My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(15)

Reading a newspaper was how he’d found his apprentice, who’d been the perfect age to join the Society, and at the perfect place in his life. He’d had no other attachments that might prevent him from doing his job. (Sometimes people did.) And he’d had the gift. (Not everyone got it, even under all the right circumstances.) Over the years, Alexander had offered jobs to several people, and most were happy to join. But ever since the king cut funding, recruitment had been far more difficult.

Just as night fell, and Alexander finished writing up a formal report to go along with the teacup and Brocklehurst incident, a pigeon arrived with a note from Wellington. (Yes, this does sound like a remarkably fast reply for the day, and it was. But Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, possessed the fastest racer pigeons in all of England. One could even say that they were almost supernaturally fast.)

Alexander snapped the wax seal and unfolded the note.

I trust you. —A. Well

For the next several minutes, Alexander thought back to his approach to the job offer. Everything had been hectic. She’d been flustered, he thought. Perhaps an impromptu relocation hadn’t been the best time or place for such a proposal (no matter that he’d gone there with that intention in the first place).

Very well, then. He’d go back and he’d try again, and this time he would get it right.





FOUR


Charlotte

As you, dear reader, could have probably guessed, the students at Lowood school were no longer remotely interested in the murder of Mr. Brocklehurst. Now all they wanted to talk about was the dashing and impossibly enigmatic Mr. Blackwood—sigh, Mr. Blackwood—with his fine wool coat and his fine black hair. That such a person—an actual boy!—had taken an interest in Jane Eyre—the most unremarkable girl, so plain!—was the most sensational gossip ever to grace the halls of Lowood. Even if Mr. Blackwood wasn’t exactly handsome, per se (his jaw was simply too square), he was definitely wealthy—I mean, look at his coat—which was all that truly mattered. And there’s just something about him, don’t you think, that makes him the most interesting person you’ve ever encountered? That coat. That hair. That mask, so very mysterious, framing those piercing eyes. (There’d been a fierce argument over the color of those piercing eyes. Some said they were a deep and mossy green; others said a storm-tossed blue.) And let’s not forget the way those piercing eyes had gazed at Jane Eyre—so intently, so very, well, piercing—sigh—Don’t you wish someone might gaze that way at you?

Charlotte was a bit weary of the gossip, truth be told. Of course she was interested in Mr. Blackwood. She’d noted that he had quite an arresting manner and very shapely hands. But her main interest in Mr. Blackwood was on account of his position as a member of the RWS Society. He had the best job in England, in Charlotte’s opinion. The idea of traveling the country, gathering information, taking notes, tracking down ghosts, capturing them: it was the most glamorous form of employment that Charlotte could envision. She could only imagine the stories she’d collect at such a job.

Mr. Blackwood had returned to the school twice after the initial visit. He’d presented himself the next morning and requested to be given a private audience with Miss Eyre. To discuss his earlier proposition, he said. (At this point, several of the girls had fainted in sheer delight—a proposition!) But Jane had refused to see him.

Undeterred (he must be so very besotted with her, speculated the girls), Mr. Blackwood had reappeared the following morning. Same time. Same reason.

“I have nothing to say to him,” Jane had said stiffly. “Please tell him to go away. Politely.”

Charlotte couldn’t fathom that Mr. Blackwood had actually asked Jane to marry him. They’d only just met. Charlotte believed in love at first sight, of course—she dreamed that one day, at some unexpected moment, such a thing might even happen to her—but she firmly disapproved of marriage at first sight. Instead she thought that this whole business with Mr. Blackwood and Jane must have something to do with Jane’s night at the Tully Pub. Something significant must have happened.

There was a story there. She could feel it in her bones. Something that perhaps she could work into her Very First Novel about Miss Jane Frere.

“Perhaps,” Charlotte had relayed to Mr. Blackwood back in the parlor, “if you could enlighten me as to the nature of your request, I could entreat Miss Eyre on your behalf?”

Mr. Blackwood shifted uneasily on the sofa. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details with anyone but Miss Eyre. I simply wish to know if she has reconsidered my . . .”

Oh, my, perhaps he had proposed. Charlotte lifted her spectacles to see his face. His cheeks were slightly flushed. And his eyes, she noticed, were a deep sable brown.

She leaned forward. “Yes?”

“. . . if she would reconsider my offer of employment at the SRWS.”

Charlotte blinked at him. “You wish to employ Jane Eyre? At the Society?”

“Yes.”

“Am I to understand that the Society is recruiting new agents?” She leaned forward even further. “Female agents?”

“Yes.”

He was rather monosyllabic, wasn’t he? But never mind that. This was wonderful news.

“Well, sir,” she said rather breathlessly. “Jane seems to have made up her mind.” (Jane was mad, clearly. What could she be thinking, refusing such an offer?) “I know her well, and once her mind is made up about something, there’s little changing it.” She was thinking in particular about Jane’s response that time when Mr. Brocklehurst wanted to cut the girls’ hair so that they wouldn’t become vain. But then she didn’t want to bring up Mr. Brocklehurst.