My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(70)

As much as Jane believed herself to be in love with Mr. Rochester, a little time to think surely couldn’t hurt. “Sir, I will consider your proposal.”

Rochester looked incredulous. “What?” He squeezed her hand. “Jane, I have never been more earnest about anything in my life. Say you believe me.”

Jane tried to wrestle free, but his grip tightened. (Yeah, we know. shudder) “Please, sir, may I have the night to gather myself and my thoughts?”

Rochester sighed deeply through his nostrils. His voice became an angry growl. “Bloody hell, Jane. It would’ve been so much easier if you’d just said yes.”

He grabbed the strand of pearls, and before she could move away, he threw it over her head and around her neck.

Here, dear reader, is where your faithful narrators must step away from Jane’s mind, for the pearls were a talisman that held a spirit. And that spirit now inhabited Jane’s body. Which meant Jane’s spirit was squeezed to the side in a most uncomfortable and frustrating (for Jane) manner.

“My dearest,” Mr. Rochester said. “We shall marry in a fortnight.”

Alt-Jane looked at him, her smile wide. “I cannot wait.”





TWENTY-FOUR


Alexander

Alexander had always felt like he belonged in Wellington’s office, partly because everyone said Wellington was grooming him to take over one day (which meant Alexander should practice being comfortable in this room), and mostly because he never got in trouble. He was the star agent after all.

At least, he had been.

Alexander tried not to slouch as he approached the duke, who stood at his desk with his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders set in a thoughtful manner. “What’s on your mind, Alexander?”

What wasn’t on his mind? His chest still ached with the cruel way he’d treated Miss Bront? as they parted. He should have been kinder. Her questions had been fair. Why hadn’t Wellington told him everything about Beacons, or that he’d been acquainted with Rochester? There’d been plenty of time. The note he’d sent telling Alexander not to stay at Thornfield could have mentioned that fact.

He should have been kinder to Miss Bront?, though, and as it wasn’t proper for a single man to write letters (let alone visit!) to a single young lady, this might very well be the way she remembered him for the rest of her life.

Alexander touched the letter in his pocket. “Sir, it’s about Rochester.”

Wellington nodded. “What about him?”

“I believe Edward Rochester is the man who murdered my father.” Alexander pulled the letter from his pocket, careful not to rumple the paper even more.

Wellington took the letter and read through it twice before folding it and offering it back to Alexander. “This is your evidence?”

Alexander nodded and tucked the letter away again.

“It proves nothing.”

“I remember seeing him that night.”

“You were four years old.” Wellington placed a hand over Alexander’s shoulder. “I believe you. I do. But this won’t be enough proof to do anything about it.”

Alexander closed his eyes and exhaled. He knew that. He did. But he’d waited so long to learn the killer’s identity and now it seemed he may have waited too long. “The letter makes it appear as though they were friends,” he muttered. “And when I was introduced to Rochester in Thornfield Hall, he seemed familiar, as though we’d met before. But he didn’t know me.”

Wellington nodded. “They were friends. Here, sit down a moment.” He motioned Alexander to the nearest chair, and together they sat. “You may not know this, though the records are public, but Rochester used to be a member of the Society. His wife, too.”

“Is that how you know him?” Alexander guessed.

“Yes,” Wellington said. “Mrs. Rochester was our Beacon at the time, and the best agent the Society had ever seen. Mr. Rochester joined us because of her. Although their marriage had been arranged, they seemed to feel real affection for each other.”

“What happened to her?”

“The stress of the job became too much for her. Women have such delicate faculties.”

That made no sense. Granted, Alexander had little experience with the fairer sex, but Miss Bront? and Miss Eyre were two of the strongest people he knew. “That hasn’t been my experience, sir.”

Wellington frowned, only for a moment. “Well, it was true for Bertha Rochester. She did very well until one day, the stress of this job wore her down. To put it bluntly, she went mad, and shortly after died.”

“That’s very sad.”

“The loss of Bertha Rochester affected the entire Society. As I said, she was a Beacon, and her death dealt a great blow to our productivity. We still feel her loss today.” Wellington leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I’m afraid her death is what drove Mr. Rochester to abandon the Society.”

“Where does my father fit into this?”

“He was killed—” Wellington’s voice caught. He paused, then tried again. “I’ve always believed that his death was one of the events that pushed Mrs. Rochester over the edge. They were friends, as you know. He died. She went mad and died. And then Rochester left.”

“Why would Rochester kill my father, though? I don’t understand.”