My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(45)

Jane had awoken early this morning to put her feelings onto canvas. Adele was still in bed, having stayed up very late, and Jane was in no mood to converse with Charlotte again, so she had packed up her easel and canvas and brushes and departed just as the sun was rising.

“Aren’t you so excited Charlotte is here?” Helen said.

Jane’s brush jerked, giving the swallow she’d been working on a giant mustache.

“Silence, please, dear. Or else you might ruin everything.”

Helen didn’t seem to notice Jane’s irritation because something had caught her attention. Jane turned to look, and saw Mr. Rochester riding his horse away from the house, and toward her. Jane watched as he got closer and closer, and his hair got blowier and blowier, the tails of his riding jacket whipping behind him as he went. She waited for him to turn down the lane that would lead into town, but he didn’t. He came straight toward her. She reached up to tame a stray hair.

“Jane Eyre,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Painting, sir.” She gestured to the brook.

She assessed her painting, and winced. Her mind must have been otherwise occupied because it was the worst painting she’d ever created. Even before the black mess, the picture was rife with harsh strokes and prickly crosshatches, and a butterfly that looked more like a flying centipede, and rays of sunlight that promised destruction to whoever stepped near them.

Mr. Rochester regarded the art with a raised eyebrow. “It’s very . . . elegant.”

Jane scrunched her nose. “It’s a warm-up.”

“Ah.”

A light breeze blew between them, as they said nothing.

Rochester looked around. “Thornfield is a beautiful place in the summer, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“People get to a place, become settled, and then they wish to leave again. Do you feel that way, Miss Eyre?”

Jane wondered if he had any inkling that Mr. Blackwood was here to recruit her for the Society.

“No.” Jane wanted to add that she was reluctant to be apart from him, in particular, but that would have more than pushed the boundaries of propriety. That would have broken them. Or, more accurately, lit them on fire and burned them to the ground.

Mr. Rochester tilted his head. “Farewell, Miss Eyre. I will return. And promise me that you will be present in the parlor this afternoon with the rest of the guests.”

Jane nodded.

He touched his hand to his heart, so subtly that Jane didn’t know if it was an innocent movement or a deliberate gesture. She let herself imagine it was the latter.

Mr. Rochester and horse galloped away.

“Strange that the master of the house is set to leave again. Where could he be going?” Helen said. “And while he has guests. Who does that?”

Jane ignored her. As she watched Mr. Rochester disappear down the road, she put her own hand to her heart.

Jane kept her promise and sat in the parlor with the other guests for afternoon tea. Blanche Ingram sat close to the fire and shot Jane nasty looks followed by hushed comments to her mother. She was most likely talking about her contempt for the presence of the help, judging by Charlotte’s uncomfortable glances toward Jane. For Jane’s part, she was more concerned with how elegant a lady could appear while being so nasty. Of course, Mr. Rochester would want someone so elegant as his wife.

Jane wondered if Miss Ingram had received a private farewell from Mr. Rochester as well. Did he put his hand on his heart as he took his leave of her? Did he do something more?

Mr. Blackwood also eyed Jane, and seemed fidgety. No doubt he wanted to address her about the stupid Society gig, but was impeded by the pre-Victorian rules about the highborn speaking with the servants.

Tea had just been served when a loud knock sounded at the main entrance of the manor. Soon after, the door to the parlor blew open.

Jane shot to her feet, expecting to see Mr. Rochester. Instead, a stout man rushed in, followed by a servant breathing hard to keep up. Jane sank back down.

“Mr. Mason,” the servant announced.

The new arrival—Mr. Mason—paused momentarily, scanning the room as though looking for someone. He then gathered himself and bowed.

“Good day,” he said. “I am here to call on Mr. Rochester.”

The party stood, bowing and curtsying, and then Miss Ingram stepped forward. “Mr. Rochester is away on business, but he will return this evening. Please do sit.”

Jane thought it seemed awfully presumptuous of Miss Ingram to take it upon herself to do the welcoming.

When the guests and Mr. Mason had settled, and the proper introductions were made, Lady Ingram spoke.

“Do tell us, Mr. Mason, how are you acquainted with Mr. Rochester?”

Mr. Mason shifted in his seat. “We . . . have traveled together.”

“Ooh, exciting,” Blanche Ingram said.

Helen glanced at Jane. “Is it?”

Jane shrugged.

“And where did you travel?” Lady Ingram said.

“Here and there. About.” Mr. Mason cleared his throat.

“Ooh, thrilling,” Helen said.

“Mr. Mason, you are indeed piquing our curiosity,” Miss Ingram said. “You must tell us more.”

“What would you like to know, Miss Ingram?”

Miss Ingram clasped her hands together. “Why do you visit Mr. Rochester now? What brings you here?”