My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(55)

But Mr. Blackwood . . . he could appear stern as well. Tonight, for instance, he’d borne an air of sharp determination as he’d pursued her about the house. He’d wanted to speak with her about her conversation with Jane. He expected her to report on Jane’s answer to the proposition of five thousand pounds.

And Charlotte had, well, avoided him. She wasn’t ready to tell him yet, that their endeavor to recruit Jane was futile. Jane had just divulged all the deep secrets of a woman’s heart. Mr. Blackwood couldn’t possibly understand.

And he was clearly wrestling with his own feelings concerning Mr. Rochester.

She sighed. Perhaps she was not ready to admit to herself yet that this had all been for nothing. That Jane would not become an agent, and therefore Charlotte’s life was likely to return to the way it had been before. Boring. Starving. Languishing at Lowood.

And she and Mr. Blackwood would have no reason for further contact. She would never truly get to know him, the way she had lately been feeling she was coming to know him.

Ahem. Mr. Rochester. Charlotte turned back to her writing. She supposed that if Mr. Rochester had been too good-looking, Jane would have been intimidated by him. She nodded to herself, then wrote, I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry, fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.

Charlotte sat back and stretched her arms, feeling pleased with herself. (But she was a writer, so while she did get this moment of thinking herself somewhat brilliant, it would soon be offset by a crippling doubt that she had a gift of words at all. Such is the way with all writers. Trust us.) She liked what she’d written because it felt true. Better that a boy not be overtly handsome, she thought, if one was plain. Better that there were simply individual parts of said boy to admire. Like the shape of his hands. Or a smile. Or . . .

There was a soft tapping at her door. Charlotte startled, nearly upsetting her bottle of ink. It was the dead of night, the house entirely still. Perhaps she’d imagined the sound. She listened. It came again, a gentle rapping, rapping at her chamber door. She stood and put on her dressing gown and went to open it. Then she lifted her spectacles to see who it was.

Mr. Blackwood was standing there—not in his nightclothes, but fully dressed, though uncharacteristically rumpled, frowning this troubled little frown.

“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately. “You look as if you’ve seen—”

Well, it would be ridiculous to say he’d seen a ghost. He was accustomed to seeing ghosts, after all.

“This is inappropriate,” he said dully. “I . . . I shouldn’t have come. I . . . I just . . .”

She didn’t know what to do. She should definitely not invite him into her bedroom.

She stepped back and held the door open for him. “Come in.”

He strode past her and straight across to the other side of the room, as if keeping some distance between them might preserve some semblance of propriety. He drew back the curtains and stared out the window into the moon-filled night. Charlotte closed the door gently.

“Do you wish to sit?” she asked, gesturing to an armchair.

“Yes.” He crossed to the chair and sat, then stood up again. “No. No, I can’t.”

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Rochester murdered my father.” He rubbed his hand across his face. “Well, I think he did.”

She felt instantly cold. “Mr. Rochester.”

“He was there, that night, the night of the explosion. They argued. There was shouting. I remember it.”

“The explosion?”

Mr. Blackwood quickly relayed the details of his father’s death, his voice wavering. Her heart swelled, picturing the little boy he had been. What he’d been through.

He drew a letter out of his pocket and handed it to her. She read it. “So they had a falling-out, over the Society, it seems. But . . .”

“Rochester’s a traitor,” Mr. Blackwood spat out. “He’s a villain of the worst kind. I . . .” His hands were shaking. “It must have been him. Who else would have reason to hurt my father? There’s no other explanation.”

“Oh, Alexander, I’m sorry,” she said.

His expression hardened. “He’s the one who will be sorry. I will kill him.”

She felt the color drain from her face. “Well, that’s a terrible idea.”

He scowled. “I suppose you’d like me to confront Mr. Rochester about his crime and have the authorities deal with it.”

“Why, yes,” she affirmed. “That sounds much more reasonable.”

“Do you suppose that Mr. Rochester will simply confess? That I’ll accuse him of this vile act, which is a crime worthy of death—and then he’ll respond with, ‘Yes, yes, that is exactly what happened. Arrest me, please’?”

“You need proof, obviously,” she agreed. “You will need to build a case against him.”

“I heard him arguing with my father. I saw him leave the building, just before the explosion. I saw him.”