Jane Slayre

by Sherri Browning Erwin

  "I might say it to almost anyone, but would it be true of almost anyone? If you knew it, you are peculiarly situated, very near happiness.

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  Yes, within reach of it. The materials are all prepared. There only wants a movement to combine them. Now, show me your palm."

  "And I must cross it with silver, I suppose?"

  "To be sure." She cackled again.

  I gave her a shilling. She pocketed it and told me to hold out my hand. I did. She approached her face to the palm.

  "It is too fine. I can make nothing of such a hand as that, almost without lines. I wonder what thoughts are busy in your heart during all the hours you sit in the window seat with the fine people flitting before you like shapes in a magic lantern. You see I know your habits--"

  "You have learned them from the servants."

  "Ah! You think yourself sharp. Well, perhaps I have. To speak truth, I have an acquaintance with one of them, Mrs. Poole--"

  I started to my feet when I heard the name. Something wicked was in all this after all. My hand grasped at the stake I kept in my pocket.

  "Don't be alarmed," continued the strange being. "She's a safe hand is Mrs. Poole. Close and quiet, anyone may repose confidence in her. But, as I was saying, sitting in that window seat, is there not one face you study? One figure whose movements you follow with at least curiosity?"

  "I like to observe all the faces and all the figures."

  "But do you never single one from the rest--or it may be, two?"

  "I do frequently. When the gestures or looks of a pair seem telling a tale, it amuses me to watch them."

  "What tale do you like best to hear?"

  "Oh, I have not much choice! They generally run on the same theme, courtship and marriage." I relaxed my hold on the stake, feeling more secure.

  "And do you like that monotonous theme?"

  "I don't care about it. It is nothing to me."

  "Nothing to you? When a lady, young and full of life and health,

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  charming with beauty and endowed with the gifts of rank and fortune, sits and smiles in the eyes of a gentleman you--"

  "I what?"

  "You know--and perhaps think well of."

  "I don't know the gentlemen here. I have scarcely interchanged a syllable with one of them."

  "Will you say that of the master of the house?"

  "He is not at home."

  "A most ingenious quibble!"

  "No, but I can scarcely see what Mr. Rochester has to do with the theme you had introduced."

  "Can't you? You have seen love, have you not? And, looking forward, you have seen him married and beheld his bride happy?"

  "Not exactly. Your witch's skill is rather at fault sometimes."

  "What the devil have you seen, then?"

  "Never mind. I came here to inquire, not to confess. Is it known that Mr. Rochester is to be married?"

  "Yes, and to the beautiful Miss Ingram."

  "Shortly?"

  "Appearances would warrant that conclusion. But I gave her some intelligence that seemed to quite upset her. It seems she prefers to marry for fortune, and I assured her that Mr. Rochester was on the brink of ruin."

  Ha. Fortune-teller indeed. It could be that his fortunes had been reduced, though I saw nothing of it. But on the brink of ruin? No wonder Blanche was most distressed.

  "But, I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester's fortune. I came to hear my own, and you have told me nothing of it."

  "Your fortune is yet doubtful. Chance has meted you a measure of happiness. She has laid it carefully on one side for you. It depends on you to stretch out your hand and take it up. The problem is that I can't tell whether you will do so, stubborn one. Kneel on the rug."

  I leaned as if I would kneel, but instead retrieved my daggers and lunged at the old fraud, daggers extended, one in each hand. "What

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  of the master not being at home? Who are you? Who sent you? Do you intend to rob me as you have perhaps robbed others tonight? Or are you about to perpetrate a foul scheme, with perhaps Grace Poole? Confess, or die!"

  "Confess?" She stood to full height, taller than I imagined. Not intimidated, I slid a dagger under her throat. Much to my surprise, the old hag reacted with lightning speed, gripping my wrist and twisting my arm behind my back.

  "What act is this?" The hag's voice deepened to a gravelly huskiness. "Daggers, Jane?"

  She knew my name. No doubt I was right about her being in league with Grace Poole. I steadied my breathing, as Miss Temple had instructed, imagined my enemy's position behind me, and--

  Slammed my head back into what should have been her head, but surely was only her chest. Still, the move was effective enough to startle my aggressor into dropping my wrist. I spun, reared up on my toes, and delivered a solid kick to the old witch's jaw. "Ha, take that!"

  She slammed back into her chair, and I filled with that surge of power that accompanied such victories. "Now tell me your name, and your purpose!"

  "No such thing." She bounced back with surprising skill, slamming into me, and pinioning me against the wall with supernatural strength. I gasped in surprise. Zombie or vampyre? I'd lost my daggers, but I still had a stake in my pocket if only I could twist my arm out of her viselike hold and--

  "Enough, Jane," my aggressor said quietly, the voice registering in my mind. I knew that voice. I looked. I knew those eyes. "We could clearly engage in combat all night, but I had only thought to entertain you for a quarter hour. The guests will be getting anxious for you."

  "The guests don't take any notice of me, Mr. Rochester. As you know. But what are you doing dressed up? Reading fortunes? Sir, what a strange idea."

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  He stepped back, freeing me while he removed his red cloak. "As strange as a governess armed with Egyptian daggers that she clearly knows how to use?" He picked them up and returned them to me after making a close study of the handles. "Exquisite workmanship."

  "And stakes, sir. I have one in my pocket at all times. There are vampyres about."

  "What do you mean, vampyres?"

  "You explain first. What were you doing in costume?"

  "Simply trying to amuse my guests."

  "But with me, sir? It felt as if you were trying to draw me out."

  "And so I have, Madam Assassin, speaking of acting a part. Do you forgive me, Jane?"

  "I don't know yet. If, on reflection, I find I have fallen into no great absurdity, I shall try to forgive you."

  "Oh, you have been very correct. And quite impressive."

  I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a comfort, but indeed I had been on my guard almost from the beginning of the interview. Something of masquerade I suspected, but my mind had been running on Grace Poole.

  "I am no assassin, sir. There were zombies at Lowood. Before that, I lived with vampyres. I have learned a few things to--protect myself." And others, but I didn't want to embarrass him by mentioning the few vampyres I'd killed to protect him at our first meeting. "I seem to get a certain feeling when vampyres are present, and I have had that feeling since you arrived with your guests. I am sure one of them is not quite right. I think one of them meant to attack Lady Lynn in her bed the other night."

  "One of them, you say. A sense for vampyres? What an unusual skill. But that one of my guests could be so unnatural? I had no idea."

  "They often manage to go about in the population unnoticed."

  "You were raised with them?"

  "There is much about me you don't know, sir."

  "There is much I would like to know, but my guests must be

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  growing impatient. Perhaps some other time. I suspect you have been watching out for the vampyre amongst them? Tell me what the people in the drawing room are doing."

  "Discussing the Gypsy, I daresay. And, oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here since you left this morning?"

  "A stranger? Who can i
t be? I expected no one. Is he gone?"

  "No. He said he had known you long, and that he could take the liberty of installing himself here until you returned."

  "The devil he did! Did he give his name?"

  "His name is Mason, sir, from the West Indies." I hoped the name would draw Mr. Rochester out and allow him to tell me about his time in the West Indies. Did he know anything of voodoo? Did it have anything to do with Grace Poole?

  "Mason!"

  "Are you ill, sir?"

  He shook his head, clearly distressed. He sat down, and made me sit beside him. "Jane, I wish I were on a quiet island with only you, and trouble, and danger, and hideous recollections removed from me."

  "Can I help you, sir?"

  "Yes. Fetch me a glass of wine from the dining room. They will be at supper there. Make note and tell me if Mason is with them, and what he is doing."

  I went. I found all the party in the dining room at supper, as Mr. Rochester had said. They were not seated at the table. The supper was arranged on the sideboard. Each had taken what he chose, and they stood about here and there in groups, their plates and glasses in their hands. Every one seemed in high glee. Mr. Mason stood near the fire, talking to Colonel and Mrs. Dent, and appeared as merry as any of them. I filled a wineglass and saw Miss Ingram watch me with such a look, as if she'd caught me taking a liberty. I nodded in her direction and returned to the library.

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  Mr. Rochester seemed more collected. He took the glass from my hand.

  "Here is to your health, ministrant spirit!" He swallowed the contents and returned it to me. "What are they doing, Jane?"

  I gave my report. He nodded. "Go back now into the room. Take Mason aside quietly and tell him that Mr. Rochester has returned and wishes to see him. Show him in here and then leave us."

  "Yes, sir."

  I did his behest. The company all stared at me as I passed straight amongst them. I sought Mr. Mason, delivered the message, and preceded him from the room. I ushered him into the library, then I went upstairs.

  At a late hour, after I had been in bed some time, I heard the visitors repair to their chambers. I distinguished Mr. Rochester's voice and heard him say, "This way, Mason, to your room."

  He spoke cheerfully and it set my mind at ease. I was able to stop worrying, turn over, and go to sleep.

  The moon was full, bright, and shining in my window, waking me up in the middle of the night. I had forgotten to draw my curtain, which I usually did, and also to let down my window blind. I got up to do so and stopped in my tracks at a sound.

  A strange noise split the air: a savage, sharp, shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall.

  My pulse stopped. My heart stood still. The cry died and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being uttered that fearful shriek could not soon repeat it, I daresay. It would have damaged its throat.

  I knew it at once to be out of the third story, for it came from overhead, right over my room. I heard a struggle going on, a deadly one from the sound of it. A half-smothered voice called out for help, three times in rapid succession. Then, more scraping and banging. Finally, a cry for Mr. Rochester, which set me at some

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  ease. A voice calling for Rochester meant that he was not in the middle of the fray.

  Chamber doors opened. Someone ran, or rushed, along the gallery. Another step stamped on the flooring above and something fell. Then there was silence, more eerie than the noise.

  I rushed into some clothes and armed myself with a few stakes in various pockets, full ready to take any action needed on this night. I stepped out to find the doors of curious tenants opening, closing, exclamations of bewilderment, and terrified murmurs. The gallery filled. Gentlemen and ladies alike had quitted their beds.

  "Oh! What is it?"--"Who is hurt?"--"What has happened?"--"Fetch a light!"--"Is it fire?"--"Are there robbers?"--"Where shall we run?" was demanded confusedly on all hands. But for the moonlight they would have been in complete darkness.

  "Now calm, all," I said. "I'm sure it's nothing. Back to bed." No one could be sure it was I who had spoken, for they did not often hear my voice, but there was some agreement. A few did start back.

  "Where the devil is Rochester?" cried Colonel Dent. "I cannot find him in his bed."

  "Here! here!" was shouted in return. "Be composed, all of you. I'm coming."

  The door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a candle. He had just descended from the upper story. Miss Ingram ran to him directly and seized his arm, nearly toppling the candle.

  "What awful event has taken place?" said she. "Let us know the worst at once!"

  Mr. Rochester's black eyes darted sparks more heated than the candle's flame. Calming himself by an apparent effort, he added, "A servant has had a nightmare. That is all. She's an excitable, nervous person. She construed her dream into an apparition, or something of that sort, no doubt, and has taken a fit with fright. Now, then, I must see you all back into your rooms, for until the house is settled, she cannot be looked after. Gentlemen, have the goodness

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  to set the ladies the example. Miss Ingram, I am sure you will not fail in evincing superiority to idle terrors."

  I did not return to my room to sit idly waiting for Mr. Rochester to come to me. I stayed while others went and finally approached him. "Am I wanted?"

  "Have you a sponge in your room?" he asked in a whisper. "And volatile salts?"

  "Yes to both."

  "Fetch them, please, and follow me."

  My slippers were thin. I could walk the matted floor as softly as a cat. I followed as he glided up the gallery and up the stairs and stopped in the dark, low corridor of the fateful third story. He paused outside a great black door with keys in his hand and turned to me.

  "You don't turn sick at the sight of blood?"

  "Not at all." What did he think? I'd just attacked him in his own library and confessed to be looking for a vampyre amongst his houseguests.

  "Just give me your hand," he said. "It will not do to risk a fainting fit. Warm and steady now."

  I didn't argue that I had no need for his support. I welcomed the chance for contact and I put my fingers into his. He turned the key and opened the door.

  I saw a room I remembered to have seen before, the day Mrs. Fairfax showed me over the house. It was hung with tapestry, but the tapestry was now looped up in one part, revealing a door, which had then been concealed. The door was open. A light shone out of the room. I heard thence a snarling sound.

  "Wait a minute," said Mr. Rochester, putting down his candle, and he went forward to the inner apartment. A shout of laughter greeted his entrance, noisy at first, and terminating in Grace Poole's own goblin ha! ha! She then was there. He made some sort of arrangement without speaking, though I heard a low voice address him. He came out and closed the door behind him.

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  "Here, Jane." He motioned me to the back of the room. I walked around to the other side of a large bed, which with its drawn curtains concealed a considerable portion of the chamber. An easy chair was near the bed. A man sat in it, dressed with the exception of his coat. He was still, his head back, his eyes closed. Mr. Rochester held the candle over him. I recognised the stranger, Mason. I saw, too, that his linen on one side, and one arm, were almost soaked in blood.

  "Hold the candle," said Mr. Rochester, and I took it. He fetched a basin of water from the washstand. "Hold that," he said. I obeyed. He took the sponge, dipped it in, and moistened the corpselike face. Mr. Mason was not a zombie. I knew from the amount of blood and no sign of the green ooze. Mr. Rochester asked for my smelling bottle and applied it to the nostrils. Mr. Mason shortly opened his eyes and groaned. Mr. Rochester opened the shirt of the wounded man, whose arm and shoulder were bandaged. He sponged away blood, trickling fast down.

  "Is there immediate danger?" murmured Mr. Mason.

  "No--a mere scratch. Don't be so overcome, man. Bear up! I'll fe
tch a surgeon for you now and you'll be able to be removed by morning, I hope.

  "Jane," Mr. Rochester said. "I must leave you in this room with this gentleman, for an hour, or perhaps two hours. You will sponge the blood as I do when it returns. If he feels faint, you will put the glass of water on that stand to his lips, and your salts to his nose. You will not speak to him on any pretext, and, Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her. Open your lips, agitate yourself, and I'll not answer for the consequences."

  Again the poor man groaned. He looked as if he dared not move. Fear, of death or of something else, appeared almost to paralyse him. Mr. Rochester put the bloody sponge into my hand, which I used as he had done.

  "Remember, no conversation," he said, and then left.

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  I felt strange as the key grated in the lock and the sound of his retreating step ceased to be heard. Grace Poole was on the other side of the inner door, and what did she there? What had she done to Mr. Mason? I would have ignored Mr. Rochester's orders and queried Mr. Mason if I felt he was in any condition to speak, but I feared he had met his end or was about to. The "mere scratch" looked quite deep and caused a great loss of blood. I remembered what it was like to be shut up in a dark room bleeding, and I was glad to be there for Mr. Mason, glad to have a candle at my side.

  Here then I was in the third story, fastened into one of its mystic cells, Grace Poole so close I could get up and go question her. I could see what vile form she'd transformed to, or what kind of spells she might hurl my way. I could decide if beheading or a stake to the heart would be a surer way to do her in. I could end Mr. Rochester's torments of the woman once and for all, but it wasn't my right to choose. If he kept her at Thornfield, he kept her for a reason. As long as that reason was not revealed to me, I could not take it upon myself to act.

  Mr. Mason's wound needed constant attention, and he maintained eye contact, as if willing me to know that he still lived. He had survived some kind of terror at Grace Poole's hands. But what? What had he done? What had she done? How were they acquainted? They must have known each other, or why would he be on the third floor? Perhaps she was his wife? I wondered.