My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(38)

“You slept a lot,” Helen said.

Jane stretched her arms above her head. “I know.”

Jane made her way downstairs, an extra hop to her step. She hoped to catch a glimpse of Mr. Rochester, but there were no signs of the master of the house. Perhaps he was catching up on sleep as well. She went to the kitchen, again hoping to run into Mr. Rochester, but again she was disappointed. Mrs. Fairfax was conferring with one of the maids. A plate covered with a towel sat on the table. Jane assumed it was for her.

Helen whooshed through the door. “Oh, look! Food. For you. Again. My, they just keep feeding you here, don’t they?”

Jane smiled and started over toward the plate, when movement in the corner caught her eye. It was Grace Poole, sitting in a rocking chair by the fire, mending the curtains from Mr. Rochester’s bedchamber. (Given the size and violence of the fire, we’re as surprised as you that there was anything left to mend but we did the research, and Grace Poole was indeed mending the curtains. Somehow.)

“Afternoon, miss,” Grace said, not looking up from her sewing. She didn’t look anxious or remorseful or delinquent, or any of the other ways Jane thought a person who had committed arson would look the day after.

“What’s happened?” Jane said.

“The master fell asleep with his candle still burning. It toppled and lit the curtains on fire. The master woke and doused it before it spread.”

Grace Poole said this in a disinterested way, nothing vexed about her tone.

“That’s not right,” Helen said. “Jane doused the flames.”

“Is he all right?” Jane said, and then added in her head, Did he say anything about me?

Mrs. Fairfax interrupted. “Prepare yourself, Miss Eyre, for I have word that Mr. Rochester plans for a party of people to descend upon Thornfield Hall this very evening when he returns.”

“What? Where is he?” Jane tried not to look too anxious, but then she knocked over her goblet of water.

Mrs. Fairfax raised her eyebrows.

“I meant, he’s not at Thornfield?”

“No, he has gone to town to speak to his accountant. But he sent a messenger and we must prepare.”

“Who is in this so-called party of people?”

Mrs. Fairfax tilted her head as if this was a strange question to ask. “A few prominent families from the village. They are to accompany the Ingrams.” She leaned close to Jane. “The daughter of Lady Ingram, it is believed, will soon be betrothed to the master.”

“Who?”

“Blanche Ingram. She is from a wealthy family. She is widely known to be a great beauty and very accomplished.”

All the things Jane was not.

“He’s to marry her?” Jane blurted. Just last night he’d been holding her hand. He’d talked about the good she was going to do him. They’d had their Moment.

“Mr. Rochester is an eligible and, if I might add, financially solvent bachelor, which makes him extremely attractive.”

Jane stomped her foot beneath the folds of her dress. “Why don’t we all just marry him!”

Mrs. Fairfax raised her eyebrows, but Jane stormed out.

Once in her room, she rummaged through her things (which only filled one drawer, so not much rummaging was involved) and took out her canvases and brushes, and began to paint her feelings.

She imagined a young woman, dressed in the finest silk gown with the puffiest sleeves, the shiniest white shoes, the laciest parasol. The skin on her face was porcelain and perfect, her cheeks rosy. Her hair was black and arranged in an intricate braid, so there was no question that a servant, or maybe even two, had attended her. She emerged from Jane’s brush with a knowing smile.

Then Jane set an easel next to her mirror and painted herself. Brown hair that any lowborn girl could have done without help. Brown eyes that never danced, no matter what the light. Skin that was tan in places where she’d had no choice but to work in the sun. Ribs and collarbone that were not softened by years of adequate nutrition. Shadows under her eyes.

When she had finished, she stepped back to assess her work. Helen peered over her shoulder.

“What are you doing, dear?” Helen said.

Jane frowned. “Reminding myself.”





TWELVE


Alexander

They arrived at Thornfield with much more fanfare than seemed necessary. Carriage after carriage pulled in to the long drive of a dark, looming house. It looked cold. Definitely haunted. (Alexander was something of an expert at identifying haunted houses, after all.)

A knot in his chest tightened as the carriages stopped, riders dismounted, and a housekeeper opened the front door to allow the party entrance.

And what a party it was. There was Lady Ingram and her two daughters, Blanche and Mary. Sir and Lady Lynn, along with their sons Henry and Frederick Lynn. Colonel Dent and Mrs. Colonel Dent. And of course there was the “Eshton” family, Mr. Eshton (Alexander), and his cousins Amy (Miss Bront?) and Louis (Branwell).

All in all, it was more of a crowd than Alexander liked, and he didn’t understand why the Lynns and Dents had to come along.

To be fair, they probably didn’t understand why the Eshtons had to come along.

“You seem distracted.” Miss Bront? kept her voice low as the group all walked to the door. She looked very well today, he couldn’t help but notice. The day dress she wore suited her, forest green with ivory trim, and a bit of proper food and sleep had given her complexion a healthier cast than when he’d first met her.