Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  “As good as, yes,” the chit replied. “But not fixedly so. Nor will we be unless Lord Brontë agrees to relinquish his inheritance. For my father must have the estate, and I must have it, too, so that all the other ladies of my acquaintance will envy me and fall all over themselves attempting to capture my notice and approval. But Lord Brontë won’t give it up unless I persuade you to attend the ball tomorrow night…and to listen to what he wishes to say to you.”

  Anger flared in Jane’s chest as the girl’s self-serving motives became clear to her. “So you have come here not because you’re sorry for hurting me, or because you value our friendship, as you claim, but to plead on Lord Brontë’s behalf, so he will forfeit his legacy to your intended.

  “Well, yes,” she admitted without a shred of contrition. “I know you think me wicked, but I mean to have Cœur Brisé, and can’t see where I’ve done so very much harm.” Lady Cécile heaved a sigh. “Yes, I hurt you in my scheme to punish Lord Brontë, and for that I’m truly sorry. But I wasn’t the one who put in her will that the poor man would lose everything if he ever married. Nor was it I who forced him to choose you over his fortune. He made that decision of his own free will.”

  Jane couldn’t bear to let the direct contradiction of the girl’s earlier statements go unchallenged. “Did you not say so very long ago that men knew nothing of their hearts and must be led to the altar by the rings in their noses?”

  Lady Cecil’s face colored as she said, “Well, yes, But, it would seem Lord Bronte is unlike others of his gender. His choice of brains over beauty being an excellent case in point.”

  Jane, deeply torn about how to go forward with Matthew, took a few moments to consider her response. Deciding her best course was to make a deal of her own, she said, “Before I agree to meet Lord Brontë at your ball, I must know what he did to make you wish to punish him.”

  “Well, I suppose I must tell you, as you shall no doubt canvas the subject until I do.” Cécile took a breath, as if preparing to say something dreadful. “He invited me for a walk in the garden and kissed me violently before telling me the terms of the countess’ will. The hateful man. It was just fortunate nobody saw us or my father would have forced me to marry him, even without gaining Cœur Brisé in the bargain.”

  After a brief pause, during which the girl’s expression went from grave to gay, she said, “Dear Miss Grey. Can you honestly imagine me married to a starving artist? The thought of how close I came to such a dreadful existence chills me to the bone. My life would have ended before it even began!”

  Jane didn’t understand her. How could marrying a man she clearly desired ruin her life? It was far more likely marrying a scoundrel like Phillippe L’Hiver would destroy her happiness. Unless wealth and position really did mean more to her than love—and, by all appearances, that would seem to be the case.

  With spite in her heart and sarcasm in her tone of voice, Jane said, “So, Lord Brontë’s great crime against you was to spurn you after you sought to entrap him into marriage before the countess’s body was even in the ground? Well no wonder you despise him. The odious ingrate. What hubris he had to turn the tables on you and beat you at your own wicked little game!”

  A blush colored the girl’s cheeks as she looked away from Jane’s condemning gaze. “Well, when you put it like that…”

  “Indeed, Lady Cécile. When viewed through a new lens, especially one refracted by compassion and empathy, our grievances against others often disappear. But, to be able to change our perspective and see things differently, we must first step outside ourselves. And that, I fear, lies beyond your powers—to your great peril, as well as the peril of those around you.”

  “Oh, Miss Grey, please be a good creature and hold your tongue,” the girl said, brushing off Jane’s unflattering observation about her character. “I’m in no mood for sermons. Let us instead turn to cheerier subjects—like your impending engagement or, better yet, my ball!” Her countenance brightened instantly. “Did I tell you Papa gave me Mama’s necklace and bracelet to wear? Both pieces are made of perfectly matched large diamonds and were very expensive. How well they will look with my new dress!”

  Jane forced air through her nostrils to release some of her frustration. There really was no hope for the chit. “I have no doubt you will look very charming.”

  “As will you…once my hairdresser is finished with you.” Her vacuous green eyes danced with excitement. “And the simple string of pearls Lord Brontë gave you will be perfect with your gown. You do plan to wear it, I hope—if not for your sake, then for his. For I daresay he will interpret the gesture as encouragement, and you must give him every assurance if you wish to secure him. And you do wish to marry him, don’t you, Miss Grey?”

  Jane had put the pearls in a drawer and done her best to forget about them—and Matthew—not that her best had done the job. In all honesty, little else had occupied her thoughts since he went away.

  “Yes, Lady Cécile. I stand ready to confess I do wish to marry him. Far more than good sense warrants. But alas, I see no way to bridge the divide that now stretches between us.”

  * * *

  Plagued by his worries about his future with Jane, Matthew couldn’t sleep a wink that night. He would have passed the angstful hours painting had he not left all his pigments and brushes in Paris. He’d not come back intending to live at Cœur Brisé. His only aim, aside from ridding himself of the estate, was to secure an understanding with Jane. And now, thanks to Lady Cécile’s machinations, that goal was gravely imperiled.

  He paced before the fire in his bedchamber, alternately wringing his hands, scrubbing his face, and reciting to the empty night a fitting poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

  Thin are the night-skirts left behind

  By daybreak hours that onward creep,

  And thin, alas! the shred of sleep

  That wavers with the spirit's wind:

  But in half-dreams that shift and roll

  And still remember and forget,

  My soul this hour has drawn your soul

  A little nearer yet…

  No sooner had he finished the recitation than his worries returned in full force. Would Jane forgive him? What if she didn’t? What would he do?

  Go on as before? Move back to Tours and live out his days alone and unloved, painting and tending his garden to fill the lonely hours? Or, should he give up Cœur Brisé as planned and return to Paris to paint? Or, perhaps he should go back to England and join the PRB.

  Oh, damn this infernal vacillation!

  He couldn’t know what to do until he heard Jane’s answer. And he couldn’t know her answer until he posed the question, which he couldn’t do until she agreed to speak to him.

  Would she? He wouldn’t have the answer until tomorrow night, much as the waiting was killing him. In the meantime, he knew this much: if she rebuffed him, he would not soon recover from his disappointment.

  A loud thump from somewhere near gave his heart a jolt. What the devil? The butler had found no critters in the adjacent rooms and Phillippe was in Monaco, as far as he knew. But what if he wasn’t? What if he was hiding somewhere in the castle, waiting for another chance to do Matthew in? The gendarmes might believe the marquis had no hand in the previous attempt on his life, but Matthew’s intuition said otherwise.

  He stopped pacing and stared blankly into the fire, rubbing his chin while debating his options. Either he could go upstairs to investigate the noise or lock himself in his bedchamber. Either way, he would arm himself—just in case he had cause to defend his life. While he hated the thought of shooting Phillippe (or anybody else, for that matter), he found the prospect vastly more appealing than being murdered.

  Matthew crossed to the bureau where he stored his revolver. The pistol was still in its place, God be thanked. Picking it up, he ran his fingers over the cool iron barrel. Would he have the nerve to look his no-good nephew in the eye and still pull the trigger?

  His mind took him back to th
e night of the fire. The thought of how close he’d come to burning alive restored his confidence. So did the weight of the pistol in his hand. He checked the chambers, pleased to find them loaded.

  Matthew was sweating bullets by the time he reached the door to Mathilde’s bedchamber, which was slightly ajar. Keeping the gun raised, he eased it further open with his foot, wincing as the squealing hinges gave him away.

  All was dark and quiet. Then, something stirred in the far corner. Or were the shadows playing tricks on his eyes? Either way, he was taking no chances. Swallowing, he aimed the gun where he’d detected motion.

  He considered calling out a warning, but decided against it. If the intruder was armed, his voice would only give away his location. He crept deeper into the space, searching the darkness. Every muscle in his body was taut, dust tickled his throat, and his chest was a howling canyon; his mouth an arid desert. He licked his lips with a tongue as dry as sandpaper. His hand was shaking the gun and his heart was pounding in his ears. Then, he saw it again. A flash of movement. No, it was more of a flicker. Like the final glint of a dying candle.

  The air turned oppressive and cold—so cold he could see the white cloud formed by his breath. Eeriness crept through him, making his scalp prickle and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His awareness sharpened noticeably and he got the definite feeling he was not alone.

  “Who’s there?” he called out hoarsely. “Show yourself or I’ll shoot.”

  The air in the corner where the revolver was aimed began to shimmer and take on a human shape. All evidence pointed to an explanation his mind refused to accept. It could not be the ghost of his dead mistress. Phillippe and Lady Cécile had invented the sightings to persuade him to marry Jane so they could have his inheritance. The dead were dead. Their spirits didn’t wander beyond the grave.

  “Ghosts don’t exist.” He said it aloud, as if stating his disbelief would somehow bring him back to reality.

  It didn’t. Instead, the apparition densified and developed facial features—Mathilde’s facial features. Not as she’d looked under the ravages of cholera, but as she’d looked when first they met.

  “What do you want?”

  “Only your happiness, Matthew. I see the truth now that I’ve crossed over. Denying you love was wrong of me. It’s too late to change my will, but not too late to beg your forgiveness or urge you to leave the path I set you upon through my vindictiveness.”

  It was Mathilde’s voice without a doubt—and echoed so closely what Lady Cécile had reported he began to suspend his disbelief. “Are you real?”

  “As real as a body can be without a body,” she said with more wit than she’d ever demonstrated in life. “And heartily sorry for the way I treated you. I was selfish and petty and resentful. I knew the bargain we struck when we came together; knew you didn’t love me. I thought I could live with it; thought as long as you were mine, I would be satisfied. But I wanted you so badly; wanted so badly for you to want me, and…well, never mind that now. My past grievances don’t matter anymore. What matters is your future, which you’ll never find at Cœur Brisé. This place was cursed when it was given its name centuries ago by the persecuted Huguenots who were murdered here centuries ago by the king’s dragoons. Go back to Paris or England, Matthew. Marry your governess. Be happy and never look back with regret.”

  He swallowed, unsure what to think or say. Was he really seeing Mathilde’s ghost or was this a trick contrived by her no-good nephew?

  The bigger part of him wanted her to be real; wanted to believe she’d meant the things she’d said. Especially the part about being selfish and petty and resentful—faults she was blind to when she was alive.

  As her essence faded into the shadows, he felt a strong surge of regret. He would have liked to ask her about the afterlife. Now, he’d have to wait until his own demise for definitive answers—or take the leap of faith he’d always resisted. He hadn’t believed in ghosts until now, so maybe, just maybe, God and Heaven were real as well.

  And yet, he wasn’t quite ready to cast away his doubts. Had an angel appeared to him instead of a ghost, he might have been more willing to abandon his agnostic views.

  Matthew lowered the gun, realizing only then the barrel was still aimed at the spot where Mathilde had appeared. The room felt warmer now, his scalp had stopped tingling, and his breaths no longer formed vapor clouds. As he took his leave, he felt shaken, but also considerably lighter of heart.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jane, now dressed for the ball with her hair swept up in a mass of ringlet curls, admired herself in the full-length looking glass in Lady Cécile’s bedchamber. Elbow-length gloves, satin slippers with ballerina laces, and Matthew’s pearl necklace completed the ensemble. Never had she looked or felt so elegant. Even the pink satin corset beneath her gown was exquisite. Though she couldn’t help thinking all the frills were an unnecessary extravagance when no one but her would ever see them.

  Still, she felt almost pretty in her finery, even if her heart and stomach were aflutter. She’d never been to a ball before and had the added expectation of Matthew’s proposal. Would she accept him? Part of her wanted to, but the part that had caught him kissing her pupil no less than twice (and knew that it had happened at least once before) had serious reservations.

  Turning, she met Lady Cécile’s gaze in the dressing-table mirror. “Do you really think Lord Brontë will propose to me tonight?”

  “Of course he will.” Cécile touched the diamond necklace at her throat as a smile spread across her rouged and powdered face. “Why else would he give up his fortune?”

  A knock upon the door prevented Jane from expressing her fear that he’d met someone more suitable in Paris. Hurrying over in a rustle of silk, she pulled open the door to find Madame DuBois on the other side. There was a letter in her hand and angst in her expression.

  “Good, you are here, Miss Grey. I thought you would be. This letter has just come for you via express, so I thought I’d better bring it to you without delay.”

  Jane, chest panging with alarm, took the letter from her and studied the direction. The handwriting, as familiar to her as her own, only increased her anxiety. It was from her sister, who was disinclined to be rash. Thus, she wouldn’t have taken the trouble to send a note by express were it not of an urgent nature. With fumbling fingers, Jane tore open the envelope and removed the sheet inside.

  Dearest Jane,

  My heart is breaking as I pen these words. Our Dear Mama has taken ill with an infectious fever and is not expected to recover. Please come home as soon as you’re able or I fear you shall miss your chance to say goodbye.

  Your affectionate sister,

  Mary

  “You’ve gone pale,” said Lady Cécile, breaking the spell of dismay the sad news had cast around Jane. “What does it say?”

  “My mother is ill. Gravely so, according to my sister. I must return to England at once.”

  “What?” Lady Cécile looked horrified. “And miss my ball? Surely, you’re not serious, Miss Grey.”

  The insensitivity of Lady Cécile’s response gave Jane a second shock. “And surely you can see that I have no other choice, as I must prepare to leave for England at once. My sister would not have written to urge my swift return if my mother’s condition wasn’t very grave.”

  Holding Jane’s gaze in the mirror, Lady Cécile asked, “Will she die, do you think?”

  Jane cringed at the heartlessness of her question. “It would seem to be a distinct possibility.”

  “Then what harm will it do if you wait another few hours? If she is to die, she will do so whether you’re there or not.”

  Jane tore her gaze from Cécile’s as tears of grief and frustration sprang into her eyes. What a pitiless creature! Struggling to keep her composure, she said, “Yes, but I should still like to be there to pay my respects and say my final farewells.”

  “And if it turns out to be a false alarm, you’ll have missed the even
t of a lifetime.” Cécile waved the hairdresser away and turned to face Jane. “Oh, Miss Grey, you frustrating creature! Do be selfish for once in your life. I’ve taken such trouble to make you as lovely as possible—for your sake as well as Lord Brontë’s. Don’t forget he means to propose tonight. If you don’t appear, I’m sure you will break his poor heart.”

  Jane’s hand flew to her meager décolletage. In her distress over her mother’s health, she’d forgotten all about Matthew’s alleged plan to propose. And yet, as desperately as she longed to know if Lady Cécile spoke the truth, she could not delay her journey long enough to find out. At the same time, she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving France with things between her and Matthew so unsettled. After a moment’s reflection, she decided a note to him explaining her situation would be the best course to follow.

  On second thought, no. A note was too impersonal. Moreover, she wanted to hear what he had to say and forge some kind of understanding before she took her leave. Thus, she must pay him a visit—in advance of the ball. But first, she had better apply to Lord Brousseau for the time off. She was still his hireling, after all, albeit a short-timer, and not at liberty, therefore, to come and go at will. She would also need his permission to make use of the carriage to take her and her things into Tours.

  Brooking no further protests from Lady Cécile, Jane hurried off to speak to Lord Brousseau. She found him in the library, enjoying a private glass of wine before the festivities got underway. When Jane made her request, he stared at her a long moment before saying, “You won’t take your leave before the ball, surely.”

  “Much as it pains me to do so, I fear I must, sir. For my sister writes that my mother is gravely ill and may very soon meet her end.”

  “Then why race off before the ball? Especially when you are already dressed for the affair—and, I daresay, look quite agreeable for a change. Why, you’re almost pretty, Miss Grey—more so than I would have thought possible. And if God should call your mother home, you rushing off to save a few hours will have no effect whatsoever.”