Most of my students were unmannered, rough, and intractable, but all that might serve them well against such violent opponents. Others were docile, with a wish to learn and a disposition that pleased me.
To torture myself in the quiet hours, I thought of the life I might be living as Mr. Rochester's mistress. Just now, I might be settling to sleep in a bed of silk, in a southern clime, amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa, delirious with his love half my time.
Yes, I had spent time in handsome St. John's arms--but to learn fighting holds and releases, not to be loved. I held Mr. Rochester in my heart, and it would ever be so.
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I felt I had made the right choice, and yet, alone in my cottage, I wept. I hid my eyes and leant my head against the stone frame of my door, but soon a slight noise near the wicket, which shut in my tiny garden from the meadow beyond it, made me look up. A dog--old Carlo, Mr. Rivers's pointer, as I saw in a moment--was pushing the gate with his nose, and St. John himself leant upon it with folded arms. I asked him to come in.
"No, I cannot stay. I have only brought you a little parcel. It contains pencils and paper. I want you to look at some sketches and see how you might improve on them. You seem to have a knack with engineering. The ideas you had for my rapid-fire crossbow worked out perfectly."
"Thank you." I approached to take the parcel, and the roll of sketches. He examined my face, I thought, with austerity, as I came near. The traces of tears were doubtless visible upon it.
"Have you found your first day's work harder than you expected?" he asked.
"Oh, no! On the contrary, I think in time I shall get on with my scholars very well."
"More frequent exercise should increase your endurance. I counsel you to resist firmly every temptation that would incline you to look back on what you had. Pursue your present career steadily, for some months at least."
"Good evening, Mr. Rivers," a sweet voice hailed, turning our attention. "And good evening, old Carlo. Your dog is quicker to recognise his friends than you are, sir. He pricked his ears and wagged his tail when I was at the bottom of the field, and you had your back towards me."
Mr. Rivers had started at the first of those musical accents, as if a thunderbolt had split a cloud over his head. A youthful, graceful woman, clad all in white, approached. After bending to caress Carlo, she lifted her head, and there bloomed a face of perfect beauty. No charm was wanting. The girl had regular and delicate features: dark eyes, sweetly formed lips, even and gleaming teeth,
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and the ornament of rich, plenteous tresses. Nature had surely formed her in a partial mood.
What did St. John Rivers think of this earthly angel? He had already withdrawn his eye from her and was looking at a humble tuft of daisies by the wicket.
"A lovely evening, but late for you to be out alone," he said as he crushed the snowy heads of the closed flowers with his foot.
"Oh, I only came home this afternoon. Papa told me you had opened your school, and that the new mistress had come. I put on my bonnet after tea and ran up the valley to see her."
"This is she, Miss Jane Spencer," said St. John, gesturing to me in an offhand manner. He nodded, addressing me now. "Your benefactress, Miss Rosamond Oliver."
"Do you think you shall like Morton?" she asked me with a direct and naive simplicity of tone and manner.
"I hope I shall. I have many inducements to do so."
"Do you like your house?"
"Very much."
"And have I made a good choice of an assistant for you in young Dinah Winn?"
"You have indeed. She is teachable and handy."
"I shall come up and help you sometimes," Miss Oliver added. "You will have to teach me, too, at first, as Mr. Rivers has not encouraged me at all. He thinks it unbecoming for a lady to fight. Well, if my mother knew at least how to defend herself, things may have been so very different." She sighed sweetly. "I admire you, Miss Slayre. I'm not much for fighting, I know, but I do mean to learn a few tricks. I was at a ball and dancing until two o'clock this morning! If I can dance with such stamina, I daresay perhaps I can fight."
"I agree, Miss Oliver." I ignored her comment revealing St. John's opinion of a lady fighting. I was aware that he did not wish his sisters to take on the cause. Perhaps it escaped his notice that I was a lady, or he set me to a different standard somehow. I recalled
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that his mother and his aunt died fighting. He must wish to protect the women he loved, and I did not fall under that category. Miss Oliver, on the other hand, must have been in his heart.
It seemed to me that Mr. St. John's upper lip curled a moment. He lifted his gaze, too, from the daisies, and turned it on her. An unsmiling, searching gaze it was.
As he stood, mute and grave, she again fell to caressing Carlo. "Poor Carlo loves me. He is not stern and distant to his friends. Oh, I forgot! I am so giddy and thoughtless! Do excuse me. Diana and Mary have left you, and Moor house is shut up, and you must be lonely. I am sure I pity you. Do come and see Papa."
"Not tonight, Miss Rosamond. And you should head on home before it gets dark."
"Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave you. But expect me to repeat the invitation soon. Good evening!"
She held out her hand. He just touched it.
"Good evening!" he repeated in a voice low and hollow as an echo.
She turned twice to gaze after him as she walked away. He never turned at all.
"It's a pleasant evening. You needn't have stayed on my account. Miss Oliver seemed very eager to get you to herself," I said, calling his attention back from the crushed daisies.
"We have business. I need an assistant in my workshop, someone to help me reason through my designs and see them to fruition. Your keen insights might prove most valuable to me. It is too late to bring you there tonight. I shall leave you to your rest. But if you could be so kind as to look over the sketches and make some additional notes, I would be grateful. In a few days, once the girls have picked up some of the basic stances, we might grant them leave to take a day off and spend that time with my inventions."
"That sounds agreeable. I will have a look. While we're there, might I have a look at your library? You've mentioned some volumes I should like to peruse."
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"Of course," he agreed readily. "I am glad you have interest in further study."
I was pleased to be of use. He and his sisters had been so good to me and I liked to feel I had something to give back to him. Also, his inventing fascinated me. Lastly, I wondered if I might find some books in his library of paranormal references, which might aid in my research on werewolves.
I continued training the village girls as actively and faithfully as I could. It was truly hard work at first, and besides training with the girls half the day, I trained with St. John on my own, just the two of us. He taught me new holds and evasive moves and worked with me to improve my strength and endurance. I mourned daily the loss of my daggers. They were left in my parcel on the coach. No vampyres had been reported to have newly moved into the area, and while I was glad of it, I was eager for the chance to put my new skills to the test.
Fortunately, Mr. St. John's shop had much work to keep me occupied. He had shown me the gauntlet he'd used on that first night when I'd encountered him. It fit securely over the hand and contained a trigger that could be activated with one finger, sending a stake from a loaded wrist chamber to fire out with deadly force. The fault of the design, besides its being nearly too heavy to lift with one hand--a drawback I overcame as I gained strength--was that it could only hold one stake at a time.
Reloading was not always possible if one suddenly became surrounded by vampyres. St. John, with my help, improved on his design for a rapid-fire crossbow, one that held several stakes in a track to fire them in succession without delay. Together, we also developed what he called a mechanical, automatic, crank-operated six-stake shooter; I shortened this name to the more efficient stake-
o-matic. With six barrels each holding a stake and a crank-driven launching device, the stake-o-matic could, like the crossbow, shoot
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stakes with great force in rapid succession. The crossbow had the advantage of being lighter and easier to aim, but the stake-o-matic held more stakes at a time, could be reloaded more efficiently, and fired effectively from a greater distance.
While St. John busied himself with adding our design modifications as we devised them, I searched through his many volumes on paranormal and supernatural beings to learn all I could about were-wolves, what might be their weaknesses, and how one might be brought down.
When not teaching, studying, or tinkering, I made some effort to become acquainted with my students and their families. I believe I became a favourite in the neighbourhood. Whenever I went out, I heard on all sides cordial salutations and was welcomed with friendly smiles. To live amidst general regard with working people was like always sitting in the sunshine, feeling peaceful warmth spread through me.
At this period of my life, my heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than sank with dejection. I used to rush into strange dreams at night, amidst unusual scenes, charged with adventure, with agitating risk and romantic chance, where I still again and again met Mr. Rochester, always at some exciting crisis. The sense of being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving him, being loved by him--the hope of passing a lifetime at his side--would be renewed, with all its first force and fire.
Then I would wake. Then I would recall where I was, and how situated. Then I would cry fresh tears and convulse with despair. I would get out of bed and renew my research into werewolves and how to stop them.
Miss Oliver made good on her promise of frequent visits to the school. She came during her morning ride, cantering up to the door on her pony. The children adored her and seemed to work harder in her presence. It helped me to judge my students' progress as they
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enthusiastically volunteered to correct Miss Oliver's small mistakes in stance or form.
Miss Oliver, I suspected, had ulterior motives for her frequent visits. She generally came at the hour when Mr. Rivers was due to stop by to give one of his lessons. For his part, a sort of instinct seemed to warn him of her entrance. His cheek would glow, and his marble features, though they refused to relax, changed indescribably.
Miss Oliver also honoured me with frequent visits to my cottage. I had learned her whole character, which was without mystery or disguise.
She said I was like Mr. Rivers, only, certainly, she allowed, "not one-tenth so handsome, though you are a nice, neat little soul enough, but he is an angel." I was, however, good, clever, composed, and firm, like him.
One evening while she was rummaging the cupboard and the table drawer of my little kitchen, she discovered my drawing materials and some sketches. She was first transfixed with surprise, then electrified with delight.
"Did you do these pictures?" she asked. What a love--what a miracle I was! I drew better than her drawing master. Would I sketch a portrait of her, to show to Papa?
"With pleasure," I replied, and I felt a thrill of delight at the idea of copying from so perfect and radiant a model. I took a sheet of fine cardboard and drew a careful outline. As it was getting late then, I told her she must come and sit another day.
She made such a report of me to her father that Mr. Oliver himself accompanied her next evening--a tall, massive-featured, middle-aged, and grey-headed man. The sketch of Rosamond's portrait pleased him highly. He said I must make a finished picture of it. He insisted, too, on my coming the next day to spend the evening at Vale hall.
I went and found it a large, handsome residence, showing abundant evidences of wealth in the proprietor.
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While I waited for Rosamond and her father to return from an outing, a servant brought me a glass of water. Her finger came off in my hand as she gave it to me. I looked up in surprise to hand it back, ignoring the light sheen of green goo in the socket.
"Were you, by chance, educated at Lowood?" I asked as I handed back her finger. Her cheeks were indeed gaunt, her colouring grey.
"Aye," she responded listlessly, reattaching her finger as she spoke. "For two years. Then I was sent away to work."
"Have you always worked here since then?"
"Nay. I was a maid for Lady Granby, but she turned me out for clumsiness. Miss Rosamond took me in."
"How kind of her."
The maid shrugged. So, the Olivers couldn't be very much attached to her. Might they not even notice if she suddenly went missing? I spied a balcony off the parlour where I waited and I had an idea. "Could you do me one favour? I wonder what the view is from the balcony through those doors. Could you open it up so I could walk out and have a look?"
Without another word, she dutifully followed my orders, as I knew she would. When she headed for the doors, I looked quickly around the room for something to make short work of her. A pity Mr. Oliver did not seem to be a collector of swords. I did find a brass letter opener and an umbrella in a corner holder, and they would have to do. When she leaned to shift the latch on the door. I clocked her with the umbrella. She made a dazed groan. To my surprise, she reached up and grabbed the umbrella before I could hit her again. I'd made the crucial mistake of underestimating her reaction time. She groaned, more forcefully now, and flipped me over her head through the one now-open door. I landed with a thud on the balcony, the umbrella still in my hand. She came at me--slowly. I had time to spring to my feet, letter opener in one hand, umbrella extended in the other.
"I mean to set you free," I explained. "You deserve to be free of this servitude."
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She stopped and looked at me. "Servi-wha?"
"Service. Domestic service. Drudgery." Oh, never mind. While she puzzled over this, I charged forth and whacked her again with the umbrella. I'd thought I might have to cut her somehow with the letter opener, but fortunately she was one of Mr. Bokorhurst's earlier works, like Martha Abbot. Her head blew clean off with the second solid whack. Now to dispose of the head, and body, before green goo oozed all over the rug.
I stepped back out and looked over the balcony's edge. As I'd hoped, the balcony overlooked a wooded area. Unless someone belowstairs saw the body land, it could easily go unnoticed for months, or longer. I dragged the corpse to the rail and heaved it over with all my might. It landed with a hollow thunk on a leaning poplar. When I went back in for the head, I could hear that someone was rapidly approaching. Oh dear, no time to spare! I retrieved the head and hurled it through the doors, right over the edge to land I knew not where, quickly closed the doors, and just narrowly avoided slipping on a patch of ooze on the way back to the sofa, where I had originally been seated in wait.
When Rosamond came in, I had been just about to sit, but I made as if I were standing to greet her. She professed to be "so pleased" to see me and was full of glee all the time I stayed. Her father was affable, and when he conversed with me after tea, he expressed in strong terms his approbation of what I had done in Morton school and said he only feared, from what he saw and heard, I was too good for the place and would soon quit it for one more suitable. By more suitable, I was sure he meant teaching more suitable subjects than how to pierce a heart with a stake or how to escape a choke hold.
"Indeed," cried Rosamond, "she is clever enough to be a governess in a high family, Papa."
I smiled at the compliment. At the same time, I noticed a large hawk flying off through the trees with the maid's head in its talons!
"Oh dear!" I said aloud, then wished I could take it back in case Rosamond and her father, who fortunately sat in chairs opposite
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with backs facing the windows, turned to see what I meant. "Dear, I have spilled my tea."
That got their attention. I pretended to sop it up, but Mr. Oliver had already started on a new topic. The hawk flew out of sight.
Mr. O
liver spoke of Mr. Rivers--of the Rivers family--with great respect. He obviously fancied a match between his daughter and St. John, and he took pains to point out how desirable the alliance with such a respectable old name would be. He accounted it a pity that so fine and talented a young man should have formed the intent of going out as a missionary.
I changed the subject by bringing up something nearer to my heart. It did not escape my notice that Mr. Oliver owned the foundry, as well as the needle factory, and I needed his assistance. I showed him some of my sketches of an adaptation of the stake-o-matic that could fire silver bullets rather than launching wooden stakes. Silver, I'd recently read, had the power to subdue a were-wolf long enough to ensure its destruction, slowing their regenerative powers long enough to allow for the fatal crushing of heart and brain. By the end of the meeting, I had secured a promise that Mr. Oliver would make some silver bullets for me in exchange for my portrait of Rosamond, as well as perhaps influencing Mr. St. John towards making a match with Miss Oliver, if appropriate opportunity should arise. My influence was not needed, I assured them, but I left feeling satisfied with my accomplishment.
It was the fifth of November, and a holiday. My little servant, after helping me to clean my house, was gone, well satisfied with the fee of a penny for her aid. All about me was spotless and bright--scoured floor, polished grate, and well-rubbed chairs. I had also made myself neat and had now the afternoon before me to spend as I would.
The translation of a few pages of German occupied an hour. Next, I sketched from memory a picture of Bertha Mason, and
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