My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(56)

“None of that proves that he actually murdered your father,” Charlotte pointed out. “You have no evidence that isn’t circumstantial.”

“So again I say, I should simply kill him. It’s what he deserves. Everything in my life has been leading up to this point.”

She shook her head. “Then you will get arrested for murder yourself, which would be a great embarrassment to the Society, I imagine. And it will fail to bring about the justice you seek. It’s a terrible plan, do you see?”

“I suppose you have a better one.”

“Of course I do.” She smiled up at him, her mind grasping at several wild ideas. She settled on one. “You’re going to carry on with the ruse. You are Mr. Eshton.”

“Impossible,” said Mr. Blackwood. “I cannot pretend any longer.”

“Now is not the time, Mr. Blackwood, to cry revenge and reveal all of your cards. You must wait. Watch. Remaining here, quietly, will allow you access to his home and his private life. Then you can gather the evidence you need to put him away.”

“I’m not a very good actor,” he confessed.

“You’re fine,” Charlotte assured him. “You’ve handled yourself brilliantly so far.”

“But it’s different now.”

“I know. This situation is entirely more important.”

Some of the fire seemed to leave him. He was quiet for a long moment.

“All right. I’ll remain Mr. Eshton. For now.”

Over the course of their conversation she had slowly traversed the room, to where she was presently standing just before him. She put her hand on his arm. “I will help you.”

“Thank you.” He seemed suddenly aware of the inappropriateness of their current circumstance. He rubbed at his forehead, then stepped back. “I apologize. I should not have burst in here. I . . .”

“You needed someone to talk to.”

He nodded. “I will go. It’s very late.” His brows squeezed together. “Why were you not asleep?”

“I was writing.” She gestured toward the small desk and her notebook. The candle had long since sputtered out. “I’ve been feeling inspired, as of late.”

“Inspired by what?” he asked.

She glanced away. “Um . . .” She couldn’t very well tell him that she was writing a romance now. Starring, as it happened, Mr. Rochester. Oh, dear. Mr. Rochester was now potentially a murderer. Which would make him entirely inappropriate as a knight in shining armor for Jane.

This would ruin her story.

Or possibly improve upon it. Charlotte wasn’t sure. It was important, though, that Jane be informed of Mr. Rochester’s alleged crime. Oh, double dear. What an awful thing to have to tell her. How exactly does one tell one’s friend that the man she’s in love with could be a nefarious villain?

At that very moment, the night was pierced by a fearful shriek. (Charlotte would later write this moment and describe it as “a shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall.”)

She and Mr. Blackwood froze. The cry had come from the east wing.

“What was that noise?” Mr. Blackwood said.

“It sounded like someone in need of help,” Charlotte replied, shivering.

“Help! Help! Help!” screamed the voice.

“See?”

“WILL NO ONE COME?”

They dashed out into the hall. It was crowded with the various guests of the house—Charlotte saw Bran looking dazed and the Ingrams and Colonel Dent—all milling around exclaiming things like, “Who is hurt?” “What has happened?” “Are there robbers about?”

Then Mr. Rochester appeared at the end of the gallery, holding a candle. Miss Ingram ran to him and seized his arm.

“What awful event has taken place?” she cried.

Mr. Rochester’s expression was completely, bone-chillingly calm. “It’s all right,” he answered. “It’s a mere rehearsal of Much Ado About Nothing.”

What? Just . . . what? Why was he talking about a play?

“A servant has had a nightmare; that is all,” he added. “Now all of you, go back to bed. I have things handled. There is nothing to fear.”

Was it a rehearsal or was it a servant with a nightmare? This story was not making sense.

The guests began to shuffle back into their various rooms. Charlotte glanced over at Mr. Blackwood. His dark eyes were still fixed on Mr. Rochester. His jaw clenched. His hands in fists. She touched his shoulder.

“Not now,” she whispered. “Remember the plan.”

He blinked, then looked around like he’d forgotten where he was for a moment. Then he turned to Charlotte again.

“Where is Miss Eyre?” he asked.

Charlotte’s breath caught. She turned around wildly, looking. Everyone was here—everyone . . . except Mr. Mason. And Jane.

Where was Jane?





TWENTY


Jane

A loud knock came at Jane’s bedchamber door. She startled.

“Jane.” It was Mr. Rochester’s voice. “Miss Eyre, I need your help.”

Jane was still trying to recover from the scare of that scream. When she’d gone to see what had happened, Mrs. Fairfax had intercepted her and said the master of the house required her help, and she should stay in her bedchamber until called upon.