Jane Steele(93)

Days of preparation followed, reader, ones which left me in a strange daze of commingled purpose and despair. By now, I thought I might actually expire without Mr. Thornfield, sudden heartaches piercing with the lances of a hundred Khalsa cavalry; at others, I felt haler to know I served him still. I read my borrowed novel twice through, then bought a copy at a quaint bookstall—I have not yet got out of the habit of reading Jane Eyre, come to that—and idled, and schemed, and awaited answers to my letters.

I had only to wait one day to hear from Mr. Sneeves; he was from home, the message having been forwarded, and so I must wait two more days to meet with him. Hastily agreeing to this via his clerk, I gnawed my thumb and hoped for a missive from Mr. Augustus Sack.

I got one, too, on the very morning I was to meet with my solicitor, and it read as follows:

East India House, Leadenhall Street

My dear Miss Smith,

Of course I recall the pleasure of your company, a boon which rendered bearable an otherwise profoundly distressing journey. I confess that, though I may have an inkling of the matter to which you refer, the less said in written form the better, for this is very much a Company affair, and therefore I propose you visit me in my office. My hours are from eight to seven, but a request from you could find me there at any time.

Very sincerely &etc.,

Mr. Augustus P. Sack

My lips twisted into what resembled a smile, but may have invested the casual observer with more fear than mirth.

Then I donned another of my new frocks in order to properly present myself to Mr. Sneeves. This costume was all of the same patternless fabric, a shimmering fawn colour, but the detailing was exquisite—ten deep pleats, a plain band of the same fabric at the waist, and then it blossomed into fold after fold, like a modern woman’s dream of a Renaissance belle.

My eccentric looks did not quite do the workmanship justice; but next I added a calculated finishing touch, a demure but real set of necklace and earrings, the stones of which the jeweller assured me had travelled straight from the Punjab. I had sixty pounds of Mr. Thornfield’s advance remaining, and I assured myself that the rest of the money could not possibly have been better spent.

? ? ?

The first sense engaged upon entering Mr. Sneeves’s offices was that of smell; the reek of snuff greeted me long before the man himself did, though he was scrupulously prompt. Mr. Sneeves introduced himself in a reedy voice, hastened me into his consulting room, and shut the door.

As soon as we were alone, he lifted a teak snuffbox. “You don’t mind, I hope?”

“Not at all.”

I must waste no time over describing the chamber—the usual maelstrom of ledgers, untidy bookshelves, and the like—for Mr. Sneeves had my passionate attention. He was a little man with a great round balding dome covered in freckles, as if his shoulders had sprouted a mushroom. Though of fine quality, his black coat was in no way ostentatious, and I realised that—apart from the almost dizzying aroma of snuff—Mr. Sneeves preferred his clients to forget they had ever required his services at all.

“You are most accommodating. Thank you.” Mr. Sneeves set the snuffbox down and commenced staring at me with pale eyes beneath thistly brows.

An interminable period passed, during which my sweat began to seep forth like morning dew.

“Pardon, Miss Steele, but you stir up old memories,” Mr. Sneeves concluded at last, sitting back in his chair. “You resemble your mother, you know, save in colouring—that is entirely upon the paternal side. What should you prefer to drink?”

I sat there, dumb; resembling my adored mother was enough news, leaving me hotly aglow, without the fact that I apparently took after my unremembered father as well. Meanwhile, Mr. Sneeves was already headed for the sideboard with a shuffling gait. I reminded myself of the role Jane Steele was to play today—a moderately interested but well-off woman, that she might get all answers not generally imparted to a beggar at the door.

“Thank you, but I—”

“You must have a taste of something fortifying, Miss Steele, for I fear I may shock you. There are a few solicitors, you will find, who are actually aware their clients possess sensibilities. Sherry?”

“Please,” I said rather faintly, “though . . .”

“Brandy, then,” he curtly suggested. “Considering your background, it must have been administered as a restorative at one time or another, and once having had brandy, one ought not go backwards.”

The man, for all his resemblance to your more affable variety of fungus, was riveting. I drew my soft blue cloak, which I had neglected to shed, closer about my frame as Mr. Cyrus Sneeves planted a brandy snifter before me; he deposited half as much before himself and resumed his place behind the desk.

I soon came to understand from his complete silence that I was expected to make an overture.

“Mr. Sneeves, thank you for seeing me—you must have wondered at my letter’s contents.”

“Heavens, no.” Mr. Sneeves took another great pinch of snuff, making my own eyes water. “No, Miss Steele, I only wondered who told you about me.”

Faltering, I removed my gloves. “My mother left a few letters—”

“May I see them?”

Turning over my mother’s letters felt a strangely intimate act, for all that my solicitor would learn nothing he did not already know; I had so little of Mamma left that all my relics were magical, more talismans than mementoes. At last, finished, Mr. Sneeves scrubbed a hand over his mottled pate.