it is no trouble. I daresay your own hands are almost numbed with cold. Leah, make a little hot negus and cut a sandwich."

  "Now, then, draw nearer to the fire," she continued. "You've brought your luggage with you, haven't you, my dear?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "I'll see it carried into your room." She bustled out.

  I thought she treated me like a visitor. I little expected such a warm reception.

  She returned, cleared her knitting apparatus and a book from the table to make room for the tray Leah brought, then handed me the refreshments. I felt rather confused at being the object of more attention than I had ever before received, and that shown by my employer and superior. As she did not seem to consider she was doing anything out of her place, I thought it better to take her civilities quietly.

  "Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax tonight?" I asked when I had partaken of what she offered me.

  "Miss Fairfax? Oh, you mean Miss Varens! Varens is the name of your pupil."

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  "Indeed! Then she is not your daughter?"

  "No, I have no family. I am so glad you've come." She sat down opposite me and took the cat on her knee. "It will be quite pleasant living here now with a companion. To be sure it is pleasant at any time, for Thornfield is a fine old hall. Still, in wintertime one feels dreary in even the best quarters. Of course, I do have Leah, and John, your driver, and his wife are very decent people. Since the end of summer, we have littl
e Adele Varens and her nurse. A child makes a house alive all at once. And now that you are here, I shall be quite gay."

  My heart really warmed to the worthy lady as I heard her talk, and I drew my chair a little nearer to hers and expressed my sincere wish that she might find my company as agreeable as she anticipated.

  "But I'll not keep you sitting up late tonight," she said. "You have been travelling all day. I've had the room next to mine prepared for you. It is only a small apartment, but I thought you would like it better than one of the large front chambers. To be sure they have finer furniture, but they are so dreary and solitary I never sleep in them myself."

  I thanked her for her considerate choice and, as I really felt fatigued with my long journey, expressed my readiness to retire. She took her candle, and I followed her from the room as she led the way upstairs.

  The steps and banisters were of oak. The staircase window was high and latticed. Both it and the long gallery into which the bedroom doors opened looked as if they belonged to a church rather than a house. A vaultlike air pervaded the stairs and gallery. I suddenly had a queer feeling, an icy chill snaking through me. Mrs. Fairfax and even Leah had seemed decent and quite right. They aroused in me no suspicions. I felt I could trust and get to know them. But something in the hall as we walked gave me pause. I couldn't tell what it was, and when I was finally ushered into my chamber, it faded fast. My room was much more pleasing to me, a

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  calming haven of small dimensions furnished in ordinary, modern style.

  When Mrs. Fairfax had bidden me a kind good-night and I had fastened my door, I took time to gaze leisurely around. The lively aspect of my little room chased off the eerie impression made by the wide hall, the dark and spacious staircase, and that long, cold gallery. The impulse of gratitude swelled in my heart, and I knelt down at the bedside and offered up thanks where thanks were due. At once weary and content, I slept soon and soundly. When I awoke, it was broad day.

  The chamber looked such a bright place to me as the sun shone in between the gay blue chintz window curtains, showing papered walls and a carpeted floor, so unlike the bare planks and stained plaster of Lowood that my spirits rose at the view. I thought it a sign that a fairer era of life was beginning for me, one that was to have its flowers and pleasures as well as its thorns and toils.

  I rose and dressed with care, obliged to be plain for I had no article of attire that was not made with extreme simplicity. Sometimes, I regretted that I was not handsomer. I desired to be tall, stately, and finely developed in figure. I felt it a misfortune that I was so little, so pale, and had features so unremarkable. However, when I had brushed my hair smooth and put on my black frock--which, Quaker-like as it was, at least had the merit of fitting to a nicety--and adjusted my clean white tucker, I thought I should do respectably enough to appear before Mrs. Fairfax, and that my new pupil would not recoil from me with antipathy. Having opened my chamber window and seen that I left all things straight and neat on the toilet table, I ventured forth.

  I paused on the oak staircase. No feeling of apprehension or fear came over me as had the previous night. Perhaps it had merely been nerves, uncertainty of the unknown. I looked at some pictures on the walls, at a bronze lamp pendent from the ceiling, at a great clock whose case was curiously carved and black with time and rubbing.

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  Everything appeared stately to me, but then I was little accustomed to grandeur.

  The hall door, which was half of glass, stood open. I stepped over the threshold. It was a fine autumn morning. The early sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and still green fields. I walked out to the lawn, looked up, and surveyed the front of the mansion. It was larger than it seemed last night, three stories high, of proportions not vast, though considerable, a gentleman's manor house, not a nobleman's seat. Battlements around the top gave it a picturesque look. Its grey front stood out well from the background of a rookery, whose cawing tenants were now on the wing. They flew over the lawn and grounds to alight in a great meadow, from which these were separated by a sunk fence. An array of mighty old thorn trees--strong, knotty, and broad as oaks--at once explained the source of the mansion's name.

  Farther off were hills, not so lofty as those around Lowood, but yet quiet and lonely hills that seemed to embrace Thornfield with a seclusion I had not expected to find so near the stirring locality of Millcote. A hamlet, whose roofs blended with trees, straggled up the side of one of these hills. The church of the district stood nearer Thornfield. Its old tower looked over a knoll between the house and the gates.

  I enjoyed the calm prospect and sunshine, the pleasant fresh air, and even the cawing of the rooks. The beauty of a sunny day had never failed to stir my soul, so deprived had I been of them in my earliest years.

  "What, out already?" Mrs. Fairfax peeked out the door to greet me. "I see you are an early riser."

  "Yes," I answered, still looking over the aspects of the house and thinking how well it suited Mrs. Fairfax. I finished my surveying, went up to her, and was received with an affable kiss and shake of the hand. I was pleased to see that Mrs. Fairfax was unafraid to step out into the sunshine. I could rule out any chance that she was a

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  vampyre, and her cheerful disposition made it seem equally unlikely that she was a zombie.

  "How do you like Thornfield?"

  "Very much," I answered, completely at ease.

  "Yes, it is a pretty place. But I fear it will be getting out of order unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his head to come and reside here permanently, or at least visit it rather oftener. Great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor."

  "Mr. Rochester? Who is he?"

  "The owner of Thornfield," she responded quietly. "Did you not know he was called Rochester?"

  Of course I did not. I had never heard of him, but the old lady seemed to regard his existence as a universally understood fact, with which everybody must be acquainted by instinct.

  "I assumed that Thornfield belonged to you."

  "To me? Bless you, child, what an idea! To me! I am only the housekeeper--the manager. To be sure I am distantly related to the Rochesters by the mother's side, or at least my husband was. The present Mr. Rochester's mother was a Fairfax and second cousin to my husband, but I never presume on the connection. In fact, it is nothing to me. I consider myself quite in the light of an ordinary housekeeper. My employer is always civil, and I expect nothing more."

  "And the little girl, my pupil?" At last I thought it was best to ask questions and know what I had got into at the risk of being impolite. A civil employer was a good sign, though vampyres could be civil when they wished.

  "She is Mr. Rochester's ward. He commissioned me to find a governess for her, and so I have. Ah, and here she comes, with her 'bonne,' as she calls her nurse."

  The enigma was then explained: this affable and kind little widow was no great dame, but a dependant like me. I did not like her the worse for that. On the contrary, I felt better pleased than

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  ever. The equality between us was real and not the mere result of condescension on her part.

  As I was meditating on this discovery, a little girl, followed by her attendant, came running up the lawn. She was quite a child, perhaps seven or eight years old, slightly built, with a pale, small-featured face and a redundancy of hair falling in curls to her waist.

  "Good morning, Miss Adele," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Come and speak to the lady who is to teach you, and to make you a clever woman someday."

  The child approached and pointed to me, addressing her nurse. "C'est la ma gouvernante!"

  "Mais oui, certainement."

  "Are they foreigners?" I inquired, amazed at hearing French.

  "The nurse is a foreigner, and Adele was born on the Continent. I believe she never left it until some months ago. When she first came here, she could speak no English. Now she can make shift to talk it a little. I don't understand
her. She mixes it so with French. But you will make out her meaning very well, I daresay."

  Fortunately I had had the advantage of being taught French by a French lady, and I was not likely to be much at a loss with Mademoiselle Adele. She came and shook hands with me.

  As I led her in to breakfast, I addressed some phrases to her in her own tongue. She replied briefly at first. After we were seated at the table, and she had examined me some ten minutes with her large hazel eyes, she suddenly commenced chattering fluently.

  "Ah!" she said in French. "You speak my language as well as Mr. Rochester does. I can talk to you as I can to him, and so can Sophie, my nurse. She will be glad. Nobody here understands her. Madame Fairfax is all English. Sophie came with me, over the sea in a great ship with a chimney that smoked--how it did smoke!--and I was sick, and so was Sophie, and so was Mr. Rochester. And, Mademoiselle--what is your name?"

  "Slayre--Jane Slayre."

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  "Slaire? Bah! I cannot say it. Well, our ship stopped in the morning, before daylight, at a great city, and Mr. Rochester carried me in his arms over a plank to the land, and Sophie came after, and we all got into a coach!"

  "Can you understand her when she runs on so fast?" asked Mrs. Fairfax.

  "Oh, indeed." I understood her well.

  "I wish," continued the good lady, "you would ask her a question or two about her parents. I wonder if she remembers them?"

  "Adele," I inquired, "with whom did you live when you were in that pretty, clean town you spoke of?"

  "I lived long ago with Mama, but she is gone to the holy Virgin. Mama used to teach me to dance and sing, and to say verses. A great many gentlemen and ladies came to see Mama, and I used to dance before them, or to sit on their knees and sing to them. I liked it. Shall I let you hear me sing now?"