Jane Steele(76)

“Yes.” The reply was immediate, just as I thought it would be.

“Are you now claimed by anyone who made her pledge in exchange for yours?”

“God, no.”

“Do you find me objectionable, sir?”

My feelings were at such a high pitch that he could have said anything and pleased me better than what he did: he released the grip he had on my forearms, pulling himself respectfully away.

“Jane, if anyone ever finds you objectionable, direct me to his house that I might test my crop upon his sorry hide. Please believe that I do not, and forgive me for having befriended you; I ought to have calculated the effect that our conversations might have upon an English—”

“I do not speak this way because I am a confused Englishwoman!” I cried. “You know that I have fallen into past errors and have admitted as much yourself. Despite this, or perhaps because of it—damned if I know whether ’tis one or the other—I understand you, and that understanding led to admiration. We are scoundrels, are we not? Please don’t turn your face, I am not through! I should not like you to suppose you were endeared to me because I thought you as deficient as I am, or because your past is chequered: that would be a gross misrepresentation of my sentiments. I care for you wholly, entirely, not piecemeal, therefore I charge you to be honest with me regarding your feelings if not your history. Only tell me whether . . . tell me whether you value me too.”

This last was delivered upon the thinnest breath of air, and then truth telling could bring me no further: I had unravelled myself, and had only to await his reply.

“Jane.” Reaching, Mr. Thornfield trailed his fingers over my shoulder.

“Don’t stand there deciding whilst I watch you.” Tears were forming, and I forced them back.

“Such a fragile soul she turns out to be after all,” he said softly. “Grievous injury frightens her not, yet my standing here without a yes on my lips quite shatters her. How you look, Jane—don’t allow me to hurt you so. I don’t deserve the privilege, I might venture to say no one on earth does. For God’s sake, be the wild creature I found in the lane, free of ties that will only pull you to pieces.”

“I won’t be torn apart at all, supposing you stay near, sir.” Forcing the words from my swollen throat, I added, “I only want to be closer still. You are unattached, you said as much—where is the harm to anyone in claiming me? Whatever you have done, it cannot be so terrible that you must deny yourself human contact forevermore.”

“There you would be surprised.”

“No, I honestly wouldn’t be!” I cried.

He lightly took me by the shoulders, gazing down with such a look of mingled fondness and misery as I have never witnessed.

“If you knew the immensity of my blunders, if you knew how culpable I was, you’d be sore tempted to spit in my eye. But that’s neither here nor there—I know, and the knowledge will never cease to haunt me,” he hissed. “I took small comfort in the fact you were happier here than whatever bloody hellhole you used to occupy in London, the fact I could keep you fed and safe among people who relish your company, but do you really want a partial man, a grotesque carnival figure? The gloves are only an outward symbol of an inner deformity. Please, darling, I hate to see what harm I’ve already caused you. It’s agonising—say only that we can be friends again.”

I could say no such thing; my mind felt full of smoke, my ears muffled with the word darling, my veins laced with laudanum though I had taken none. Meanwhile, his eyes could or would not stop roving—from my own, to my lips, to my throat, and back again.

I decided that I would look desperate if I said anything more, and thus my next words were not calculated; they were like slipping off a ravine’s treacherous edge.

And as long as you still mark me, I don’t care.

“You study me, Mr. Thornfield.” I placed a shaking hand over his breast. “Do you find me beautiful?”

Slowly, Charles Thornfield pulled his gloves from his pocket and slid them back on; then, looking as flayed as anyone I have ever seen, he strode for the stairs and disappeared within the house.

Not such a very long period passed between his exit and my lifting myself from the cold floor where I had curled into the hard shape of a shell, my sobs buried in my skirts; soon enough my pride had reared its haughty head, and I dragged myself back to my room to pour the salty confessions into my pillow.

That Mr. Thornfield could not desire me would have been devastating, but a clean cut—that he would not desire me was a ragged gash indeed. I imagined that no night would ever prove worse, and thus it came as an unpleasant surprise when the following proved very much more hideous indeed.





TWENTY-TWO



There was nothing to cool or banish love in these circumstances; though much to create despair.


The next morning, I resolved to break through Charles Thornfield’s walls as if I were a battering ram; but gently, over the course of years, and in the meanwhile I might see his white head bent over a harness buckle he was adjusting for Sahjara, and hear him casually cursing. This plan greatly improved my spirits, and I set to filling Sahjara’s pate with horse-related facts, feeling quite myself again by the time we parted.

I ought to have noted something malevolent in the air, for the skies were heavy as lead. Still favouring my ankle, I went into the hall to sort through the mail and discovered an envelope postmarked from London, addressed to Miss Jane Stone.