Jane Steele(123)
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We found ourselves, Charles Thornfield and I, walking slowly down a wide avenue in Westminster after finishing a celebratory repast with Sam Quillfeather. The high-hung moon was as pearly as the oysters we had consumed, and the cold wind whistled along the cobbles. It was the sort of silver-lit midnight which always reminded me of my mother, and made me wish there had been more picnics before she left the cottage and our garden forever.
Not having been sure of the outcome of our adventure, we had made no plans; now we strolled under winter plane trees, their inky fingers grasping at the stars, watching the lights flickering from within the pubs and the parlours. Mr. Thornfield was quiet with the uneasy calm of learning a long ordeal was behind him, as if not quite believing his fortunes had altered; I was equally still, but with apprehension.
My desire to never be parted from him was as ardent as my desire for breath; but I knew, should I fail to broach the subject of my past, I could become a puppet Jane, all wooden limbs and painted smiles. Reader, I do not foolishly suppose any one person can ever achieve perfect eloquence regarding their memories and affections and fears; if I did not take courage, however, I should always be viewing the man I loved through four eyes instead of two, ever cognisant of the monster hid deep in the back of my head.
“You are troubled, Jane.”
I looked down in some surprise; his hand had caught mine within the folds of the cloak I had borrowed from Sahjara, as I had never made spectacular achievements in the realm of height and did not care it failed to quite reach my ankles. The fact that we were both gloved against the chill did little to diminish the pulse which surged through me.
“If this—if I—am unwelcome,” he attempted, “please tell me so quickly. I recall your feelings as stated with exact clarity, I promise you, but I am overwhelmed. When a chap announces, ‘I fancy that star in the sky,’ and the star is actually amenable—’tisn’t likely to be true, you see.”
“I resemble no star, sir.”
“Well, you’ve clearly never heard of mirrors, then. I’ll teach you to use ’em, they’re easy as anything.”
I gripped his hand harder and stopped us, staring up at him, because this all might be lost at any moment, and the idea broke my heart. His roughhewn face was tilted down in concern, his pale hair agleam in the light of the lamp, and he was everything to me, so if I was not to hear his gruff voice in the morning, in all the mornings, I wanted to paint a mental portrait of him on a London street corner with his hand in mine.
“Jane, you look as though you’re saying farewell, and it’s deuced disconcerting,” he said.
“Far from that.” I brought the back of his hand to my cheek, and we resumed walking. “Only I said I had to tell you a story, first. Before you kept me.”
“It is only the amount of needless secrecy I’ve subjected you to which prevents my laughing in your lovely face. If shackles won’t do it, I’ve half a mind to try iron bars. Just here,” he added, pausing uncertainly before a neat, narrow row house. “I bought this when I first inherited so we should always have a place to keep our heads out of the rain in the city. Garima used to use it . . . well, before. Should you like to come in, and speak with me? If not, I’ll find a cab and take you to your lodging house.”
My answer was a rather breathless yes, I should very much like to come in, because anxiety and hope were wrapping thick vines about my throat. I found myself in a pleasant sitting room with yellow and green Sikh tapestries upon the walls and a profusion of richly tasselled cushions on the furniture which the neighbours would have found highly disreputable. After carelessly tossing his greatcoat over a chair, Mr. Thornfield poured spirits into crystal glasses for us as he always did—though now we both removed our gloves—and I placed Sahjara’s cloak on a tree in the hall.
When I chose the armchair nearest the fire, he endearingly pulled up a footstool directly before me and sat, our heads now near upon a level. Before I knew what I was about, I stroked my fingers over his temple and he smiled with the roguishness of a tomcat. He placed our glasses upon the carpet.
“You invest me with hope you shan’t be punishing me for my asinine refusals with your absence.” He caught my fingers and wove them with his own. “All other punishments you care to mete out will be met with better bravery. Now. Let’s have your secrets. This house was heated and aired this morning, but I ordered all the servants away.”
At times, the swiftest cut is the cleanest, so I announced, “The name I gave you is a false one. As a girl, I lived at Highgate House. I am the illegitimate daughter of your aunt Patience Barbary’s husband, Richard Barbary, and a French dancer who went mad and took her own life.”
Mr. Thornfield’s dark brows are dashing enough to perform great sardonic feats, but I had never before seen them execute such acrobatics. Then his eyes brightened nearly to sapphire and his lips parted. “You don’t mean to tell me that you’re really Jane Steele?” he exclaimed.
“I . . . I do, actually. How—”
He slapped his knee, barking a laugh. “Mum used to mention you from time to time, the French changeling whose mother wormed her into an English estate. Awfully thick situation for Aunt Patience to swallow, but Chastity and Patience Goodwill never got on, you understand—Mum thought it rather a ripe coup d’état. Why didn’t you say something?”