My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(29)

“They continued to love each other,” Jane said quickly, maybe a bit desperately.

In the last verse, the boyfriend found out about her infidelity, and stabbed the dancer and her other lover.

“That escalated quickly,” said Helen. She also spoke French, but no one had asked her to translate.

“And they both lived happily ever after,” Jane blurted. She was going to have to teach Adele some new songs.

“How sweet!” Mrs. Fairfax declared. “I am excited to see what you can do with her.”

Jane smiled awkwardly.

Adele sang two more songs: one about a French dance that involved the lifting up of skirts and kicking very high, and then another about a lady of the night. Jane had to wonder who had been in charge of Adele’s education up to this point. Someone at the, ah, opera house, perhaps? She stopped translating.

After Adele was finished, she looked expectantly at Mr. Rochester. “Where is my present?”

“Ah, I am back from traveling, and therefore, she expects a gift,” Mr. Rochester said. “Because she values gifts above all else. Do you love gifts, Miss Eyre?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never received one. But I assume they are considered generally pleasant things.”

“No gifts?”

“Unless you count learning to live with little to eat a gift.”

Mr. Rochester took in a deep breath. Then he walked over to the wall and rang a bell labeled “kitchen.” A few moments later, Grace Poole strode into the room. She had ash or soot on her face, and her expression was dark.

“Mrs. Poole,” Mr. Rochester said. “What are you doing in the kitchen? Why are you not—” He cut himself off abruptly.

“Not in the east wing for the renovations,” Mrs. Fairfax said.

“Yes,” Mr. Rochester said. “That’s what I was about to say.”

“I was in the kitchen getting food for the . . . renovations.” Grace Poole did not call him sir, nor did she exhibit any of the other genuflections servants at that time should have.

Jane expected her to face some sort of chastisement, but none came.

“Ah, well, please bring Miss Eyre something to eat,” Mr. Rochester said.

Grace Poole cut her gaze to Jane. Sized her up. Jane sat a little taller, trying to look deserving of food.

“Never mind,” Mr. Rochester said. “It is late. Miss Eyre, please put your charge to bed.”

Grace Poole shrugged. “If you’re sure. I can whip something up in the cauldron.”

“Do not eat anything she whips up in a cauldron,” Helen whispered.

“Thank you, but I should put Adele to bed.” Jane couldn’t stop the quiver in her voice. “Good night. Adele, come with me.”

Mrs. Fairfax walked a ways with them. When they were out of earshot of the master, Jane said, “Mr. Rochester seems to change temperament abruptly.”

“I am used to his ways,” Mrs. Fairfax said. “I hardly notice. But he does brood. And with good reason. He has had much strife in this life. He lost his older brother to the Graveyard Disease, and there was some sort of other family treachery.”

“Like what?” Jane said.

“Never you mind,” Mrs. Fairfax said. “Sleep well, Miss Eyre.”

With that, she scurried away down the corridor.

Sleep seemed impossible that night, as Jane and Helen lay in bed. Helen was shaking so badly, the bed vibrated.

“Grace Poole is evil,” she said.

“Don’t be silly,” Jane said, trying to convince herself as well.

“Who calls a pot a cauldron?” Helen said.

“I’m sure she misspoke.”

“Something is amiss here,” Helen said.

“Go to sleep, dear,” Jane said. She turned her thoughts from Grace Poole to her evening with Mr. Rochester, and the tender way he held her sketches, and the way he almost ordered her food.





NINE


Alexander

“She’s gone.” Alexander stared at Branwell, who’d just burst into his room in the dead of night.

“That’s what I said, sir. Miss Eyre has left the building.” He cocked his head. “Sir, do you sleep in your mask?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Alexander slumped back to the foot of his bed, still trying to wake up, and still trying to comprehend those words: she’s gone. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “Why would she leave?”

“To fulfill her life’s dream of becoming a governess?” Branwell cocked his head the other way, as though trying to remember if he’d said that already. (He had, but poor Branwell wasn’t used to Alexander having a hard time keeping up, so he had to question everything now.) Alexander nodded slowly. “Do you know where Miss Eyre has gone?”

Branwell sagged a little. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwood, I forgot to ask.”

“But we must go after her.” Alexander rubbed his temples.

“I suppose I could go back to Lowood. . . .”

“Wait.” Alexander shook off the last of his sleepiness. “Why were you at an all-girls school?”

Branwell startled. “Um.”

This was terribly improper. If anyone found out that a member of the Society had been so inappropriate as to sneak into a girls’ charity school in the middle of the night, the crown would never even consider reinstating their funding. The association alone was enough to not only destroy Alexander’s career, but Wellington’s as well, if it ever got out that Branwell was in fact Wellington’s nephew. (Alexander still couldn’t quite believe this fact.) Branwell’s face had turned bright red. “Sir, I—”