My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(48)

“I thought, instead, that I might stay behind,” said Charlotte. “I could say I have a headache or am otherwise feeling ill.”

“Yes, do that,” Mr. Blackwood said faintly. “That’s good.”

At the strained sound of his voice she lifted her glasses to look at his face. There was a small cut on his chin, where he must have nicked himself shaving, and shadows under his eyes. His expression was drawn, thoughtful.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He did not answer.

“Mr. Blackwood?”

He gave a weak attempt at a smile. “I’m fine. I had difficulty sleeping last night, is all.”

“The storm was quite loud.”

“Yes.”

She could tell, though, that there was something more on his mind than the lack of sleep.

“Mr. Rochester has still not returned?” she asked.

His smile faded. “No.”

“That’s odd, don’t you think?”

“Quite.”

It was quiet for a moment, Mr. Blackwood frowning, deep in his thoughts, and Charlotte observing him. Then she lost patience and just came out with her question. “What is it about Mr. Rochester that you’re not telling me?”

His gaze flew up to her face. “What?”

“Ever since we’ve arrived here, you’ve been troubled by something. Someone. Mr. Rochester, I think. You stare at him whenever he’s present in the room, and your expression in those moments . . .” She looked away, suddenly embarrassed to reveal how carefully she’d been observing him. “You obviously have a heightened interest in Mr. Rochester. Why?”

“I—” Mr. Blackwood seemed taken aback by the bluntness of her question. Then he sighed. “Mr. Rochester was, I believe, a friend of my father’s.”

“Was?”

“My father died.” He bent his head as if the sight of his feet intrigued him.

“I’m sorry,” she said simply. “When?”

“Fourteen years ago,” he said. “I was just a boy when it happened, but . . .”

She was tempted to put a hand on his shoulder, but there were people walking about the garden who would have found that gesture inappropriate, even between supposed cousins. So instead she offered a sympathetic smile.

“I know something of how it feels to lose a parent. My mother died when I was around that same age. I was so young I hardly remember her, besides a few flashes.” Like once when she’d had a fever. She could remember the coolness of her mother’s hand against her face, how very comforting that single touch had been.

She glanced up again at Mr. Blackwood. He was looking at her now, his brown eyes fixed on her face. She felt her cheeks heat.

“Anyway,” she continued. “Mr. Rochester knew your father?”

“They were best friends, I think. More and more is coming back to me.” Mr. Blackwood gasped. “I can even remember dinners here, at this very house. Mr. Rochester and his . . .” He paused. “His wife. He had a wife. I thought she was so very beautiful.”

“She must have . . .”

“Yes, she must have died,” Mr. Blackwood said. “A shame.”

“And now he’s going to marry Miss Ingram. An even greater shame,” Charlotte added. “Being that she’s such an insufferable human being.”

Mr. Blackwood gave a startled laugh. Charlotte laughed, too. Then they smiled at each other, the somberness between them broken.

“So will you tell Mr. Rochester that you are your father’s son?” Charlotte asked.

Mr. Blackwood nodded sheepishly. “I have been expecting him to recognize me. I know that sounds absurd, but I have the look of my father.”

“But if you were to tell Mr. Rochester about your connection, it would reveal that you are not, in fact, Mr. Eshton,” Charlotte pointed out. “So it’s fortunate that he hasn’t recognized you.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Fortunate.”

She was about to say more, but then Bran appeared before them like a happy puppy.

“We’re going on a picnic!” he said excitedly. “I adore picnics!”

Mr. Blackwood and Charlotte exchanged amused glances.

Charlotte smiled. “I think I feel a headache coming on.”

After the others had gone, Charlotte sought Jane out and found her in the library, where Adele was conjugating irregular verbs.

“Oh, hello, Charlotte,” Jane sighed when she looked up to see Charlotte standing before her.

“Do you have a moment?” Charlotte asked. “To talk?”

Jane sighed again. “I suppose.”

They went off into a corner where they would not be overheard. Charlotte straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath.

“I do wish you wouldn’t bother,” Jane said before she could get a word out. “Nothing has changed since the last time we spoke.”

“Oh, but it has,” Charlotte said eagerly. “Jane. You won’t believe this. But the Society is willing to offer you five thousand pounds a year to become an agent.”

Jane just stared at her.

“Did you hear me?” Charlotte asked. “Did you hear me say five thousand pounds?”

“Yes,” Jane said in a small, strangled voice. “But why—”