Jane Steele(89)

“What luck it was only a minor insult?” Again Mr. Quillfeather turned to Mr. Thornfield for confirmation, and the latter nodded curtly. Then the inspector glanced back at me.

“A painful hurt, and a lucky escape,” he repeated. “Frankly, it . . . reminds me of something, Miss Stone?”

A torn sleeve and a cousin dead at the bottom of a ravine. My mouth turned instantly dry.

“Jane, why don’t you lie down for a little?” Mr. Thornfield suggested, the gash between his brows thickening. “These have been trying times, and for no one more than yourself. Go to the parlour and try the settee—I’ll be along after I post Quillfeather here, all right?”

“Just the thing—can you make it unescorted, Miss Stone?” the inspector asked, bending forward solicitously.

“Yes,” said I. “Please don’t concern yourselves.”

“We’ll talk further soon,” Charles Thornfield said, voice as tight as it was fond. “Sleep if you can, but we shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“Take your time. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

When I walked into the corridor, I paused for only a second; one glance at the packed trunk persuaded me to leave it behind. It contained nothing I wanted, not without Mr. Thornfield, and I carried the cheque and my collection of letters in my reticule. Walking at first, then sprinting, I raced for the stables and ordered Nalin saddled and after stealing the horse he had given me, I rode hell for leather towards the village.





TWENTY-FIVE



Some say there is enjoyment in looking back to painful experience past; but at this day I can scarcely bear to review the times to which I allude: the moral degradation, blent with the physical suffering, form too distressing a recollection ever to be willingly dwelt on.


I left the spirited mare in the care of the inn, leaving explicit instructions that it should be returned to Highgate House and whatever man they sent would be compensated; this transaction complete, I booked a seat on the next coach with coin collected writing gallows ballads, which stock had not been depleted. Then I bought a penny roll and sat upon a bench outside the inn and began numbly to eat, knowing the miles ahead to be slow and dreary as the Thames.

I had an hour’s worth, more or less, of a head start, and the gallop had taken a mere ten minutes. The coach, meanwhile, should leave in half an hour, and perhaps Mr. Thornfield has not yet been told by Mr. Quillfeather I pushed a child over a cliff and speared a headmaster through the neck, perhaps—

“Miss Stone?”

Thankfully I had forced the last of the roll down, else I should have suffocated; there stood Mr. Sardar Singh, warmly bundled, a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm, his the only head in the sluggish trickle of pedestrians which had been wrapped in an elaborate configuration of sky blue (which doubtless accounted for the hostile stares). He was accompanied by Mrs. Garima Kaur, who was recording something in a small pocketbook; her gaunt face looked still more stark than usual, her eyes lost in the curves of her skull.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, shrinking. “What are you doing here, Mr. Singh?”

“Picking up blank death certificates for Charles from the village physician—we’re not quite outfitted fully, and are to meet with Mr. Sam Quillfeather today.”

“Yes, he’s there at the house.”

I knew I did not sound right; I hated that I did not sound right. Mr. Singh turned to Mrs. Kaur, conferring in Punjabi. She looked at me so oddly, a mingling of inquisitiveness and something I could not identify, that I averted my eyes; thus I only saw in my periphery that, after a muted request, Mrs. Kaur began walking briskly back in the direction of Highgate House.

“We are quite alone, Miss Stone, unless you wish it otherwise,” I heard Mr. Singh state.

My vision blurred until I was seeing from the bottom of a lake; then the bench squeaked and a hand was at my elbow.

“What in heaven’s name is— Has something else happened, Miss Stone?”

“Nothing to speak of.”

“Miss Stone, please know I would hold any confidence from you under eternal lock and key.”

“It isn’t that I don’t trust you.”

“Then please assure me that you’re all right,” he insisted more strongly.

Several seconds passed.

“I’m not all right,” I choked at last. “I cannot remain in Mr. Thornfield’s company.”

Ascertaining what the stuffy, sausage-smelling citizens of that hamlet thought of a Sikh dressed as an Englishman wrapping his arms around a governess as she sobbed soundlessly into his coat would be quite impossible, for I could see nothing whatsoever. However many stares we garnered, the activity served a dual purpose; my heart was breaking, so the simple comfort was appreciated; and if I keened over cruel fate and lost love, I should not have to explain I was also running away to London to escape execution.

“Yes, there . . . that’s better,” he said as I calmed. “Miss Stone, may I ask what brought matters to this state?”

His grey eyes were bright with compassion when I pulled away. After he had passed me his handkerchief and sat there patiently as the quaking in my shoulders lessened, I found I did indeed wish to speak with him, and still had fifteen minutes before my coach departed.

“Forgive me for making such a scene.”