My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(35)

Miss Ingram’s large eyes were round as saucers. “Of course. His brother.”

“We’ve been sent to remove this apparition from Thornfield,” Mr. Blackwood filled in smoothly. “But we mustn’t let Rochester know that’s what we’re doing. And we mustn’t alert the ghost to our presence, either, because the more upset a ghost becomes, the more difficult it is to remove it.”

“I understand.” Miss Ingram shook her head. “You should have told me that from the start. I wouldn’t have made such a fuss. I’ll send word that I want to visit him as soon as possible.”

“Perfect,” Mr. Blackwood said. “Thank you.”

After Miss Ingram was gone, Bran sighed. “She smelled really good, didn’t she?”

Charlotte kicked him in the shin.

“Ow. She did, though.”

“You have no business smelling Miss Ingram.” She turned to Mr. Blackwood. “So it’s all turning out well, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he admitted grudgingly. “It seems to be.”

Charlotte thought about Jane, so close by, unaware of this great surprise that was about to befall her. She wondered what Jane was doing now, and if she was content in her place as the governess. Charlotte hoped for her own sake that Jane was not content. Charlotte had a great deal riding on the idea that she’d be able to waltz into Thornfield Hall, take Jane aside, and convince her friend to become an agent in the Society.

She’d been working on what she was going to say, but she wondered if it would be enough. If Jane turned them away again, then Charlotte knew that her own ambitions to become an agent—or if not an agent, exactly, an assistant or employee of some sort—would most likely fail.

That night she got on her knees beside her bed and sent up an earnest prayer.

“Dear Lord,” she whispered. “I’ve been thinking. Please, if it’s not too much to ask, could you cause something to happen to Jane at Thornfield—nothing too serious, mind you, but something, please, to cause her to rethink her position there.” She stopped. She’d never wished ill on anyone before. But this was serious. Both Jane’s and Charlotte’s futures were hanging in the balance. “Please,” she said again. “Could you send Jane just a bit of trouble?”





ELEVEN


Jane

Rochester’s bed was on fire.

Literally, Rochester’s bed was on fire, and he was in the middle of it, in a deep sleep.

Let us back up a bit. Jane had been working at Thornfield Hall for several days, rarely seeing its owner. On this particular night, she had gone to bed with a full stomach and warm feet. Sleep had come quickly, for it was the kind of sleep that came to a comfortably warm and fed person.

But a strange noise in the middle of the night woke Jane with a start. Helen popped upright as well.

“Did you hear something?” Jane said.

“Yes. Did you?” Helen said.

“I must have, considering I’m awake. Let’s be quiet and listen.”

They both sat in the bed, perfectly still. Floorboards creaked down the hall. The faint sound of laughter floated in from the corridor. Or maybe it was the normal sounds of an old mansion.

After a few moments, another sound, as if something had swept the panels of the bedchamber door.

“It’s right outside,” Helen whispered.

“You’re a ghost,” Jane whispered back. “You don’t have to whisper. And since you’re a ghost, why don’t you peek out into the hallway?”

Helen shivered, and the bed shivered along with her. She must have been very afraid.

“You think this is something alive, and not something . . . not alive?” Jane asked. Helen didn’t like the word dead.

Helen nodded.

“It’s probably Pilot,” Jane said. “The other night, he came and scratched at our door, looking for you, no doubt. It’s probably him,” she repeated, as though repetition might make it true.

The brushing sound came again.

“Then you go out there,” Helen said.

“You wouldn’t want to disappoint Pilot, would you, dear?”

They both sat frozen, so long that Jane’s mind began to imagine she heard the noise again.

A maniacal laughter broke their trance. It seemed to come from the keyhole of their door. Jane and Helen jumped out of bed.

“Who’s there?” Jane asked.

A door from somewhere down the corridor squeaked and then slammed shut.

Jane flew from her bed and flung the door open.

“No!” Helen exclaimed.

The hallway was murky, with only two lit candles obscured by smoke. Jane ran down the hall, following what she believed to be the source of the smoke. She turned and dashed down another corridor and ended up in front of a door, at the bottom of which still more smoke was pouring out. It was Mr. Rochester’s bedchamber.

She threw the door open, propriety be darned. But right before she did, she made sure her nightgown was buttoned all the way up, because propriety shouldn’t be totally darned.

A fire was licking at the fringe of one of the drapes that hung from the four posters of Mr. Rochester’s bed. It cast a warm light through the gloom, illuminating his face while he slept. The glow became him; as the fire danced, its darting light softened the severe lines of his brow and lip.