Jane Steele(64)
“A deal of people, Miss, are for trusting all to Providence; but I say Providence will not dispense with the means, though He often blesses them when they are used discreetly.”
My boundless affection for the protagonist of Jane Eyre has already been established; and yet, I cannot resist stating that she made the most dismal investigator in the history of literature.
Consider: she discovers Edward Fairfax Rochester practically in flames. Upon the morrow, whom does she meet but Grace Poole, the assumed culprit; and when Jane suspects the vile Grace of sounding her out over bolting her door? Jane, wise woman that she is, proceeds to deliver all her intentions regarding door-bolting to the dour nurse, in detail, upon a silver platter.
Apparently there is nothing like telling murderous fire-starters exactly what they want to know about locked doors when they ask you—it confuses them, most likely.
After dinner, I made such a purposeful din going up the stairs that Mrs. Garima Kaur’s face appeared at the bottom, eyes sharply inquisitive within the enormous bowls of their sockets.
“No, no, I’m all right,” I called down, panting. “Nearly there, anyhow!”
“Nothing bad?” she insisted.
“Nothing bad whatsoever. Mrs. Kaur, are you concerned over something in particular?”
“Do not worry,” she said, though the quizzical look had not left her eyes.
“Good night, Mrs. Kaur.”
“Good night, Miss Stone.”
She stood there with face uplifted, watching me until I had turned my back.
When I made it to my room, I locked the door and cast the crutch aside; I was nearly certain my plan would work, but only so long as I could execute it. After a few hobbling circuits, wincing dreadfully, I confirmed that I could walk, provided nearly all my weight was upon my left leg.
Breathless, I sat down and stared at my mantel clock.
Though not well versed in Mr. Thornfield’s habits, I did know Mr. Singh’s, and we had concluded our dinner during the time the butler checked the doors and windows; I had only to wait for him to finish sealing the house like a crypt, and then rush to the drawing room without my crutch, hoping I had not missed anything.
Schooling myself, I chose a time: eleven twenty-four in the evening. Milksops mewl that sin corrupts the willpower, but I have that in spades—so I sat until the minute exact and set off.
The corridor presented little difficulty, but the fourth step upon the first flight always bellowed as if someone were tormenting a calf: I avoided it. My ankle burnt, but not unbearably so, for I held both hands to the rail and proceeded with a sideways step-hop, step-hop motion. I remembered just in time that the banister squeaked above the second landing: I put my hand against the wall and gingerly set my sprained ankle upon the final step.
Pain lanced through it, and I pressed my free hand over my mouth. I managed, however, jaw screwed tight, and resumed my ludicrous progression to the ground floor.
Once in the hall, I paused, and yes—a muted glow from the drawing room combined with the muted thrum of male voices told me to hurry, or all would be for nothing. The lights were out, a single pretty bell-shaped lamp of fractured rose glass remaining; by daylight, it was one of my favourite sources of illumination, for it made the drear midwinter light blush charmingly. Now, in the surrounding darkness, all seemed feverish and bruised.
“—thrash the dog from here back to Calcutta, and then good riddance, says I,” growled Mr. Thornfield.
My entire frame snapped to alertness.
This was not Mr. Thornfield’s usual baritone—it was a voice meant to carry across dunes and canyons, bereft of pretension, barely even English though he possessed no foreign accent. This was who Charles Thornfield actually was, or at least had been, when living under vast Eastern skies.
“For heaven’s sake, Charles.” Mr. Singh sighed. “You always say that first, and it has never been helpful. Not a single time.”
I limped close enough to the slightly open door to hear them clearly.
“I haven’t another solution,” Mr. Thornfield insisted. “Sardar, I need hardly tell you the man is a menace in the extremest degree—and who knows what burchas* he has in his employ.”
“Which is why I cannot comprehend why you indulged in his request to see Sahjara.”
The voice was so stern that my scalp prickled.
“I was wrong to try it,” Mr. Thornfield answered instantly. “Pray don’t be angry, I’ve already taken myself to task. But what if meeting Sack again had . . . jostled something loose in what seems to be a fixed state?” A wistful pitch of yearning had crept into Mr. Thornfield’s voice and I pictured him as I knew he must look, muscled shoulders taut and dark brows threatening his stately nose. “What if seeing him had made a difference?”
“Charles, Sahjara is not an experiment!” Mr. Singh hissed. Then he sighed once more, and I heard liquor being poured, and I craned my neck further. “That was uncalled-for and yet I delivered it, rather an unforgivable sin in a khansamah,* wouldn’t you say? Accept my apologies. Tell me your object in letting Sahjara within five miles of Sack, then.”
“We will never be safe until a permanent solution is found!” Mr. Thornfield rasped. “When he arrived, shocked as I was, I imagined that if she saw his face again, his own plan might snake round and bite him in the arse. That she might—”