My Plain Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  “Helen,” Miss Eyre hissed. “Sit down and stop being a pest.”

  Helen immediately plopped onto the floor, her mouth pressed into a translucent line.

  “Mr. Rochester,” announced one of the Lynn men. “I believe it’s time to call for the Society.”

  Helen’s eyes went round. Miss Eyre, too, looked pale.

  “What Society is that?” A faint tremor entered Rochester’s voice.

  “Why, the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits!” answered Mrs. Dent. “Everyone knows that.”

  “And everyone knows the Society has fallen out of favor.” Mr. Rochester’s gaze darted around the room, as though he might find the ghost . . . or a Society agent hiding behind the curtains.

  “Out of favor doesn’t mean out of business,” said Lady Ingram. “They could still be called upon.”

  “Clearly you have a problem here,” added Lady Lynn. “Didn’t you see the flowers?”

  “I don’t think there’s a problem.” Rochester spoke too quickly. “What use would the Society be here?”

  “They could relocate the ghost,” said Colonel Dent.

  “I don’t have a ghost!” Rochester shouted. “The Society isn’t coming here, and the noise is just a storm, and the vase fell over because of the wind. And that’s all!”

  On the other side of the room, Helen glared daggers at Rochester, but there was real fear in her expression.

  Miss Eyre looked from Helen to Rochester, her face perfectly white. “It’s the storm,” she agreed. “There are no ghosts here. I asked Mrs. Fairfax when I first arrived.”

  “See?” Rochester surged to his feet. “It’s confirmed. The storm did it.”

  Everyone went quiet for a moment, listening. Outside, beyond the curtains, Alexander could hear the faint twitter of birds singing evening’s approach.

  “All right,” said Miss Ingram. “The noise seems to be over anyway. The storm must have passed.”

  “Quick storm,” muttered Lady Ingram, gazing at the plant sludge on the floor.

  “Odd,” agreed Branwell/Louis.

  “So.” Colonel Dent cleared his throat. “Maybe there is no spirit here. But maybe we should summon one and ask it questions.”

  Immediately, Adele found the “talking board,” (what we in this day and age would call a Ouija board) but even as the party gathered around a table to summon ghosts, Alexander continued to watch Miss Eyre, his mind echoing with his recent conversation with Wellington.

  All the signs were there. Jane Eyre was definitely a Beacon.

  THIRTEEN

  Charlotte

  While the party was occupied with the talking board, Charlotte took the opportunity to duck behind the curtains near where Jane was sitting. This was Charlotte’s chance.

  “Jane,” she whispered urgently. “Over here, Jane!”

  Jane didn’t turn around.

  “I’m behind the curtain, Jane,” Charlotte whispered a bit more loudly.

  Jane scratched her nose.

  “Jane! Jane!” More frantic whispering from Charlotte.

  Nothing. Then Jane stiffened like someone had poked her in the ribs. She looked around and spotted Charlotte peeking out from behind the heavy velvet drapes. Charlotte waved at her, then ducked entirely behind the curtains. A moment later Jane slid in beside her.

  “It’s me!” Charlotte announced, then remembered they were supposed to be hiding, and she lowered her voice. “Surprise!”

  Jane looked not so much happy to see her as terribly confused. “I knew it was you. But what are you doing here?”

  “I disguised myself as a highborn lady in order to gain entrance to the house.” Charlotte gave Jane a quick hug. “And it worked.”

  Jane didn’t hug her back. “Why would you do that?”

  “I came to speak with you, Jane.”

  Jane drew away. “Why would you desire to speak with me? You heard what they said about governesses.”

  Charlotte stared at her. Jane’s eyes were cold, and with good reason. The ladies had been cruel just now. And Charlotte had played a part in that. The thought filled her with shame.

  “That was horrible,” she said. “They should never have spoken about you like that. I shouldn’t have—”

  Jane nodded. “So what do you want, Charlotte?”

  “Um . . .” She’d been so certain about what she was going to say, until this moment. “I’ve come about the job. At the Society.”

  Jane threw her hands up in the air. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Are you still going on about that ridiculous offer of employment? I already told you—”

  Charlotte pressed on. “This is more important than you realize, Jane. I’ve come with Mr. Eshton . . . Mr. Blackwood. He’s the agent with the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits. He’s . . .”

  “That agent!” gasped Jane, pressing her hand to her forehead as if the very thought of Mr. Blackwood made her head ache. “The one with the evil pocket watch! I knew there was something familiar about him.”

  Charlotte didn’t know anything about evil pocket watches, other than the fact that Jane seemed to be obsessed with them. “Mr. Blackwood—Mr. Eshton, here—is most desperate to have you as part of the Society, Jane. It turns out that they are in dire need of new agents. The Society is on the decline, you see, and it is most imperative that . . .”

  Jane was firmly shaking her head. “Charlotte, it’s no use. I don’t even know why they would want me. It’s a mistake.”

  Charlotte grabbed Jane’s hand. “Do you see dead people?”

  Jane’s mouth closed so fast there was almost a snap. She met Charlotte’s eyes.

  “Tell me the truth,” Charlotte implored her. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” Jane murmured. “Yes, I see them.”

  Blast, Charlotte wished she had her notebook on hand. There’d be so much to write.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” Jane said.

  “That’s why they want you, silly. It’s an incredibly valuable gift that you have, Jane. Mr. Blackwood has instructed me to give you the following offer—if you would come to London, be initiated as an agent into the Society, you would receive a decent salary. You could negotiate the exact sum, but it would be more than a woman could make doing anything else. Once you’ve gone through all the necessary training, you’d be given a mask (and they’re terribly comfortable—I can tell you from personal experience), so you could carry on your job incognito, as it were. And you’d be provided with your own private living quarters.”

  Jane stared at her mutely. For a moment, it seemed like Charlotte might have finally gotten through to her. Because who could resist such an offer? Most jobs didn’t come with a flat in London, let alone such a stylish uniform.

  But then Jane’s expression became, if anything, slightly horrified.

  “Well. The job does entail interacting with ghosts,” Charlotte went on, because she could see how the ghost element would not exactly be appealing to everyone, “but you wouldn’t have to talk with them, just capture them and return them to the Society headquarters. That’s what Mr. Blackwood does. I find the whole thing vastly exciting. You’d get to travel the country, you know.”

  Jane’s mouth opened. And then shut again. Finally she said, “I wish to be a governess.”

  “You do not. No one wants to be a governess.”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t believe you. Think of the prestige you’d gain, working at such a highly respected institution. You could afford to buy a nice dress and good shoes. You’d live in London. Think of the food, Jane. Just think of the food.”

  Jane shook her head. “I’m well fed here.”

  “But you’d earn a salary! A decent salary!”

  “I make a decent salary.”

  “But—”

  “No, Charlotte. I’m sorry you had to travel all this way. But my answer is still no. I want nothing to do with the Society.”

  “But why?”

  “They m
ake it their business to imprison defenseless ghosts, ghosts who’ve done nothing wrong but express themselves perhaps a little more enthusiastically than they should. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “At the Tully Pub?” Charlotte guessed. “What exactly did you see at the Tully Pub?”

  “Enough to understand that the Society is evil.”

  “The Society is not evil. Why, my own brother is an agent!”

  “It is evil.”

  “It is not.”

  “Is too.”

  “Is not.”

  “What if you could see for yourself?” Charlotte changed tactics. “Come with us, inspect the Society and its headquarters, meet the Duke of Wellington, judge by fact, and not one fleeting encounter that you must have misunderstood.”

  Jane frowned. “So are you an agent of the Society now?”

  Charlotte’s chin lifted. “I expect to be. Any day.” Depending on Jane’s answer.

  “But I thought you wanted to be a writer.”

  “I can be both,” Charlotte pressed on. “You’re wrong about the Society. They need you, Jane. Really and truly need you. How often is someone like us actually needed? Won’t you at least give it a chance?”

  Jane’s mouth was pressed into a line, but she didn’t say no again. That was something.

  “Please, Jane,” Charlotte added. “At least say you’ll consider the offer. Give it time. We’re going to be here for three more days, I believe. At the end of the three days, you can give your final answer.”

  “Very well. But don’t get your hopes up.” Jane cocked her head to one side as if she could hear something Charlotte did not. “They’re looking for you. You’d better go.”

  “So we’re agreed, then?”

  Jane squeezed her hand. “We’re agreed. I will tell you no again in three days.”

  “Or you’ll tell me yes.” Charlotte stepped out from behind the curtain. Then she thought of one last thing she wanted to say. She stuck her head back in.

  “I’m really sorry about earlier. I’ve missed you.”

  She was gone before Jane could reply.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Mr. Blackwood when she rejoined the party. “We were beginning to worry.” He leaned close to whisper. “So? Did you speak with Miss Eyre?”

  “I went for a brief walk in the garden, dear cousin,” she said, then whispered back: “She is considering the offer. She said she would give us her answer in three days.” Although what they could do to convince Jane in three days, she had no idea. Jane seemed to have absolutely made up her mind. Charlotte definitely needed some time to rethink her approach. “How was your conversation with the dead?” she asked Mr. Blackwood more loudly.

  He blinked for a few seconds before he caught on that she was referring to the talking board. “Oh, very interesting. As a man of science, I find the idea of communing with the deceased unlikely. But amusing, to say the least.”

  “You’re playing this part very well,” she whispered.

  A smile touched his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered back. “You’re not bad, yourself.”

  She felt herself blushing, and for a moment became uncharacteristically tongue-tied. Then she remembered that it was her job to be reporting on Jane. “She also said something about an evil pocket watch?”

  He looked puzzled. “An evil . . . Oh, the talisman. From the Tully Pub. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “Oh, I am most eager to hear about what transpired in the Tully Pub,” Charlotte exclaimed.

  A high, fake laugh tinkled from across the room. Charlotte and Mr. Blackwood turned to see Miss Ingram practically draped over Mr. Rochester’s shoulder. Then they watched as Bran tripped over the edge of the carpet and doused his face with his own cup of punch, which got nearly everybody in the room laughing at her poor dear little brother. Mr. Blackwood didn’t laugh at him, though, which Charlotte was grateful for. He was still staring at Mr. Rochester, his eyebrows drawn together.

  “There is something very off about that man,” he said, almost to himself.

  “What do you mean?”

  He turned back to her. “Nothing. Just a feeling. So tell me more about your conversation with Miss Eyre. Did she at least seem amenable to the idea of joining us?”

  Us, he’d said. She gave a little sigh. Us, as in, part of the collective we. As if Charlotte were already a member of the Society.

  “Well . . . no,” she admitted, glancing at the floor. “I told her there would be a salary, and the mask, and her own lodging, but she did not seem impressed. She seemed . . .” Charlotte stopped. How had Jane seemed? Different, somehow. Something had changed in the few weeks since Jane had left Lowood. Like she had grown up from a little girl into a woman in the space of a month, not as thin or homely, either, with more confidence, more bearing. And there’d been something else about her, too. A kind of glow.

  Her cheeks had been rosy, Charlotte realized. Jane was happy here at Thornfield.

  But why? Charlotte agreed with Mr. Blackwood that there was something definitely off about the master of the house. He was creepy, no doubt about it. And he’d stood by and said nothing when he was the person who could have stopped the ladies from attacking Jane. Surely he and Miss Ingram deserved each other. The little girl, Adele, was cute and all, but not particularly charming. Everyone around Jane seemed to treat her with that level of mild disdain reserved for serving women, when they weren’t treating her with outright contempt. Charlotte thought guiltily of her own part in the mocking of Jane earlier. So how could Jane possibly be happy here?

  It was yet another mystery surrounding Jane Eyre. Charlotte didn’t know if she could take any more mysteries. Her novel was becoming so convoluted as it was, on account of the ghost stuff.

  “Did she have Helen with her?” Mr. Blackwood asked.

  Charlotte blinked up at him. “Helen.”

  “Her ghost friend.”

  “Her what?”

  Mr. Blackwood nodded. “Oh, you didn’t know. Of course you didn’t. You can’t see anything. Both times I’ve seen her here, Miss Eyre has been accompanied by the ghost of a young woman—perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age. Golden hair, white dress.”

  Charlotte knew immediately who he was talking about. The girl in Jane’s paintings. She was real. She was a ghost. Charlotte felt a series of painful jolts deep inside her, first at the way Mr. Blackwood had said, “You can’t see anything,” and then at the idea of Jane having a ghost for a friend—a real live ghost! Or, not live, but real all the same—at Lowood, too, and Jane had never told her.

  “Are you ill?” Mr. Blackwood asked, gazing at Charlotte’s rapidly whitening face.

  “Helen?” Charlotte croaked. “Did you say the ghost’s name was Helen?”

  “Yes . . .” Mr. Blackwood cleared his throat as if addressing a young woman only by her first name physically pained him. “That’s what Miss Eyre called her. She did not give a surname.”

  “Burns,” Charlotte murmured. She had never met Helen Burns—the girl had already succumbed to the Graveyard Disease before the Brontë girls had come to Lowood. But the other students had spoken often and reverently of Helen Burns as the cleverest, prettiest, kindest, and most pious girl who’d ever been enrolled at the school. In fact, there was a school saying regarding Helen, whenever a girl failed in some way. What was it? Oh, yes. We can’t all be Helen Burns, you know.

  Charlotte’s mind raced. She quickly put everything together: Helen Burns was the friend—not Charlotte, after all—whom Jane had not wished to leave at Lowood. It had been Helen Burns who Jane was talking to as Charlotte had walked her out of Lowood that last day. Helen who she was talking to every time it seemed that she was talking to herself. All this while Charlotte had thought she was Jane’s only friend in all the world, but it turned out that Jane had another friend. A prettier friend. A best friend.

  “Miss Burns was the spirit that made itself known in the parlor earlier,” Mr. Blackwood was saying, while Charlotte�
��s heart quietly broke. “It was she who shattered the vase and did that crazy thing with the flowers. Through watching Miss Eyre’s interaction with Miss Burns I’ve become quite convinced that Miss Eyre is truly a Beacon.”

  Charlotte dabbed her eyes briefly on her sleeve and glanced up. “A Beacon? I thought you said she was a seer?”

  Mr. Blackwood proceeded to enlighten Charlotte about the nature of Beacons. Normally Charlotte would have found the topic fascinating—a person who could attract and command spirits—how thrilling!—but the most she could muster as a response was a stunned nod and a blank smile.

  Charlotte wanted to be happy for her friend. She did. She should think it wonderful that it had turned out Jane was more than just a seer. Jane was rare. Jane was special. Jane possessed powerful, mystical abilities related to the spirit world. Jane was going to be so useful to the Society. She could right everything, Mr. Blackwood explained, that had been going wrong there. Mr. Blackwood’s job would be saved. Bran’s job. And if Jane would only agree to be an agent (and how could she refuse, when Charlotte told her how important she was?) then Mr. Blackwood and Jane would carry on in their important duties as the most integral agents of the Society, Jane and Alexander together, Alexander and Jane, righting the wrongs of the world.

  And Charlotte had never felt quite so utterly unnecessary.

  FOURTEEN

  Jane

  Jane (oblivious to the angst she was causing Charlotte) was in the garden, painting. Helen stood awkwardly by the stream, posing with her arms intertwined, the palms of her hands facing upward as if she were hoping a butterfly would land softly upon them.

  “You’ve never asked me to pose before,” Helen said, trying not to move her lips.

  Helen was right, but secretly Jane had asked her to pose, and hold very still, so she would stop talking about Mr. Rochester’s quote unquote strange behavior and Charlotte’s revelation that Alexander Black . . . Esht . . . whatever was at Thornfield to try to recruit her to the Society. Jane had lived a boring life up until this point—a life where the most exciting thing she participated in was trying to not die from the Graveyard Disease. But now there was a little too much excitement.