My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(20)

Jane could not figure out if Mrs. Fairfax liked her master or feared him.

“Now, Miss Eyre, if you could possibly post these letters.” She grabbed a stack of envelopes from the table and thrust them toward Jane. “It’s just down the road.”

Jane had the distinct feeling she was being summarily dismissed.

Mrs. Fairfax ushered her out of the kitchen and toward the servants’ entrance.

“But I’m unfamiliar with the area,” Jane said.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Mrs. Fairfax said.

And with that, Jane and Helen found themselves out the door. Alone. On a dirt road. Which was blanketed in a thick fog.

“This is going so well,” Jane said.

“We’re all going to die,” said Helen.

They walked in silence for a long time. For Jane’s part, she was quiet because she didn’t want to alert anyone (or anything) to her presence. But she’d never admit that to Helen, who was next to her, shaking uncontrollably.

“These woods are haunted,” Helen said.

Jane forced a smile. “I’ve decided to believe Mrs. Fairfax. It was probably a fox.”

“She said it was a wolf.”

“Right. That’s what I meant.”

Helen looked skeptical. It wasn’t Helen’s fault she was holding on to this fear. Wayward ghosts always held on to feelings longer than necessary. It was how they became wayward in the first place.

Maybe she just needed a distraction.

“Helen, tell me the story of the first time we met,” Jane said.

“You don’t remember?”

“Of course I do, but I love to hear you tell it.”

Helen smiled. “Well, I couldn’t wash my hands that morning, for the water was frozen. Miss Scatcherd called me to task for it, and struck my neck with a bundle of sticks.”

“Not that part!” Jane hated that part.

“But it’s the reason you came and spoke to me that day, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jane allowed.

“So I will never resent that memory,” Helen said simply.

The living Helen had been such a good person. Better than Jane. And though the ghostly Helen could be a bit precocious and paranoid, she was still a better person than Jane.

“You told me that day that it was not violence that overcomes hate, nor vengeance that heals injury,” Jane said. “And it’s a good thing you did, because I had formulated a plan to escape Lowood and beat my aunt Reed with a very large stick.”

“No!” Helen exclaimed.

“No, of course not,” Jane said. She would never. Not with a large stick.

Suddenly, they heard galloping hooves coming from somewhere deep in the fog.

“What is that?” Helen said, alarmed.

“Probably just a horse,” Jane said in a trembling voice.

“What if it’s a Gytrash?” Helen asked.

Jane sighed. She shouldn’t have told Helen about the Gytrash, a northern ghost that appeared as a horse or a very large dog. Helen hadn’t stopped pacing for days after that story.

“Gytrash aren’t real,” Jane said. But her voice wavered.

“You said Bessie told you about it and you said you believed her!” Helen said.

“That was a long time ago.”

“That was last week.”

The sound of hooves was getting louder. Jane’s pulse quickened. Maybe Helen had a point.

“The legend also says no one rides the Gytrash, so if this horse has a rider, we know it’s not a Gytrash.” There, that should soothe Helen’s nerves. Wild, unbridled horses were rare in this part of England.

To prove her point, Jane faced the sound of hoofbeats, just as a huge dog shot out of the mist and barreled toward her.

“Gytrash!” Jane exclaimed.

The dog was followed by a large black horse, with a large dark rider.

“Unfamiliar human!” Helen exclaimed. Her terror was so great that—for a moment—she appeared in the middle of the road, looking as solid and alive as Jane.

The horse neighed and skidded, but couldn’t stop in time. He raced right through Helen, then reared up and bucked. The rider dropped to the ground.

Helen turned translucent again.

“Damn!” The rider sat on the ground a few meters away, his back to Jane.

Jane rushed forward. “Sir, are you hurt?”

He groaned and grabbed his ankle.

“Sir, can I be of help?”

“You mean, helping me with something other than throwing me from my horse at very great speeds? What are you, witches?”

Oh, no. Witches. Plural. He’d seen Helen.

Helen mouthed, I’m sorry.

Jane turned toward the man, who had been watching her, and promptly forgot what she was going to say, because she caught sight of his face, and it was easily the most handsome face she’d ever seen. Pale and oval in shape, sideburns all the way down to his pointed chin (which would technically make it a beard) and framing the most perfectly tiny lips she’d ever beheld.

“Witches,” he snarled again. He was even handsome when he was calling her names.

“Sir, I believe you mean witch in the singular. There is no one here but me.”

He frowned. “So you admit to being a witch?”