Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Good.” My English pedigree thus established, Cook reached into a pot, withdrew a large hunk of uncooked meat, and transferred it carefully to my hands.

  I raised the meat to my aching cheekbone. Perhaps the raw flesh could, indeed, provide relief. But I held little hope.

  Emma reappeared and held the door open for another woman. When this second entrant raised her head, I gasped in surprise to see Nan Miller, a teacher from my days at Lowood. Relief rushed through me as I beheld a woman I once knew well.

  “Jane Eyre! What on earth are you doing here? Your face!”

  Nan Miller’s careworn countenance had only grown more haggard over the years since I had left the school. When I first met her, she was an under-teacher with a ruddy complexion and a propensity to scuttle. About ten years my senior, Miss Miller was also an orphan who, like me, had been sent to Lowood and who aspired to a better way of life.

  I juggled the meat with one hand and reached out to shake Miss Miller’s outstretched fingers with the other.

  “I will take that.” Cook scowled and gestured toward the meat.

  “Danke,” I said.

  “Dan-kee,” Cook mimicked my earlier thanks.

  “Danke,” I repeated sternly, unwilling to let her atrocious accent go unchallenged.

  “Emma, bring us tea. We’ll take it in the parlor.” Miss Miller jerked her head in the direction from where she had come, indicating she expected me to follow. “What a pleasant surprise, Miss Eyre. But I cannot visit for long. It is a very sad day. One of our students has died.”

  At that, I fainted.

  Chapter 8

  I fought to regain consciousness as the world came back into focus. A dull ache thrummed in the back of my head. My stomach rumbled with hunger.

  “Miss Eyre? Please, wake up. I haven’t time to play nursemaid.” A blocky hand waved a vial of strong scents under my nose. “Put the tray on the table, Emma. That will be all. Close the door on your way out.”

  We were seated in a highly decorated parlor, a veritable jungle of overbearing palms. Dark and gloomy portraits frowned down on us from all four walls. Vases, an obelisk, and a multitude of porcelain figurines competed for space on a white mantel. Reaching for opulence, the decor achieved clutter. The general stuffiness and the overabundance of items added to my mental confusion.

  “Drink this. I added a touch of ratafia.” Miss Miller guided a delicate rose-sprigged teacup to my lips so that I could take a fortifying swallow.

  I gasped. The tea could not disguise the fact that the ratafia tasted like oak barrels, where I assumed the beverage had fermented.

  I added more tea to my cup and asked, “What happened?”

  “I am not sure. Emma summoned me to the kitchen. I thought to meet our long-lost German teacher. Imagine my surprise to find you in our kitchen, and in this battered state! Then you fainted dead away. From the looks of that fresh bruise and broken lip, it is clear that you have had a most trying experience.”

  “A highwayman robbed me.”

  “Oh dear! They roam the roads with impunity, do they not? You must have put up quite a struggle.”

  “I did,” I said. I sought to direct our conversation into another channel. There was no reason to dwell on my past misfortunes. “Did you say that someone had died?”

  “Yes.” Miss Miller’s voice was little above a whisper.

  “Who?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I need to know. Who died?”

  “Why, Miss Eyre! I hardly think it is any of your affair!”

  “Which girl is dead? Is it Adèle?”

  “Adèle? We have no student named Adèle.”

  “Adèle Varens. She is here. I know it! Tell me she is all right.” My head began to swim with pain.

  “Oh! You mean Adela Varens! You call her by her French name? You see, Mrs. Thurston issued strict instructions to only call the girl ‘Adela’ in order that she might become more British in her manner and—”

  “Is she all right?” Her evasions proved so frustrating that I could have grabbed Miss Nan Miller by both shoulders and shaken her.

  “Of course, Adela is fine.”

  I tried to organize my thoughts. Adèle was not dead. However, another girl was! What was happening here?

  “How did that girl die?” I needed to know if this was somehow connected with the threatening mail Adèle had received. Was my young friend in imminent danger?

  Miss Miller sighed. “Selina Biltmore was found dead in her own bed this morning. An undisclosed illness, or some unknown weakness, appears to have felled her. Really, Jane, you are most provoking. As I said, I need to get to my responsibilities, especially given this sad occurrence. I shall see you to the door.” Miss Miller attempted to stand.

  I grabbed her arm and held her fast. “No,” I said. “I cannot leave. Not yet.” My hands flew to my temples where the pain stabbed through my skull like a pair of sharp daggers.

  “I shall excuse you overstaying your welcome because it is clear to me that you are in pain. I can see it on your face. You carry no reticule. I assume that since you were robbed you are penniless and without shelter, like so many here in London. I would offer you a bed for the night, but unfortunately, I am not in a position to do so. I hate to send you away, but my presence is urgently required elsewhere.” Miss Miller pulled away from me and tried to stand, her chilly speech bolstered by her stiffened posture. “Do come visit me again. I am sorry we lost touch with each other. Now that we are reacquainted—”

  “Miss Miller! I must see Adèle. I have pledged to do so.”

  Miss Miller sat back down. “How do you know Adela?”

  “Think back to our time together at Lowood. Do you recall that I advertised in the Herald for a position? And that I was offered a situation as a governess?”

  Miss Miller pondered this. “Yes, I recall that.”

  “It was Adèle I was hired to teach, and as a consequence, the child grew very dear to me. I’m sure she’s told you as much.”

  Miss Miller looked away and fingered her dress, meddling with its thin fabric. “No, I had not heard. Well then, you must have been one of several teachers she had! You see, Dowager Lady Ingram is a friend of our founder, Lady Kingsley. Through this connection, Mrs. Thurston heard that Mr. Rochester had a governess who ran away from her post. Under circumstances most embarrassing and insalubrious.”

  A hot blush crept across my face. “What did Dowager Lady Ingram say?”

  Seeing Miss Miller waver between telling me and holding her tongue, I added, “I might have heard a similar story.”

  “It is a wild tale of a wedding interrupted. See, there was a governess involved, a young lady with aspirations far above her station. Terribly unsuitable. Dowager Lady Ingram told Lady Kingsley how this tutor bewitched the lord of the manor. Had him quite crazed for wanting her. As a consequence, he proposed marriage and she accepted, causing the squire to spurn poor Blanche Ingram, who would have made him a brilliant match. Lady Ingram’s daughter Blanche’s heart was quite broken. But it was all for good, because that wicked man was already married! Can you imagine? When the upstart governess found out his true intent—bigamy!—she ran away, and the squire sent his ward off to school. That’s how Adela came to lodge here. And there’s more.”

  “Pray continue.” Although I knew an honest version of this story by heart, I wanted to hear the gossip that Dowager Lady Ingram was spreading. I needed to know what tales were being told about me and Edward.

  “Dowager Lady Ingram told Lady Kingsley that the wife was a madwoman, kept locked in the attic of Squire Rochester’s country manor. Have you ever?” Miss Miller paused and took a sip of her tea. Her urgent business had been temporarily postponed in the excitement of sharing such scandal. “I guess the squire had a nurse who looked after the madwoman, but that old crone was given to drink. And one night the crazed wife slipped free of her drunken minder and set the old hall on fire! Squire Rochester was nearly killed as a consequenc
e. Don’t know but he’s now an invalid. He hasn’t been to see Adela since she came here.”

  “I see.” It took me a minute to absorb this retelling of the events of my life, which, though twisted, contained elements of truth. “But the squire has married again since the fire—in which his first wife perished. Did Lady Ingram not say he had? Doesn’t Mrs. Thurston know that Edward Rochester has taken a new bride?”

  Miss Miller shrugged. “I don’t know. Could be. Perhaps Mrs. Webster heard about his marriage. Mrs. Thurston came on nearly six months ago. She has had much to do, especially since our German teacher left.”

  “Has Adèle—Adela—made no mention of her guardian and his status?”

  “Heavens, no. Maude Thurston cannot abide gossip.”

  It took all my self-control not to scoff at this. Clearly, the woman loved gossip! She had no compunctions about sharing unfounded, scurrilous remarks about Edward and me.

  Miss Miller continued, “Mrs. Thurston expressly warned Adela not to talk about her guardian. She told Adela the man is a fiend and his name is not to be bandied about.”

  I gasped. Nothing prepared me for this. No blow to my body could hurt as much. How dare Maude Thurston subject Adèle to such restraints? How dare this woman judge my husband and label him so crudely! And what must Adèle think? She dearly loved her bon ami, Edward Rochester. The poor child. How confused she must feel!

  It’s of little matter, I consoled myself. I am here now. I can set this right.

  My former colleague stood. “It has been good to see you. However, given the tragedy of this day, I really must cut our visit short. Perhaps you can come back and visit me and see Adela some other time.”

  “But I am here now, and I want to see the girl.”

  “That is noble of you, I am sure, but unnecessary. It is really quite impossible for you to visit with Adela today.”

  “Perhaps I have not made my position clear. I demand to see Adèle!”

  “By what right, Jane?”

  “I have every right. I am Mr. Rochester’s wife!” I pulled off my glove and thrust forward my left hand.

  Chapter 9

  “I beg your pardon!” Miss Miller’s mouth hung open. “I did not know! The governess? The one who ran away? It was you?”

  “Yes. However, the tale that Dowager Lady Ingram told does not bear repeating. It is both cruelly slanted and spiteful.”

  “Again, please accept my apologies. My word, Miss Eyre, you are the wife of a squire? How fortunate for you!”

  Nan Miller’s frank admiration embarrassed me. It would take some time for me to sort through all the mischief that Lady Ingram had caused. In the meantime, I would need to set the situation right with Maude Thurston. More importantly, I needed to see to Adèle.

  “Even if Mrs. Thurston did not know about our marriage, Adèle did. Mrs. Augustus Brayton is a family friend. She checked on Adèle regularly up until six months ago.”

  “Perhaps the girl did mention it. I can’t say. Adela babbles in French so quickly that I find it hard to follow.”

  A fresh wave of guilt swept over me. That poor child! Until six months before I became her governess, she had lived on the Continent and had spoken naught but her native tongue. Edward brought her and her French-speaking nurse with him to England after her mother left. Although I had insisted we spend a portion of our days speaking in English, Adèle still preferred her native tongue, especially when she was tired or distressed.

  “I never was very good with languages,” Miss Miller said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  While most girls’ schools offered Latin, Greek, and French—and occasionally German and Italian—as part of their usual curriculum, at Lowood, Miss Miller never rose above the position of under-teacher because her linguistic skills were so paltry.

  “But surely the girl confided in someone,” I insisted. “Was there no adult who could converse freely with Adèle?”

  “Yes, of course. Our old German teacher, Fräulein Hertzog, and Adela got along famously. Fräulein could speak a bit of French. Not much, but some. She was the proctor for the Senior girls. You know, Adela is the youngest in her form. Most of the Seniors are thirteen and up.”

  “Why is she in the Senior form? She only turned ten this year.”

  “When Mrs. Thurston came, she moved Adela in with older girls, in consideration of the fact that the girl had been exposed to certain unsavory influences early in life.” She paused and shook her head at me.

  The fact that the child had been judged for the sins of her mother, who was an opera dancer and a courtesan, struck me as unnecessarily harsh. However, I did recall that shortly after meeting Adèle she had shown me a specimen of her accomplishments, which included a canzonet with a subject that was wildly inappropriate for such a young performer. Perhaps Mrs. Thurston was wise to separate Adèle from the younger children.

  “There is one other question I have. Of late, Adèle’s letters are different. The phrasing seems foreign to her.”

  Miss Miller laughed. “And much improved, no doubt? Yes, the truth is that the students are not the authors of their correspondence. Mrs. Thurston is. All the girls copy her letters from the blackboard.”

  “What?” I could not believe my ears.

  “Really, it is quite an ingenious arrangement. Lady Kingsley, our founder, was furious when one girl complained to her parents about something or another and they responded by withdrawing her. Maude Thurston vowed it would never happen again. But parents do expect to hear from their children regularly. So Mrs. Thurston decided she would script out the messages.”

  My heart went out to Adèle, but I also experienced a feeling of relief—at least now I knew why her recent letters had been so strange!

  “I feel horrible that Adèle has not seen us in so long,” I said. “Do the other parents who send their daughters to Alderton House visit them often?”

  “Most, I am sorry to say, do not. Her situation is not unusual. Sometimes parents stay away because their visits are disruptive. Each family is different. All of our parents choose Alderton House because they want a good education for their children. Many travel and have decided that a stable atmosphere is best, but others seem to want to be done with the rigors of parenting. To tell you the truth, many exhibit more affection for their little dogs!” She sighed. “Students often stay with us over the holidays and summers. The majority of parents visit the school infrequently if at all.”

  “Then how do they know that their girls are getting a good education?”

  “A few ask for regular reports in the form of letters, which Mrs. Thurston provides sporadically. She feels it best not to bother the parents unless there is a problem. Involving parents only invites interference, as you can well imagine.”

  “Interference.”

  “Yes.” This, a soft hiss of admission.

  I could not contain myself any longer. I stood up. “Enough. I’m afraid I shall have to ‘interfere’—you must take me to Adèle at once.”

  “I am sorry, but that’s not possible. She is sleeping.”

  “At this hour? She should be in class, should she not?” Adèle who never napped? Never showed any sign of diminished energy? My heart took an unwelcome tumble.

  “After her friend’s death, Adela grew distraught. When she refused to be comforted, the doctor examined her and suggested a tisane. Perhaps if you can come back later—”

  “Either you can escort me or I shall find my own way.”

  Miss Miller put her hand on mine. “I might almost suppose you didn’t trust me.”

  “It does not matter if I trust you,” I explained. “I must see the girl. I will see her. I have promised my husband, and I must fulfill my promise.” I would make it up to Adèle for being remiss, and I would start that process today, right here, right now.

  “You are so…hard, Jane. So intractable! I remember you always asking too many questions. But I do not remember you being so insistent and challenging. What has changed you?�
��

  Had I changed? Since my days at Lowood, certainly—and only for the better, I thought. “It is the responsibilities I now shoulder—some happily and some reluctantly. These are the burdens I intend to carry as my own from now until the day I draw my last breath. One of those includes seeing to the welfare of Adèle Varens.”

  Miss Miller rose from her seat and started toward the hallway. “You have convinced me. But we must be quick. Mrs. Thurston thinks I take time with you because you are our new German teacher. I don’t believe we have the luxury of correcting her misunderstanding and introducing you properly at the moment. Not right now. She is understandably preoccupied by our tragedy. I believe she is making arrangements for us to go into mourning. Earlier she was writing a letter of condolence to the girl’s parents.”

  Since I could do nothing for the dead child, I nodded my assent. I cared not a whit about Mrs. Thurston or what she thought of me. I cared only about seeing Adèle.

  The parlor door opened into a spacious foyer. A fine silk rug covered a portion of the alternating black and white marble squares. A crystal chandelier dangled above us. Marble busts stared down from alcoves in the wall.

  “To the right is Mrs. Thurston’s office, and behind it is her own snug apartment,” explained Miss Miller. Seeing the surprise on my face, she laughed quietly. “We could not imagine such a place as this, could we? I think back to our early days at Lowood, before it was rebuilt. How crowded the one schoolroom and dormitory were. The odor of burned porridge seeping through its every pore. There’s none of that here.”

  She gestured toward an open room on our left, and I glimpsed two dining tables set with fine silver that sparkled in the light streaming through the windows. “A partition can divide this room in half,” said Nan Miller, pointing to a set of folding doors. This space was approximately the same size as the whitewashed cottage in the good village of Morton where I taught twenty scholars during that sad interim when I was estranged from Edward.