My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(76)

“Can I offer you some tea?” he asked in a voice that portrayed that he was only offering because this was England and it was the polite thing to do, but he’d much prefer to get on with the interrogation.

“I’d love a cup of tea,” Mr. Mason replied with an uneasy laugh.

Charlotte sighed and dropped her gaze back to the newspaper. Where the next wedding announcement seemed to leap out at her.

“Miss Bront??” Mr. Blackwood inquired.

“No!” she gasped.

“No tea?”

“It’s not possible!”

“Come now, tea is always possible,” he said.

“No!” She jumped to her feet and shoved the paper into his hands. “Look! Look!”

His eyes scanned down the page. “What am I supposed to be . . .”

And then he saw it.

“Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, is pleased to announce his engagement to Miss Jane Eyre, also of Thornfield Hall, the wedding to occur on the tenth of September. . . .” His voice died away. “It’s not possible.”

“Mr. Rochester?” Mr. Mason was on his feet now, too. His face had drained of color. “Mr. Rochester is getting married?”

“Oh, Jane,” Charlotte breathed.

“Mr. Rochester cannot marry,” Mr. Mason said furiously. “He can’t.”

“Why?” Mr. Blackwood asked.

He told them why. And they immediately set out for Thornfield Hall.

They were almost too late. Jane and Rochester were nearly to the “Wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?” part of the wedding ceremony when Mr. Blackwood and Charlotte (and Mr. Mason, trailing a bit behind) burst into the tiny stone church.

“Stop!” Mr. Blackwood strode up the center aisle. Jane and Rochester slowly turned to look at him.

Charlotte lifted her glasses. In her elegant silk wedding gown Jane was as lovely as Charlotte had ever seen her. A simple but pretty veil covered her hair. A stunning pearl necklace gleamed at her throat. Plain girls could clean up well when the situation called for it. Charlotte smiled and waved. Nice dress, she mouthed.

Jane stared back at her blankly. It was almost as if she didn’t recognize Charlotte.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the priest.

“The marriage cannot go on,” Mr. Blackwood said. “I declare the existence of an impediment.”

But Rochester turned away and took Jane’s hand again. “Continue,” he directed the priest.

“Yes,” murmured Jane. “Continue. We don’t know these people.”

Well, that hurt.

“But . . .” The priest obviously wanted to know what the devil was going on.

“Say man and wife,” hissed Rochester. “Man and wife!”

“Man and . . .” The priest frowned. “No.” He addressed Mr. Blackwood. “What is this impediment you speak of?”

“Mr. Rochester cannot be married today, as he is already married.”

“It doesn’t matter,” exclaimed Jane passionately. “I love him, and he loves me, and now we’ll be together forever.”

“Wait, you knew about his wife?” Charlotte gasped.

Rochester was shaking his head. “I don’t have a wife. Who says I have a wife? Everybody around here knows that I’m single. Right, darling?”

“Oh,” said Jane. “Right. I don’t know about any wife. Except me, very shortly.”

“You can’t prove anything,” said Rochester.

Mr. Blackwood took a piece of paper from his pocket. “I have a statement here.” He cleared his throat. “‘I affirm and can prove that on the twentieth of October, AD’” (A date some twenty years back—did we mention that Rochester was really old?) “‘Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta, his wife, at St. Mary’s Church, Spanish Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the register of the church—a copy of it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard Mason.’”

“Okay, so I was married . . . at one time,” admitted Rochester. “But that document doesn’t prove that the woman in question is still alive, now does it?” He turned back to the priest. “Say man and wife.”

“She was alive three weeks ago,” said Mr. Blackwood.

“How do you know?” asked the priest.

“We have a witness to the fact,” Charlotte said. “Whose testimony even you, sir, will scarcely controvert.” She turned and gestured to Mr. Mason, who’d been standing at the back of the church this entire time. “Mr. Mason, come forward please. We need to hear from you now.”

Mr. Mason was pale. Trembling. He was clearly terrified of Mr. Rochester, with good reason, too, as the want-to-be-groom looked like he was going to rush the poor man at any moment and dispatch him with his bare hands.

“Have courage, Mr. Mason,” Charlotte whispered to him. “Tell the truth.”

“Bertha is my sister,” said Mr. Mason in a small voice. “I visited Thornfield Hall not even a month ago, and I beheld her there with my own eyes. My sister—Mr. Rochester’s wife—is very much alive. She’s mad, perhaps, but who wouldn’t be mad after all he’s done to her. He’s had her locked in the attic for fifteen years!”