My Plain Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  “Stay still, dear,” Jane said, tension seeping into her words. “Talking ruins your lines of . . . grace.” Lines of grace? Jane didn’t even know what that meant. “It’s a new technique I’m practicing.”

  Jane had awoken early this morning to put her feelings onto canvas. Adele was still in bed, having stayed up very late, and Jane was in no mood to converse with Charlotte again, so she had packed up her easel and canvas and brushes and departed just as the sun was rising.

  “Aren’t you so excited Charlotte is here?” Helen said.

  Jane’s brush jerked, giving the swallow she’d been working on a giant mustache.

  “Silence, please, dear. Or else you might ruin everything.”

  Helen didn’t seem to notice Jane’s irritation because something had caught her attention. Jane turned to look, and saw Mr. Rochester riding his horse away from the house, and toward her. Jane watched as he got closer and closer, and his hair got blowier and blowier, the tails of his riding jacket whipping behind him as he went. She waited for him to turn down the lane that would lead into town, but he didn’t. He came straight toward her. She reached up to tame a stray hair.

  “Jane Eyre,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  “Painting, sir.” She gestured to the brook.

  She assessed her painting, and winced. Her mind must have been otherwise occupied because it was the worst painting she’d ever created. Even before the black mess, the picture was rife with harsh strokes and prickly crosshatches, and a butterfly that looked more like a flying centipede, and rays of sunlight that promised destruction to whoever stepped near them.

  Mr. Rochester regarded the art with a raised eyebrow. “It’s very . . . elegant.”

  Jane scrunched her nose. “It’s a warm-up.”

  “Ah.”

  A light breeze blew between them, as they said nothing.

  Rochester looked around. “Thornfield is a beautiful place in the summer, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “People get to a place, become settled, and then they wish to leave again. Do you feel that way, Miss Eyre?”

  Jane wondered if he had any inkling that Mr. Blackwood was here to recruit her for the Society.

  “No.” Jane wanted to add that she was reluctant to be apart from him, in particular, but that would have more than pushed the boundaries of propriety. That would have broken them. Or, more accurately, lit them on fire and burned them to the ground.

  Mr. Rochester tilted his head. “Farewell, Miss Eyre. I will return. And promise me that you will be present in the parlor this afternoon with the rest of the guests.”

  Jane nodded.

  He touched his hand to his heart, so subtly that Jane didn’t know if it was an innocent movement or a deliberate gesture. She let herself imagine it was the latter.

  Mr. Rochester and horse galloped away.

  “Strange that the master of the house is set to leave again. Where could he be going?” Helen said. “And while he has guests. Who does that?”

  Jane ignored her. As she watched Mr. Rochester disappear down the road, she put her own hand to her heart.

  Jane kept her promise and sat in the parlor with the other guests for afternoon tea. Blanche Ingram sat close to the fire and shot Jane nasty looks followed by hushed comments to her mother. She was most likely talking about her contempt for the presence of the help, judging by Charlotte’s uncomfortable glances toward Jane. For Jane’s part, she was more concerned with how elegant a lady could appear while being so nasty. Of course, Mr. Rochester would want someone so elegant as his wife.

  Jane wondered if Miss Ingram had received a private farewell from Mr. Rochester as well. Did he put his hand on his heart as he took his leave of her? Did he do something more?

  Mr. Blackwood also eyed Jane, and seemed fidgety. No doubt he wanted to address her about the stupid Society gig, but was impeded by the pre-Victorian rules about the highborn speaking with the servants.

  Tea had just been served when a loud knock sounded at the main entrance of the manor. Soon after, the door to the parlor blew open.

  Jane shot to her feet, expecting to see Mr. Rochester. Instead, a stout man rushed in, followed by a servant breathing hard to keep up. Jane sank back down.

  “Mr. Mason,” the servant announced.

  The new arrival—Mr. Mason—paused momentarily, scanning the room as though looking for someone. He then gathered himself and bowed.

  “Good day,” he said. “I am here to call on Mr. Rochester.”

  The party stood, bowing and curtsying, and then Miss Ingram stepped forward. “Mr. Rochester is away on business, but he will return this evening. Please do sit.”

  Jane thought it seemed awfully presumptuous of Miss Ingram to take it upon herself to do the welcoming.

  When the guests and Mr. Mason had settled, and the proper introductions were made, Lady Ingram spoke.

  “Do tell us, Mr. Mason, how are you acquainted with Mr. Rochester?”

  Mr. Mason shifted in his seat. “We . . . have traveled together.”

  “Ooh, exciting,” Blanche Ingram said.

  Helen glanced at Jane. “Is it?”

  Jane shrugged.

  “And where did you travel?” Lady Ingram said.

  “Here and there. About.” Mr. Mason cleared his throat.

  “Ooh, thrilling,” Helen said.

  “Mr. Mason, you are indeed piquing our curiosity,” Miss Ingram said. “You must tell us more.”

  “What would you like to know, Miss Ingram?”

  Miss Ingram clasped her hands together. “Why do you visit Mr. Rochester now? What brings you here?”

  Mr. Mason frowned. “I’m here for the . . . weather.” Just then a thunderclap shook the windows. “The hunting weather.”

  “Ah,” Lady Ingram said.

  Everyone looked very puzzled. Mr. Mason grew even more uncomfortable, and kept an eye on the entrance to the parlor, anxious for Mr. Rochester’s return. Almost as anxious as Blanche Ingram. Almost as anxious as Jane.

  Then there was Charlotte and Mr. Blackwood, both of whom kept stealing glances at Jane. They were obviously anxious to talk to her, but they were not given the chance.

  So, between Miss Ingram and Jane and Mr. Mason and Mr. Blackwood and Charlotte, the room was . . . anxious.

  FIFTEEN

  Alexander

  It was a dark and stormy night.

  After everyone went to bed, Alexander penned a letter to Wellington. He wrote by the light of a single candle, keeping the scratch of metal on paper to a minimum. In the bed by the door, Branwell was already sleeping; Alexander didn’t want to wake him, as things were generally safer when Branwell was asleep.

  The letter read:

  Dear Sir,

  I’ve pursued Miss Eyre to an estate called Thornfield Hall. Having seen her command the dead on several occasions, I am more convinced than ever that she is a Beacon.

  While I am confident she will be persuaded to join us, I’d like to offer her £5,000 a year. I realize that is rather exorbitant, but with her being a Beacon, I believe the expense would be worth it.

  I am your obedient servant,

  A. Black

  When the ink dried, he fastened the letter to one of the Society pigeons and opened the window. The bird left, and Alexander tried to sleep.

  But Branwell’s nasal snores prevented sleep from reaching him, and Alexander lay in his bed going over every moment of the day.

  Rochester remained absent from Thornfield, which made sense with the storm, but why had he abandoned his guests in the first place? Something was still troubling him about the man.

  Alexander searched through his earliest memories, those fragments of his childhood before the explosion had killed his father.

  He could remember his father taking him for walks by the River Thames, pointing out different shops he’d taken Alexander’s mother to before she succumbed to the Graveyard Disease, and then Westminster, which loomed over the water wi
th its towers and arches and bells. His father knew everyone in the city, it seemed, from the merchants whose boats bobbed in the current to the boys who sold papers on every corner. When the crowd grew thick and Alexander couldn’t see over the heads of all the adults, his father would set him on his shoulders. Perched up there, Alexander had felt so big and tall and safe. When the breeze rustled through his hair, scented with the odors of smoke and people and trash in the river, Alexander had imagined he was flying.

  He could also remember going into Westminster, seeing Wellington, who’d patted his head, and then stopping by an office where one of his father’s friends worked. That was Rochester, he was certain. The man had been younger then, with fewer lines around his eyes and mouth, but he’d seemed warm and generous to little Alexander, offering a sweet and then making him laugh by saying something in French.

  And now his father was dead. And gone.

  Not everyone became a ghost, of course. And it was better, wasn’t it, that a spirit moved on to find peace? But still, an ache lived within Alexander. He’d searched for his father’s ghost at first, convinced he must be out there somewhere, waiting for Alexander to find him. But gradually, he’d had to admit the truth. His father was gone. Forever, it seemed. He remained only in memories, and Alexander’s desire to avenge his murder.

  “One day,” Alexander whispered into the night. “I promise.”

  Branwell’s snoring was getting worse, rivaling the thunder outside. There’d be no sleeping like this.

  Wearily, Alexander pulled on his robe and stepped out the door, into the candlelit hall. For a while, he wandered the maze of the house, letting his feet take him where they pleased. His head was back in those memories, that feeling of being held aloft on his father’s shoulders, high above the world and everyone in it.

  He’d been thinking of his father a lot since coming to Thornfield—from the moment he’d realized Rochester had been his father’s friend.

  “What are you doing out here?” The voice came from the translucent figure of Miss Burns, who was floating toward him from the opposite end of the hall.

  Alexander glanced around before replying; they were alone. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me neither.”

  They stared at each other, having reached some sort of impasse with that brief exchange.

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I’ll let you get back to haunting the halls.”

  “Are you going to trap me in a pocket watch?”

  He frowned. “No. Why would you think that?”

  “Jane is worried that you will. She doesn’t trust you or your pocket watch, and I agree with her.”

  “Then there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not here to relocate you, only to offer Miss Eyre a job.” Perhaps this reassurance was all that Miss Eyre needed to change her mind. (Regarding the exploding flower incident, Alexander could keep a secret.)

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Will you tell her that?” he asked.

  “I don’t have to do anything you say. You’re not the boss of me.”

  “That’s why I phrased it as a question, Miss Burns.”

  She tapped her finger against her chin. “Perhaps I’ll tell her. If the topic comes up again.” She floated away.

  In the direction he needed to go.

  Reader, you know that feeling when you say good-bye to someone and then you walk in the same direction with them, but you’ve already said good-bye and everything is awkward?

  Alexander was desperate to avoid that. He turned the other direction.

  Just then, he spotted someone else. Toward the east wing, a man fully dressed in a deep gray suit tested a doorknob, but it was locked. The man glanced over his shoulder, then pulled something from his pocket. A lock pick gleamed in the candlelight—just an instant before he fumbled and the sliver of metal clattered to the floor.

  As the man rushed to find the fallen lock pick, Alexander strode forward. “Good evening,” he said. “Mr. Mason.”

  The other man shot up. “Oh, Mr. Eshton, right? I didn’t see you there.”

  “Couldn’t sleep?” Alexander nodded toward the other man’s day clothes.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. I’m something of a night owl.” He took a step to one side, as though to block the door he’d been trying—and failing—to open. “And what about you? You look preoccupied, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Mr. Mason was behaving awfully shiftily, but Alexander hadn’t become the star agent of the Society by showing his hand. He’d let Mr. Mason believe he hadn’t been caught trying to break into the east wing. “I was pondering how strange it is that Mr. Rochester left mere days after receiving a houseful of guests.”

  “Very strange,” Mr. Mason agreed.

  “You’ve known him a long time, I take it.” Alexander shoved his hands into his pockets. “Has he always been like this?”

  Mr. Mason hesitated. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen the man, I must admit, but I recall him being more—ah—attentive in the past.”

  “What kept you away?”

  Mr. Mason shifted his weight. “N—nothing in particular. That is, years ago a favor was asked of me and it’s been so long. . . .”

  Alexander waited for him to finish.

  “It’s family business. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  How intriguing. Alexander barely restrained himself from reaching for his notebook. “Worry not, sir.” Alexander forced himself to smile. “I’d better be off to bed. Good night, Mr. Mason.”

  When Alexander returned to his room, a wet pigeon waited on the windowsill, its feathers singed by lightning and a letter tucked around its ankle. Apparently it was still raining. Gently, he removed the note and offered the bird a bit of bread, then watched it fly back into the storm. (These Society birds were as tough as nails.)

  Branwell’s snores filled the room. He slept deeply enough that he didn’t even stir when Alexander struck a match and lit a candle.

  The note read simply:

  Return to London immediately.

  That was strange. More than anyone else, Wellington knew the importance of having a Beacon join the Society. And what was more, Alexander still had two days to persuade Miss Eyre.

  No, Wellington must have misread his note. (No matter that this had never happened before.) Wellington must have missed the part where Alexander confirmed she was a Beacon.

  It was perhaps the first time Alexander deliberately disobeyed orders from Wellington, but perhaps it was the first time Wellington had ever been so wrong.

  Alexander would not leave Thornfield Hall without Jane Eyre.

  SIXTEEN

  Charlotte

  “Five thousand pounds!” Charlotte stared up at Mr. Blackwood, her mouth hanging open in shock. “Wait. What would Jane’s assistant make?”

  Five thousand pounds was an enormous sum. Charlotte could not conceive of what Jane would do with such an amount. The only thing she’d ever known Jane to spend money on was painting supplies, and five thousand pounds would practically buy Jane the Louvre.

  She tilted her head. “I thought you said that the Society was experiencing financial difficulties.”

  Mr. Blackwood nodded tightly. “So I did.”

  “But the Duke of Wellington approved offering Jane five thousand pounds a year?”

  Mr. Blackwood scratched the back of his neck and glanced away. They had slipped out to the garden before breakfast to discuss their plans of recruiting Jane. One day had passed since Charlotte had made her initial offer behind the parlor curtains. Which meant there were two days left before Jane would give her final answer.

  But Charlotte was certain that she’d only need today. No one could refuse the offer of five thousand pounds.

  “Um . . .” Mr. Blackwood was being uncharacteristically inarticulate. “Well . . . We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “But, Mr. Blackw—”

  “I find all this talk of money inappropria
te, don’t you?” he said.

  Inappropriate? She frowned. The last thing she wanted was to be inappropriate, but how could they discuss their plans for Jane without discussing—

  “So how will you approach Miss Eyre this time?” he asked. “We are meant to go on a picnic later. Perhaps we can find a reason to bring Adele along. And therefore Miss Eyre.”

  “I thought, instead, that I might stay behind,” said Charlotte. “I could say I have a headache or am otherwise feeling ill.”

  “Yes, do that,” Mr. Blackwood said faintly. “That’s good.”

  At the strained sound of his voice she lifted her glasses to look at his face. There was a small cut on his chin, where he must have nicked himself shaving, and shadows under his eyes. His expression was drawn, thoughtful.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He did not answer.

  “Mr. Blackwood?”

  He gave a weak attempt at a smile. “I’m fine. I had difficulty sleeping last night, is all.”

  “The storm was quite loud.”

  “Yes.”

  She could tell, though, that there was something more on his mind than the lack of sleep.

  “Mr. Rochester has still not returned?” she asked.

  His smile faded. “No.”

  “That’s odd, don’t you think?”

  “Quite.”

  It was quiet for a moment, Mr. Blackwood frowning, deep in his thoughts, and Charlotte observing him. Then she lost patience and just came out with her question. “What is it about Mr. Rochester that you’re not telling me?”

  His gaze flew up to her face. “What?”

  “Ever since we’ve arrived here, you’ve been troubled by something. Someone. Mr. Rochester, I think. You stare at him whenever he’s present in the room, and your expression in those moments . . .” She looked away, suddenly embarrassed to reveal how carefully she’d been observing him. “You obviously have a heightened interest in Mr. Rochester. Why?”

  “I—” Mr. Blackwood seemed taken aback by the bluntness of her question. Then he sighed. “Mr. Rochester was, I believe, a friend of my father’s.”

  “Was?”