My Plain Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  “Do not be late, Miss Eyre,” Mrs. Fairfax said. “The master values promptness above all else. Except order. And discipline.”

  “I will not be late,” Jane said.

  Mrs. Fairfax flurried out of the room, dusting as she went.

  A full fifteen minutes early, Jane was sitting in the parlor, waiting, with Helen by her side. Moments later, Mr. Rochester walked in carrying a satchel. Jane’s art satchel. Jane had given it to Adele to look at, but somehow Mr. Rochester had it.

  Jane shot to her feet. “Sir,” she said.

  “Miss Eyre. Please sit.”

  She complied and Mr. Rochester sat on the other side of the sofa. Helen scooched toward Jane just in time to avoid him sitting through her.

  “Rude,” Helen said.

  Jane wasn’t sure what to say or do. Even though they sat on opposite ends, it still pushed the boundaries of propriety for a single woman and a single man to occupy the same sofa. It was a comfort for Jane that Helen sat between them.

  Mr. Rochester placed the satchel at his feet.

  “So, Miss Eyre. From where do you come?”

  “Lowood school, sir,” Jane said.

  “And who are your parents?”

  “I have none.”

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  “None.”

  Mr. Rochester studied her face. “Friends?”

  “One or two,” Jane said.

  “Does he ask these questions of all his servants?” Helen said.

  “One or two,” he repeated. “Are you referring to the other witch?” The corner of his mouth twitched up.

  Jane didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter because Mr. Rochester continued on with his string of questions.

  “And what did you learn at Lowood school?”

  “Starvation,” Jane said, without thinking. She then added, “And the usual maths and history.”

  Mr. Rochester tilted his head thoughtfully. “I understand Mr. Brocklehurst runs the school. He did not feed you?”

  “No. He considered feeding the students a waste of food. And keeping them warm a waste of coal. But his opinion matters little now. He is dead.”

  “Thank God,” Helen said. She’d been twisting her head back and forth, following the conversation the way one might watch a tennis match.

  “You are very opinionated for someone who has spent her entire life at one place.”

  “Yes,” Jane said.

  Mr. Rochester sighed and then reached down toward Jane’s satchel. As he bent over, a necklace with a key on it fell out of his shirt. He quickly stuffed it back inside, then opened the satchel and pulled out a handful of Jane’s beloved art.

  Jane drew in a breath, and Mr. Rochester seemed to notice. He held the pictures gently, and then spread them out on the table.

  “You did all of these on your own?” Mr. Rochester said.

  “Of course,” Jane said, somewhat indignantly.

  “I meant no offense,” Mr. Rochester said.

  “I meant to take none,” Jane said.

  He turned back to the paintings. Most of them were landscapes. Some of them featured a golden-haired girl.

  Helen leaned forward. “I love me in this one,” she said, pointing to one where she stood in front of a hill.

  “Were you happy when you painted these, Miss Eyre?”

  “I was not unhappy.”

  “So, you were happy?”

  “I was on a break from school, during which I stayed at the school because I had nowhere else to go. I was content.”

  “Why do you avoid saying you were happy?”

  Jane shook her head. Because I’ve been starved. Because my best friend died in my arms. Because I have no family.

  At that moment Mrs. Fairfax flurried into the room, with Adele, who was wearing a green dress and frilly pantaloons.

  At the sight of Mr. Rochester, Mrs. Fairfax froze. “Sir, I do apologize for my tardiness.”

  Adele stepped forward. “I have prepared a song in my native tongue. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Of course,” Jane said.

  “My maman taught me to perform. She used to sing in an . . .” She put her finger on her cheek, searching for the word.

  Mr. Rochester cleared his throat. Mrs. Fairfax shifted uncomfortably. “Opera house,” the housekeeper said.

  Mr. Rochester grunted.

  Adele shook her head. “Oh, no, I do not think that is right—”

  “Opera house,” Mrs. Fairfax insisted.

  “Opera house,” Adele said, frowning.

  Mrs. Fairfax took a seat near the sofa. Adele took her place in front of the audience and began to sing.

  “Miss Eyre, perhaps you can tell me what she’s saying?” Mrs. Fairfax said. “The only other person in the house who speaks French is the master, and he hates to translate anymore.”

  Jane glanced at Mr. Rochester, but he stared straight ahead.

  Jane listened to the song. “The first few lines are about a famous dancer . . . in a club. . . . She wore flowers in her hair and a dress that . . . oh.” Adele sang in detail about how much the dress covered. Or didn’t cover.

  Jane blushed and glanced at Mr. Rochester, searching for a reaction to the scandalous lyrics. But he just listened. Not scandalized.

  “So, yes, the dancer wore a dress,” Jane continued, with slightly less detail. “And she was in love with a . . . dealer. Of cards. And at night, they . . . oh my.”

  Adele sang of a very special hug.

  Jane’s cheeks flamed. “Perhaps Mr. Rochester should translate.”

  She turned to Mr. Rochester, who coughed. He waved his hand. “Please continue, Miss Eyre. You’re doing such a fine job.”

  Now Adele sang of the woman’s roving eye, and another man visiting her while her lover was away.

  “They continued to love each other,” Jane said quickly, maybe a bit desperately.

  In the last verse, the boyfriend found out about her infidelity, and stabbed the dancer and her other lover.

  “That escalated quickly,” said Helen. She also spoke French, but no one had asked her to translate.

  “And they both lived happily ever after,” Jane blurted. She was going to have to teach Adele some new songs.

  “How sweet!” Mrs. Fairfax declared. “I am excited to see what you can do with her.”

  Jane smiled awkwardly.

  Adele sang two more songs: one about a French dance that involved the lifting up of skirts and kicking very high, and then another about a lady of the night. Jane had to wonder who had been in charge of Adele’s education up to this point. Someone at the, ah, opera house, perhaps? She stopped translating.

  After Adele was finished, she looked expectantly at Mr. Rochester. “Where is my present?”

  “Ah, I am back from traveling, and therefore, she expects a gift,” Mr. Rochester said. “Because she values gifts above all else. Do you love gifts, Miss Eyre?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never received one. But I assume they are considered generally pleasant things.”

  “No gifts?”

  “Unless you count learning to live with little to eat a gift.”

  Mr. Rochester took in a deep breath. Then he walked over to the wall and rang a bell labeled “kitchen.” A few moments later, Grace Poole strode into the room. She had ash or soot on her face, and her expression was dark.

  “Mrs. Poole,” Mr. Rochester said. “What are you doing in the kitchen? Why are you not—” He cut himself off abruptly.

  “Not in the east wing for the renovations,” Mrs. Fairfax said.

  “Yes,” Mr. Rochester said. “That’s what I was about to say.”

  “I was in the kitchen getting food for the . . . renovations.” Grace Poole did not call him sir, nor did she exhibit any of the other genuflections servants at that time should have.

  Jane expected her to face some sort of chastisement, but none came.

  “Ah, well, please bring Miss Eyre something to eat,” Mr.
Rochester said.

  Grace Poole cut her gaze to Jane. Sized her up. Jane sat a little taller, trying to look deserving of food.

  “Never mind,” Mr. Rochester said. “It is late. Miss Eyre, please put your charge to bed.”

  Grace Poole shrugged. “If you’re sure. I can whip something up in the cauldron.”

  “Do not eat anything she whips up in a cauldron,” Helen whispered.

  “Thank you, but I should put Adele to bed.” Jane couldn’t stop the quiver in her voice. “Good night. Adele, come with me.”

  Mrs. Fairfax walked a ways with them. When they were out of earshot of the master, Jane said, “Mr. Rochester seems to change temperament abruptly.”

  “I am used to his ways,” Mrs. Fairfax said. “I hardly notice. But he does brood. And with good reason. He has had much strife in this life. He lost his older brother to the Graveyard Disease, and there was some sort of other family treachery.”

  “Like what?” Jane said.

  “Never you mind,” Mrs. Fairfax said. “Sleep well, Miss Eyre.”

  With that, she scurried away down the corridor.

  Sleep seemed impossible that night, as Jane and Helen lay in bed. Helen was shaking so badly, the bed vibrated.

  “Grace Poole is evil,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Jane said, trying to convince herself as well.

  “Who calls a pot a cauldron?” Helen said.

  “I’m sure she misspoke.”

  “Something is amiss here,” Helen said.

  “Go to sleep, dear,” Jane said. She turned her thoughts from Grace Poole to her evening with Mr. Rochester, and the tender way he held her sketches, and the way he almost ordered her food.

  NINE

  Alexander

  “She’s gone.” Alexander stared at Branwell, who’d just burst into his room in the dead of night.

  “That’s what I said, sir. Miss Eyre has left the building.” He cocked his head. “Sir, do you sleep in your mask?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Alexander slumped back to the foot of his bed, still trying to wake up, and still trying to comprehend those words: she’s gone. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “Why would she leave?”

  “To fulfill her life’s dream of becoming a governess?” Branwell cocked his head the other way, as though trying to remember if he’d said that already. (He had, but poor Branwell wasn’t used to Alexander having a hard time keeping up, so he had to question everything now.)

  Alexander nodded slowly. “Do you know where Miss Eyre has gone?”

  Branwell sagged a little. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwood, I forgot to ask.”

  “But we must go after her.” Alexander rubbed his temples.

  “I suppose I could go back to Lowood. . . .”

  “Wait.” Alexander shook off the last of his sleepiness. “Why were you at an all-girls school?”

  Branwell startled. “Um.”

  This was terribly improper. If anyone found out that a member of the Society had been so inappropriate as to sneak into a girls’ charity school in the middle of the night, the crown would never even consider reinstating their funding. The association alone was enough to not only destroy Alexander’s career, but Wellington’s as well, if it ever got out that Branwell was in fact Wellington’s nephew. (Alexander still couldn’t quite believe this fact.)

  Branwell’s face had turned bright red. “Sir, I—”

  “Say no more!” Alexander grabbed his luggage out from under the bed and opened the lid. “Return to your room. As soon as it’s dawn”—which wasn’t far off—“I’ll go to the school and request Miss Eyre’s forwarding address. You’re to remain here and gather your things. As soon as I’ve interviewed every girl and ghost in Lowood and know where Miss Eyre has gone, we’ll go after her.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Blackwood. I thought—”

  “Not now, Mr. Branwell. Return to your room and get some rest. I’ll fetch you when it’s time.” How would he explain Branwell’s behavior to Wellington? It was bad enough to tell the duke that Branwell was a mediocre agent with no potential for advancement, but to tell the duke that his nephew might have caused a scandal?

  But oh, what fire his return would add to the girls’ theories of romance. He shuddered, remembering his previous visits.

  Was it worth it to discover the whereabouts of Jane Eyre?

  Probably.

  Maybe.

  Branwell slouched toward the door, pulled it open, and stopped short. “Oh. Charlie. Hello?”

  And now someone named Charlie was here?

  This was why Alexander preferred to work alone.

  He dropped his clothes back into his suitcase and looked up to find Branwell throwing his arms around a young woman in the corridor.

  And worse, she returned the embrace.

  Beneath his mask, his face flushed. A young lady was hugging his apprentice. Of all people. Such a blatant display of affection! At this hour! In the hallway!! (In pre-Victorian times, and also Victorian times, and for quite some time later, even hugging was considered Too Much. And yes, Hallway Hugging definitely deserved two exclamation points.)

  Even when they finished hugging, the two stepped back to hold hands. That’s when Alexander saw that the young woman was Charlotte Brontë, from Lowood.

  “Why did you come here?” Branwell asked, grinning at her.

  “And how long have you been standing outside the door?” Alexander crossed his arms, rather wishing he’d slept in his shirt and trousers, too. His long nightshirt felt awfully revealing at the moment.

  “A short while.” She broke away from Branwell and lifted her glasses back to her face to peer down at her notebook. “Just long enough to overhear you’re going to interview every girl and ghost in Lowood school in order to find out where Jane Eyre has gone. And here I am, ready to be interviewed.”

  Alexander frowned, first at Miss Brontë, then at Branwell. “You two know each other?”

  “Of course!” Branwell grinned. “I’ve known Charlie—”

  “Don’t call me Charlie.”

  “—my whole life!”

  Wellington was going to kill Alexander for this.

  “Charlotte is my sister, Mr. Blackwood.”

  Alexander’s mouth dropped open. “But how?”

  “Well, sir, when two consenting adults—”

  “Stop!” Alexander could see the resemblance now, though. They were both small of stature but big in excitement. They had similar noses and skin tones, and wide eyes that tried to take in everything. “What I meant was, Mr. Branwell—”

  Miss Brontë burst with laughter. “Mr. Branwell? Really?”

  “Isn’t that your last name?” Alexander glared at Branwell. “Everyone calls you Branwell, and Branwell is a last name.”

  “My name is Branwell Brontë, sir.”

  Well, this was just embarrassing. First, that Branwell Brontë had a last name as a first name. Might as well call him Smith Smith. But even more, why had no one ever told Alexander? “Lord,” he muttered. “There are two of you.”

  “Four, actually,” Branwell said. “You saw our sisters Emily and Annie at the school.”

  “I’m so glad. Let’s try to get back on track.” Alexander shifted his glare to Miss Brontë. “Why are you here?”

  “To help you, of course!” She smiled brightly. “You don’t have to go to the school again. I know it makes you uncomfortable.”

  Oh, no.

  “And I’ve realized,” she went on, “that if I’m to be your assistant, I must show initiative.”

  Alexander scowled. “I already have an assistant.” Unfortunately.

  “Right!” Miss Brontë pointed a finger at him, then turned to Branwell. “I’m going to be your assistant’s assistant.”

  “I’d really rather you not.” His frown deepened, but Miss Brontë didn’t seem to notice.

  “And when Jane is recruited and becomes a full agent, she’ll probably need an assistant, too, and I think
she and I would make an excellent team.”

  “We don’t even know where Miss Eyre has gone,” Alexander said.

  “But, oh,” Miss Brontë said, “I do know.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “Let me come with you.” She stuffed her notebook and pen into her pocket. That was when he noticed the carpetbag resting at her feet. Packed for adventure, no doubt. “I’ll be an asset. You’ll see.”

  “You’re definitely not coming with us,” Alexander said. “Not a chance.”

  Reader, Miss Brontë definitely went with them.

  Not that it had been easy for her. On their way downstairs and then out to the carriage, Alexander ran through the same few phrases several times:

  “Go home, Miss Brontë.”

  “I can’t afford any more delays, Miss Brontë.”

  “Please stop talking, Miss Brontë.”

  Nevertheless, she persisted.

  She followed along as he and Branwell prepared to depart, and was about to step into the carriage when Alexander held out a hand to stop her. “Go home, Miss Brontë.”

  “I don’t have a home, Mr. Blackwood,” she argued. “I mean, my place of residence is Lowood, but I’ve never considered it my true home. How could it be? It’s a place as lacking for any person with imagination as . . . well, as one can imagine. And I suppose I could consider my family’s house in Haworth as home. . . . It’s where I was born and where my father still lives. . . .”

  Ah, yes. Now he could see how she and Branwell were related.

  “I’m going to help you, whether you like it or not.”

  “You can’t help me,” he sighed. “You’re just a girl.”

  But she refused to step down from the carriage. “That makes no sense. My gender has nothing to do with my helpfulness in this situation.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “You’re only sixteen.”

  “You’re eighteen,” she shot back. “And Bran is fifteen. What’s your point?”

  Alexander turned sharply to Branwell. “You’re fifteen? You said you were seventeen when you were inducted.”

  Branwell’s cheeks were red as his hair. “I may have exaggerated my age a bit.”

  “Miss Brontë . . .” Alexander dragged his hand down the front of his face.