Jane Steele(99)

I rolled clumsily onto my belly, reaching, and flipped to a passage from my new copy of my favourite book:

To this crib I always took my doll; human beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby as a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now to remember with what absurd sincerity I doted on this little toy; half-fancying it alive and capable of sensation. I could not sleep unless it was folded in my night-gown; and when it lay there safe and warm, I was comparatively happy, believing it to be happy likewise.

Upon first reading, I had found it bizarre that the adult Jane Eyre regarded this exercise as either puzzling or absurd; upon subsequent readings, I marvel still more at her derision. Lacking interest in dolls, I had once—not unlike my poor, sweet Sahjara—gathered crumbs of pleasure by spoiling horses. This seemed to me neither worship of a false idol nor a quirk of an infantile mind; it did no one any harm if I treated a horse well, and made my days less miserable.

Did I deserve misery for the things I had done?

Yes, of course I did. Even apart from being the tainted bastard offspring of a suicidal mother and a lying father, I was a murderess five times over.

As I seemed incapable of turning myself in, however, would any harm come to the world if for the moment I thought of this newly reborn Jane—Jane without legitimate parentage, Jane without legitimate surname—as a creature worth treating gently?

There was no one else volunteering for the task, after all.

? ? ?

Brisk footfalls outside my bedroom door woke me at eleven the next morning; the anonymous movement dragged me from a weirdly sweet slumber. The sun was high, however, and breakfast long concluded, and the whiskey’s solace had left me with an empty belly, so I clambered from bed and washed. Then I donned another of my fashionable frocks, a floral silk with a dramatic shawl collar, all save the white lace sleeves emerging from fabric printed in grey and silver and a blue which reminded me of Mr. Thornfield’s eyes.

Today is for you, I thought, wherever you are and however you fare, and was seized with such a longing that my breath caught.

My set of modest Punjabi diamonds completed the picture, and I deftly swallowed the remainder of last night’s whiskey, fortifying myself as I quit the Weathercock.

Noontide bells rang as my soles struck the cobbles. I had been too disoriented to give Mr. Sack a specific time the day before, so I did not feel rushed. Luncheon was the first order of business, and I knew of a beautiful tearoom Clarke and I had used to frequent mere blocks away from East India House; I was seized with a longing to see it again, its gliding servers and polished brass rails, so I hailed a hansom and directed the driver to the City.

Cox’s Tearoom was just as I recalled it when we pulled up before its door, and by the time I had paid the driver, both the wind and my stomach bit sharply. A liveried gentleman led me to a table, where I was soon equipped with Darjeeling and a tower of sandwiches. After a few sips and bites, however, I thought I should be more comfortable with a newspaper; I visited the rack and selected a late-morning edition, glancing at the headlines as I returned to my table. Nearly colliding with a waiter, I looked up, murmuring an apology.

I stopped dead, staring in astonishment.

Rebecca Clarke sat at a table by the window, shafts of illumination waltzing through the golden corkscrews of her pinned-up hair.





TWENTY-EIGHT



But I ought to forgive you, for you knew not what you did: while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only up-rooting my bad propensities.


My heart, so egregiously taxed of late, rung in my breast like a great gong—I thought it must have been audible, so painfully glad was I to see my schoolmate, my companion, nay, my sister, again after so long a time.

Once the initial shock had worn off, I ceased marvelling and allowed happiness to spread like a virus through my chest. We had shared the same tastes once, Clarke and I, moved in twin orbits like binary stars. It was not very surprising, therefore, that in this labyrinth of a town I should stumble upon my lost great friend, particularly considering I had sought the place out because it reminded me of her.

Clarke was twenty-one years old, and where once she had been thin and ethereal, now she was beautiful—as freckled as ever, with the tiny mouth of an inquisitive porcelain doll. So many times had I pictured her starving that the sight of her hale was a gift, the unlooked-for sort which pierce deeper than the expected. Her clothing was fine but eccentric: a long bronze skirt, a close-fitted ivory waistcoat, a dark copper jacket with tails and lapels to it, a golden cravat. This elegant but oddly mannish ensemble was completed by a miniature top hat, and she peered through a pair of half-moon pince-nez at the afternoon edition of the Times.

My feet had carried me farther than I realised during this reconnaissance, and I found myself before her, my eager shadow brushing the hem of her skirt.

“Just put it on my account, if you—oh!” Clarke exclaimed, her cup clattering into its saucer as she glanced up.

Say something, I thought.

Nothing emerged.

I’ve missed you terribly and deeply regret the fact you learnt I am a homicidal maniac.

I hesitated.

Not that.

“It’s good to . . .” I swallowed, for Clarke had turned as pale as the milk brought for her coffee. “That is—we needn’t speak, only I saw you, and . . .” I battled the urge to prove myself the pinnacle of urbanity by throwing myself in her lap and sobbing. “You look well, and I’m glad.”