My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(41)

Abruptly, the merriment on the popular side of the room halted. “What was that?” asked one of the others.

“It was me!” Helen screamed.

“Helen,” Jane hissed. But this time, the ghost’s scream had actually been loud enough, and emotion-filled enough, for everyone to hear . . . something.

“What a strange sound.” Lady Ingram glanced pointedly at Alexander before turning to Rochester. “My dear, something is very wrong here.”

“Like what?” Rochester looked around, as though completely lost as to why the subject had changed from games and humiliating governesses. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“I heard it,” said Adele. “It was a scary noise.”

“My friend,” said Colonel Dent, “there was a truly unearthly wailing sound that came from over there.” He pointed toward the window where Miss Eyre sat.

All eyes swung toward Miss Eyre. “It—it wasn’t me,” she stammered.

“Stop being mean to Jane, you awful . . . You see? This is why no one likes the living. Humans!”

Alexander tried not to look directly at the ghost. No one else could see her, except Branwell, of course, and Branwell wasn’t doing a very good job at hiding the fact that he saw her as plain as day. Not that she noticed. Helen was shrieking now, calling everyone names, hurling insults, and generally being the type of ghost that Alexander was paid to relocate.

“Mr. Rochester,” Alexander said, “have you ever heard a noise like this before?”

Rochester shook his head, visibly frightened, though his fear was probably because he knew this was an actual ghost situation, not just a strange whistling of the wind over a crack in the window.

The Ingrams all shot one another understanding looks. As far as they knew, this was the ghost the Society had come here to catch. Alexander could almost see them deciding that the Society agents would clear this up any moment now. Mary Ingram even went so far as to lean toward Miss Bront? and whisper something too soft for Alexander to hear under Helen’s screams.

“You’re so mean to her,” Helen continued. “How dare you call her plain!” Just then, the wildflowers Branwell and Mrs. Dent had been discussing—as well as every other flower in the room—exploded in showers of orange and pink and green. Plant sludge splattered on the floor.

Awkwardly, Miss Eyre crept away from the window. “My word, what a storm outside.”

Through the glass, the sky was perfectly clear.

“It wasn’t a storm!” Helen shouted. A vase flew across the room, whizzing past Rochester’s head before it shattered against a wall. “It was me!”

“Helen,” Miss Eyre hissed. “Sit down and stop being a pest.”

Helen immediately plopped onto the floor, her mouth pressed into a translucent line.

“Mr. Rochester,” announced one of the Lynn men. “I believe it’s time to call for the Society.”

Helen’s eyes went round. Miss Eyre, too, looked pale.

“What Society is that?” A faint tremor entered Rochester’s voice.

“Why, the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits!” answered Mrs. Dent. “Everyone knows that.”

“And everyone knows the Society has fallen out of favor.” Mr. Rochester’s gaze darted around the room, as though he might find the ghost . . . or a Society agent hiding behind the curtains.

“Out of favor doesn’t mean out of business,” said Lady Ingram. “They could still be called upon.”

“Clearly you have a problem here,” added Lady Lynn. “Didn’t you see the flowers?”

“I don’t think there’s a problem.” Rochester spoke too quickly. “What use would the Society be here?”

“They could relocate the ghost,” said Colonel Dent.

“I don’t have a ghost!” Rochester shouted. “The Society isn’t coming here, and the noise is just a storm, and the vase fell over because of the wind. And that’s all!”

On the other side of the room, Helen glared daggers at Rochester, but there was real fear in her expression.

Miss Eyre looked from Helen to Rochester, her face perfectly white. “It’s the storm,” she agreed. “There are no ghosts here. I asked Mrs. Fairfax when I first arrived.”

“See?” Rochester surged to his feet. “It’s confirmed. The storm did it.”

Everyone went quiet for a moment, listening. Outside, beyond the curtains, Alexander could hear the faint twitter of birds singing evening’s approach.

“All right,” said Miss Ingram. “The noise seems to be over anyway. The storm must have passed.”

“Quick storm,” muttered Lady Ingram, gazing at the plant sludge on the floor.

“Odd,” agreed Branwell/Louis.

“So.” Colonel Dent cleared his throat. “Maybe there is no spirit here. But maybe we should summon one and ask it questions.”

Immediately, Adele found the “talking board,” (what we in this day and age would call a Ouija board) but even as the party gathered around a table to summon ghosts, Alexander continued to watch Miss Eyre, his mind echoing with his recent conversation with Wellington.

All the signs were there. Jane Eyre was definitely a Beacon.