My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(86)

“Yes. But I think you’re going to be a wonderful parson,” she said.

His eyes brightened. “You really believe so?”

She laughed. “I believe so. I believe it with all of my heart.”





TWENTY-NINE


Jane

Jane now knew why they called it a broken heart. It was a physical pain in her chest. It was a malady as strong as influenza, and for the first few days, she wondered if it was an illness.

“Feel my forehead,” she’d said to Charlotte many times. Charlotte humored her each time, but Jane never had a fever.

“He was an evil man who treated you terribly,” Charlotte said.

“I know,” Jane said. “It’s just that my heart hasn’t yet received that information.”

Helen sighed. “If only our hearts had brains.”

“And what if he’s the only man who will ever fancy me? I’m poor and plain, with little to recommend me. He was supposed to be my hero out of a Jane Austen novel.”

“There, there,” Charlotte said, patting her hand.

“I always knew something was wrong with that man,” Helen said. “I mean, I don’t want to say I told you so—”

“Then don’t!” Jane exclaimed.

Charlotte raised her eyebrows.

“Sorry, Helen was in the middle of saying she told me so.”

“That’s not helpful, Helen,” Charlotte said.

“I wish Mr. Blackwood would hurry up and get here,” Jane said.

“Me too,” Charlotte said. “Purely for informational purposes. And not for any other . . .” She cleared her throat.

Jane glanced up to see Charlotte’s face had turned red. “Charlotte, dear friend, do you have feelings for Mr. Blackwood?”

Charlotte put her spectacles to her eyes and became very interested in counting the books on the bookshelf.

“Charlotte?” Jane prodded.

“Well, I know you weren’t particularly fond of Mr. Blackwood.”

“That was before he saved my life! Tell me, friend, what are your feelings?”

Charlotte didn’t get a chance to answer because of the sound of hoofbeats approaching. Someone was coming up the road. Charlotte leapt up from her chair. She met Jane’s eyes.

“Do you think that could be . . . ?”

“Mr. Blackwood,” Charlotte murmured.

There was a knock. Charlotte tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. She opened the door, already smiling, but then her smile faded.

Because it wasn’t Mr. Blackwood standing at their doorstep. It was the Duke of Wellington.

Charlotte raised her glasses, and nodded to herself as if to confirm that yes, this man was indeed not Mr. Blackwood. Her face fell. “Sir, what brings you to Haworth at such an hour?” Charlotte said.

Wellington removed his hat and held it in his hands. “Miss Bront?, Mr. Bront?. And you are Miss Eyre, I presume. Good evening. I wish I could be here under better circumstances, but I’m afraid it is tragic tidings that bring me.”

Jane felt a knot in her stomach, and Charlotte let her glasses droop for a moment, her face ashen.

“What is it?” Charlotte said breathlessly.

“It is about Mr. Blackwood.” The duke’s face was grim. “He is dead.”

“No!” Charlotte exclaimed. She started to sink to the floor, but Bran dashed to her and helped her to the sofa. “That cannot be.”

“So Mr. Rochester killed him?” Jane said.

“Yes. Yes, that is exactly what happened.”

Jane found her own legs to be weak, and sank onto the sofa. Then Bran found his legs to be weak, and plopped down next to her.

“No, not Mr. Blackwood,” Charlotte said, tears pricking at her eyes. “It is too unbelievable.”

Wellington shook his head. “I still cannot believe it myself. I’m sure you all gathered from my treatment of Alexander that I considered him very nearly my own son. I raised him.”

Jane heard a sniffle, and turned to see Bran wiping his eyes.

Charlotte seemed to be trying every position of contorting her body in an effort to stanch the flow of inevitable tears. “Well, hmmm.” She stood, and then sat, and then stood and then paced the small parlor. “Oh, dear.” She put her glasses to her eyes, and then back down to her waist. She looked left, then right. “Shall I make some tea?” She started toward the stove but then bumped right into a table. “Mr. Blackwood loved his tea.” Sniffle.

Then she sat on the floor and the tears began to flow. “The smoke from that fire seems particularly strong this morning.” She stood up and reached for a poker.

Jane rushed to her side and gently urged the poker out of her hand, before Charlotte burned the whole house down.

“Charlotte, sit. There, next to Bran.”

Charlotte’s brother took her hand and held her close.

“Please, Your Grace, give us this time to collect ourselves,” Jane said.

“Of course.” The duke took a chair in a darkened corner of the room.

The Bront?s and Jane held one another, and, as often happens with a grieving family, they took turns wiping away tears. Mr. Blackwood had been so brave, so strong, facing Rochester. Jane could not believe it had ended so. Especially at the hands of the man she’d been in love with.