My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(28)

Jane shot to her feet. “Sir,” she said.

“Miss Eyre. Please sit.”

She complied and Mr. Rochester sat on the other side of the sofa. Helen scooched toward Jane just in time to avoid him sitting through her.

“Rude,” Helen said.

Jane wasn’t sure what to say or do. Even though they sat on opposite ends, it still pushed the boundaries of propriety for a single woman and a single man to occupy the same sofa. It was a comfort for Jane that Helen sat between them.

Mr. Rochester placed the satchel at his feet.

“So, Miss Eyre. From where do you come?”

“Lowood school, sir,” Jane said.

“And who are your parents?”

“I have none.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“None.”

Mr. Rochester studied her face. “Friends?”

“One or two,” Jane said.

“Does he ask these questions of all his servants?” Helen said.

“One or two,” he repeated. “Are you referring to the other witch?” The corner of his mouth twitched up.

Jane didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter because Mr. Rochester continued on with his string of questions.

“And what did you learn at Lowood school?”

“Starvation,” Jane said, without thinking. She then added, “And the usual maths and history.”

Mr. Rochester tilted his head thoughtfully. “I understand Mr. Brocklehurst runs the school. He did not feed you?”

“No. He considered feeding the students a waste of food. And keeping them warm a waste of coal. But his opinion matters little now. He is dead.”

“Thank God,” Helen said. She’d been twisting her head back and forth, following the conversation the way one might watch a tennis match.

“You are very opinionated for someone who has spent her entire life at one place.”

“Yes,” Jane said.

Mr. Rochester sighed and then reached down toward Jane’s satchel. As he bent over, a necklace with a key on it fell out of his shirt. He quickly stuffed it back inside, then opened the satchel and pulled out a handful of Jane’s beloved art.

Jane drew in a breath, and Mr. Rochester seemed to notice. He held the pictures gently, and then spread them out on the table.

“You did all of these on your own?” Mr. Rochester said.

“Of course,” Jane said, somewhat indignantly.

“I meant no offense,” Mr. Rochester said.

“I meant to take none,” Jane said.

He turned back to the paintings. Most of them were landscapes. Some of them featured a golden-haired girl.

Helen leaned forward. “I love me in this one,” she said, pointing to one where she stood in front of a hill.

“Were you happy when you painted these, Miss Eyre?”

“I was not unhappy.”

“So, you were happy?”

“I was on a break from school, during which I stayed at the school because I had nowhere else to go. I was content.”

“Why do you avoid saying you were happy?”

Jane shook her head. Because I’ve been starved. Because my best friend died in my arms. Because I have no family.

At that moment Mrs. Fairfax flurried into the room, with Adele, who was wearing a green dress and frilly pantaloons.

At the sight of Mr. Rochester, Mrs. Fairfax froze. “Sir, I do apologize for my tardiness.”

Adele stepped forward. “I have prepared a song in my native tongue. Would you like to hear it?”

“Of course,” Jane said.

“My maman taught me to perform. She used to sing in an . . .” She put her finger on her cheek, searching for the word.

Mr. Rochester cleared his throat. Mrs. Fairfax shifted uncomfortably. “Opera house,” the housekeeper said.

Mr. Rochester grunted.

Adele shook her head. “Oh, no, I do not think that is right—”

“Opera house,” Mrs. Fairfax insisted.

“Opera house,” Adele said, frowning.

Mrs. Fairfax took a seat near the sofa. Adele took her place in front of the audience and began to sing.

“Miss Eyre, perhaps you can tell me what she’s saying?” Mrs. Fairfax said. “The only other person in the house who speaks French is the master, and he hates to translate anymore.”

Jane glanced at Mr. Rochester, but he stared straight ahead.

Jane listened to the song. “The first few lines are about a famous dancer . . . in a club. . . . She wore flowers in her hair and a dress that . . . oh.” Adele sang in detail about how much the dress covered. Or didn’t cover.

Jane blushed and glanced at Mr. Rochester, searching for a reaction to the scandalous lyrics. But he just listened. Not scandalized.

“So, yes, the dancer wore a dress,” Jane continued, with slightly less detail. “And she was in love with a . . . dealer. Of cards. And at night, they . . . oh my.”

Adele sang of a very special hug.

Jane’s cheeks flamed. “Perhaps Mr. Rochester should translate.”

She turned to Mr. Rochester, who coughed. He waved his hand. “Please continue, Miss Eyre. You’re doing such a fine job.”

Now Adele sang of the woman’s roving eye, and another man visiting her while her lover was away.