My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(46)

Mr. Mason frowned. “I’m here for the . . . weather.” Just then a thunderclap shook the windows. “The hunting weather.”

“Ah,” Lady Ingram said.

Everyone looked very puzzled. Mr. Mason grew even more uncomfortable, and kept an eye on the entrance to the parlor, anxious for Mr. Rochester’s return. Almost as anxious as Blanche Ingram. Almost as anxious as Jane.

Then there was Charlotte and Mr. Blackwood, both of whom kept stealing glances at Jane. They were obviously anxious to talk to her, but they were not given the chance.

So, between Miss Ingram and Jane and Mr. Mason and Mr. Blackwood and Charlotte, the room was . . . anxious.





FIFTEEN


Alexander

It was a dark and stormy night.

After everyone went to bed, Alexander penned a letter to Wellington. He wrote by the light of a single candle, keeping the scratch of metal on paper to a minimum. In the bed by the door, Branwell was already sleeping; Alexander didn’t want to wake him, as things were generally safer when Branwell was asleep.

The letter read:

Dear Sir,

I’ve pursued Miss Eyre to an estate called Thornfield Hall. Having seen her command the dead on several occasions, I am more convinced than ever that she is a Beacon.

While I am confident she will be persuaded to join us, I’d like to offer her ￡5,000 a year. I realize that is rather exorbitant, but with her being a Beacon, I believe the expense would be worth it.

I am your obedient servant,

A. Black

When the ink dried, he fastened the letter to one of the Society pigeons and opened the window. The bird left, and Alexander tried to sleep.

But Branwell’s nasal snores prevented sleep from reaching him, and Alexander lay in his bed going over every moment of the day.

Rochester remained absent from Thornfield, which made sense with the storm, but why had he abandoned his guests in the first place? Something was still troubling him about the man.

Alexander searched through his earliest memories, those fragments of his childhood before the explosion had killed his father.

He could remember his father taking him for walks by the River Thames, pointing out different shops he’d taken Alexander’s mother to before she succumbed to the Graveyard Disease, and then Westminster, which loomed over the water with its towers and arches and bells. His father knew everyone in the city, it seemed, from the merchants whose boats bobbed in the current to the boys who sold papers on every corner. When the crowd grew thick and Alexander couldn’t see over the heads of all the adults, his father would set him on his shoulders. Perched up there, Alexander had felt so big and tall and safe. When the breeze rustled through his hair, scented with the odors of smoke and people and trash in the river, Alexander had imagined he was flying.

He could also remember going into Westminster, seeing Wellington, who’d patted his head, and then stopping by an office where one of his father’s friends worked. That was Rochester, he was certain. The man had been younger then, with fewer lines around his eyes and mouth, but he’d seemed warm and generous to little Alexander, offering a sweet and then making him laugh by saying something in French.

And now his father was dead. And gone.

Not everyone became a ghost, of course. And it was better, wasn’t it, that a spirit moved on to find peace? But still, an ache lived within Alexander. He’d searched for his father’s ghost at first, convinced he must be out there somewhere, waiting for Alexander to find him. But gradually, he’d had to admit the truth. His father was gone. Forever, it seemed. He remained only in memories, and Alexander’s desire to avenge his murder.

“One day,” Alexander whispered into the night. “I promise.”

Branwell’s snoring was getting worse, rivaling the thunder outside. There’d be no sleeping like this.

Wearily, Alexander pulled on his robe and stepped out the door, into the candlelit hall. For a while, he wandered the maze of the house, letting his feet take him where they pleased. His head was back in those memories, that feeling of being held aloft on his father’s shoulders, high above the world and everyone in it.

He’d been thinking of his father a lot since coming to Thornfield—from the moment he’d realized Rochester had been his father’s friend.

“What are you doing out here?” The voice came from the translucent figure of Miss Burns, who was floating toward him from the opposite end of the hall.

Alexander glanced around before replying; they were alone. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

They stared at each other, having reached some sort of impasse with that brief exchange.

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I’ll let you get back to haunting the halls.”

“Are you going to trap me in a pocket watch?”

He frowned. “No. Why would you think that?”

“Jane is worried that you will. She doesn’t trust you or your pocket watch, and I agree with her.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not here to relocate you, only to offer Miss Eyre a job.” Perhaps this reassurance was all that Miss Eyre needed to change her mind. (Regarding the exploding flower incident, Alexander could keep a secret.)

“That’s good to know.”

“Will you tell her that?” he asked.