Praise for Death of a Schoolgirl
“A delightful chance for Brontë fans to expand their acquaintance with Jane Eyre, who continues her modest but strong-willed ways in an ingeniously contrived return to teaching…and sleuthing.”
—Charlaine Harris, New York Times bestselling author
“Everyone’s favorite character, Jane Eyre, returns in a marvelous new adventure. Joanna Campbell Slan’s Death of a Schoolgirl is a must for all her many fans, as Jane Eyre searches for an elusive killer who has Rochester’s young ward in his or her sights.”
—Charles Todd, New York Times bestselling author of The Confession and An Unmarked Grave
“Charming, winning, mannered, and so genuine it seems like a long-lost Brontë original…The Jane Eyre we know and love is revealed as a nifty detective, just as resolute, clever, and independent as her fans always knew she was.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony and Macavity–award winning author
“Jane Eyre was always one of my favorite books, and I’m delighted to be able to peek at her life as Mrs. Rochester. I always knew she’d make an excellent sleuth.”
—Rhys Bowen, Agatha and Anthony–award winning author of the Molly Murphy and Royal Spyness mysteries
“Jane Eyre is the perfect detective—smart, courageous, and clever!”
—Victoria Thompson, author of Murder on Fifth Avenue
“A terrific beginning to a new series. In Death of a Schoolgirl, author Joanna Campbell Slan has given us a fully fleshed sequel to Jane Eyre, as darkly gothic as the original, only this time Jane uses her insatiable curiosity to solve a murder. An intriguing new sleuth!”
—Jeri Westerson, author of the Crispin Guest Medieval Noir series
“This tasty blend of well-drawn characters and unexpected plot twists has all the rich flavor of England in the early 1820s. One nibble and you won’t be able to stop until the very last morsel is nothing but a memory. Thank goodness there are more Jane Eyre Chronicles to come!”
—Kate Emerson, author of The King’s Damsel
“Death of a Schoolgirl is a wonderful book. It’s the best sort of historical mystery—richly detailed, cleverly plotted, and filled with characters you’ll not want to leave behind.”
—Stefanie Pintoff, Edgar–award winning author of In the Shadow of Gotham
Death of
a Schoolgirl
The Jane Eyre Chronicles
Joanna Campbell Slan
BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2012 by Joanna Campbell Slan.
The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.
Cover art by Alan Ayers. Cover design by George Long. Logo devices by Shutterstock.
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
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PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / August 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Campbell Slan, Joanna.
Death of a schoolgirl / Joanna Campbell Slan.—Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback ed.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-101-56892-7
1. Eyre, Jane (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Schools—England—Fiction.
3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Great Britain—History—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.A4845D43 2012
813’.6—dc23 2011053258
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
For my sister, Jane Ransome Campbell
Acknowledgments
As a young girl growing up in an abusive home, I discovered Charlotte Brontë’s classic Jane Eyre: An Autobiography—and it saved my life. Since then, I’ve met countless women who also heeded Jane’s example by getting the best education they could. So I would be remiss if I did not start my acknowledgments with a grateful nod to that supreme muse, Charlotte Brontë.
This book would not have been possible without the dedication, professionalism, and support of my wonderful agent, Paige Wheeler of Folio Literary Management, LLC, and my superlative editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez. I cannot thank either woman enough. Copyeditor Marianne Grace brought a wealth of knowledge to this project, and I am enormously in her debt. Early encouragement for this project was also given by Louis Bayard, and early readers included my longtime friend Theresa Kaminski, professor of history at the University of Wisconsin–Stevens Point; Nancy LoPatin-Lummis, professor of history and chair of the History department at the University of Wisconsin–Stevens Point; Becky Hutchison; and Allyson Faith McGill. Novelist Shirl Henke and William Burgan both suggested marvelous historical resources. David R. Beech, FRPSL, head of the Philatelic Collections at the British Library, kindly answered my questions, as did Francine Matthews. Any errors are my own.
Hank Phillippi Ryan supplied my mantra, “You can do it if you want to do it.”
My husband, David Slan, provided me with the perfect spot for writing, our lovely home on Jupiter Island. He has always been my greatest supporter and asset. My son, Michael Slan, urged me to “think big.” My aunt Shirley Helmly served as a wonderful assistant and nurturing friend. Most of all, the one “Jane” in my life, my fabulous sister, Jane Ransome Campbell, provided love, encouragement, and faith in me, for which I shall always be deeply indebted.
And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.
—Matthew 25:40, King James Version of the Bible
Women feel just as men feel…It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.
—
Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
When Jane Eyre first wrote her autobiography, it was intended as a multivolume work, for she’d lived a rich and varied life despite her harsh beginnings. But after publication of the first volume of her early life, from her birth to her marriage in 1819, the book received such an overwhelming amount of attention—some positive, but much negative—that it quite turned her against publishing the rest of the story she’d written.
A young woman well acquainted with that timeless classic purchased a stack of papers at one of the bimonthly Sunbury Antiques Markets held on the grounds of the Kempton Park Racecourse. Among the pages, this reader discovered a handwritten manuscript. On closer inspection, the papers told a tale, the ongoing saga of one Jane Eyre Rochester.
And so, dear reader, her story continues…
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Author’s Note
Preface
Ferndean Manor, Yorkshire
April 1, 1820
Reader, I am delivered of a son.
What a noble burden it is to be entrusted with the life of another!
The midwife settled the little stranger in my arms, and with a bit of adjustment I became comfortable. That is, we became comfortable, young master Edward Rivers Rochester and his mother. My baby relaxed in my arms, and I sighed with happiness.
Everything about this moment seemed right. Satisfyingly so.
“Jane, my darling. My brave, brave girl. We have a son. Shall we call him Ned?” My husband, Edward Fairfax Rochester, planted a tender kiss on my lips and another on the top of our baby’s downy head. “Welcome, little man.”
I unfurled our son’s tightly clenched hand and counted all the fingers. Five, I assured myself. I repeated my investigation with his other hand. From there I moved to his budlike feet—pink and fresh and new—and examined his curled toes. How could he be so impossibly small? So tiny? So vulnerable?
Mrs. Alice Fairfax, our housekeeper and Edward’s second cousin on his mother’s side, hurried into the room. “He is perfect. What a blessing! I shall go tell the others. They will be over the moon with joy.” In short order, I heard happy voices from the other side of the bedroom door.
Inwardly, I laughed. My son was less than five minutes old and already he had set the household aflutter.
Spent with the exhaustion and emotion of a long labor, I adjusted the unaccustomed bundle. I stared down at Ned’s wrinkled, red face and wondered, Who is this?
With a yawn, Ned blinked up at me. Long lashes framed eyes the same color as his father’s. At that moment, I fell unreservedly, irrevocably in love with my baby. I knew I would do anything to safeguard my child. Anything! A lump formed in my throat, a pain squeezed my chest, and I burst into tears.
“Are you all right?” Edward stroked my hair and gestured frantically for the midwife, a quiet grandmother from Millcote, our nearest town. A woman much recommended for her experience, but whom I valued for her manner. Her reddened hands were rough to the touch, but gentle when assisting me.
“’Tis to be expected, sir.” The midwife peered over Edward’s shoulder as she sipped her well-earned cup of tea with three lumps of sugar. “Tears are part of the package. A body’s heart overflows wi’ joy.”
Oh, my little one! my heart sang. Sum of my heart’s desires! Forgive me for I am new to this business of being a mother. I pledge to you all that I am, and all that I have, to safeguard you. You lie here trustingly, but the world is vast and I am so weak right now.
As I wept, with joy and fear and frustration, my husband put his arm around me and our son. “It will be all right, Jane,” he promised me. “We will be enough. I promise you, we will be.”
But it takes more than a promise to protect a child.
I have reason to know.
Chapter 1
Ferndean Manor, Yorkshire
October 13, 1820
In the months and days that followed Ned’s birth, my thoughts often reverted to my own orphan childhood. When I was but a year old, I lost both my parents to typhus and was taken in by my mother’s brother, who, upon his own deathbed soon thereafter, entreated his wife, Mrs. Reed, to care for me. She did so in the barest sense—she did not, after all, send me directly to the workhouse—but extended to me, a blameless infant, none of the affection and indulgence she lavished upon my three cousins, her own children, who tormented me mercilessly. I was alone in the world without protectors, without a guiding hand or kind heart to ease my journey.
I shuddered to imagine such a fate befalling my son. Tucking his blanket around him, I was struck anew by how wholly dependent he was at six months of age.
These days Ned was not the only one who relied on me. His father saw the world through my eyes. When fire destroyed Thornfield Hall, the Rochester family home—a conflagration set by my husband’s first wife, Bertha Mason, and in which she also perished—it not only burned the mansion to the ground; it nearly cost my husband his life. A beam fell on Edward, partially crushing him, partially protecting him. His right eye was knocked out, and his left hand was damaged so badly that amputation was done directly. The other eye, in sympathy to its twin, alternated inflammation with good health, severely limiting his vision. Recently, I feared his sight had gotten worse.
Most cruelly, his injuries took from him his ability to ride horseback alone, an activity previously perfectly suited to his personality and love of the outdoors. Nowadays, my husband often visits the stable, standing with his forehead pressed against the slats of his horse Mesrour’s stall, the old comrades communing and remembering happier days. Robbed of his ability to ride, Edward finds it difficult to get out among his tenants and talk to them as he should. Reading is impossible, and writing is nearly so.
“Mr. Carter has arrived to examine Mr. Rochester,” Mrs. Fairfax said as she stood in the doorway. “Your husband waits for you. Hester can watch after the baby.” This was a gentle rebuke. Our housekeeper worries that I will spoil our son with too much attention.
I planned to.
Hester Muttoone, my son’s wet nurse, had had much experience in the nursery, certainly more than either the childless widow Mrs. Fairfax or myself. Watching Hester’s deft movements with Ned, I realized how awkward I was, how tentative, a beginner at motherhood. Yet I was determined to do many of the chores often relegated to a baby’s minder. These small tasks brought me pleasure; I admit that I was in awe of my son. But Hester held him, cleaned him, and offered him her breast as though my child was wholly unremarkable.
“The girl is fully capable. You will spoil him.” Mrs. Fairfax made a clucking sound with her tongue, a weak attempt to scold me.
“But he is my own, my firstborn child.”
> “Ah, and we would all give our lives for our young master. Be assured of that,” Mrs. Fairfax said. “But Ned’s father relies on you to help him. Master and Mr. Carter are in the garden.” She paused and cocked her head toward the window. “Perhaps you will still have time to stroll the lane together. Mayhap you can pick the last of the rose hips before the birds get them all.”
If we could hurry through Mr. Carter’s visit, I had every intention of taking a walk that afternoon with Edward. Indecisive weather marred our autumn. The scent of rain and change was on the air. A storm moved in from the coast. The yellow tassels of the furze nodded winningly, as the fern fronds waved sleepy heads in the woods surrounding our home. Leaves had begun to turn, a prelude to their drifting down and leaving bare branches in their place.
We lived far from human society. Ferndean Manor lay half buried, deep in a thick stand of trees. Millcote, the closest town, was thirty miles away. To reach the main road into town, one must travel a lumpy, uneven grass path, a trial to passengers in carriages.
“Tell Mr. Rochester that I am coming.” I ran a fingertip along the crown of my son’s head and down his plump cheek. In response, his lips pursed and he suckled the air.
“As you wish.” Retreating footsteps and the squeak of door hinges signaled that Mrs. Fairfax had at last left me alone. I studied my little boy, committing every inch of his form to memory. He was already growing so quickly!
In truth, I needed a few moments of privacy to gather courage to face what lay ahead. Mr. Carter visited Ferndean regularly to check on Edward, my darling husband, once a strong and mighty man, now my sightless Samson. With each examination our hopes soared, only to be dashed and come crashing down, as a pheasant falls from the sky when felled by a percussive gun.
“What if he pronounces my improvement beyond his skills?” Edward had asked me only last evening as we sat together companionably beside the hearth, basking in the dying embers. His stern brow, interrupted with a scar from the conflagration, creased with concern. “What if I can never see more than the haze of light as it pours through the window? Or the dancing red tongue of a candle’s flame?”
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