My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(88)

As Jane and Charlotte (and Helen) lay in bed, Jane could hear sniffles coming from her friend.

“Charlotte, you must be in such pain.”

“Truly, I am in as much pain as one would anticipate, upon learning an acquaintance has died. Yes, that is the amount of pain I am feeling. The expected amount. No more. No less.” Sniffle.

“What did he mean when he said Beacon?” Helen said. “You can command ghosts?”

“Helen, please,” Jane said. “Quiet.”

“All right,” Helen said. After a few moments, she whispered softly, “Wait, am I saying all right because you commanded me? Or because I want to be quiet?”

“I am not commanding you,” Jane insisted.

“Have I ever made any decisions for myself?” Helen said.

Charlotte sniffled loudly.

“Helen, please. Charlotte needs us right now.”

“No, I don’t,” Charlotte said. “I hardly knew him.”

“I’ll be quiet, but that’s because I want to,” Helen said.

“Thank you,” Jane said. She turned to Charlotte. “You did know him. You spent quite a bit of time with him.”

“Only as much as propriety called for. No more. No less.” She sniffed again and then blew her nose. “My, this room must be dustier than I am used to. I do believe it has gotten in my eyes.”

“It’s dusty?” Helen said. “Maybe you should command me to wipe it down.”

Jane sighed loudly. She decided not to spend any more time convincing Helen she wasn’t commanding her and convincing Charlotte that Mr. Blackwood had meant something to her.

Jane spent the restless night considering her choice. She was not interested in revenge. She was not interested in prestige. She was not even interested in the five thousand pounds.

But she was interested in her friend’s broken heart.

The following morning, at tea, the duke shifted uncomfortably in his chair. And then he shifted some more. He took a sip of tea, which was too hot, and spit it out. He stood and walked to the window and stared out trying with all his might to appear calm and pensive. Charlotte and Bran bustled about trying to look busy.

“I’ll go,” Jane said, deciding to put him out of his misery.

The duke whirled around. “You will? Miss Eyre, you will not regret it. With your seer ability, and your Beacon ability . . . you will be a star.”

“A star of what?” Jane said.

“Why, a star agent!”

Jane set her teacup down. “I don’t have any desire to be a star anything. I only wish . . . well, you don’t need to know my reasons.”

The duke bowed his head.

“I will pack at once.” Jane gazed at Charlotte and Bran, wishing she didn’t have to part with the closest people to family she’d ever known. Then she looked to Helen, who had been sitting in the corner, arms folded, pouting. “Do you want to come with me?”

Helen shrugged. “You tell me.”

“I’m asking you,” Jane said. “Old friend. Dear friend.”

Helen sighed. “Yes, I will come with you.”

Jane turned back to the duke. “Where are we going?”

The duke smiled widely. “London.”





THIRTY


Alexander

Alexander existed in pure agony for what felt like days. Weeks. Months. The cut on his head throbbed in time with his shuddering heartbeat, slowing as blood flowed out and out, into the dirty river.

Vaguely, in a faraway sense, he knew he had to climb out of the water. That he would drown if he slipped off the carriage door he’d managed to grab. It had been a frantic scramble as he’d heaved the top part of his body onto it, and already, his shirtsleeves were shredded from the ragged wood edges, and splinters dug into his cheek and neck where they pressed against the damp wood.

Still, he could feel himself slipping, gravity dragging him deeper into the river. Objects bumped against his legs and feet. Trash tangled around his limbs, drawing him off the carriage door. But when he tried to kick, to gain just a little momentum and haul himself farther out of the water, his body refused to obey. Whether that was from the cold or his body’s slow betrayal, it was hard to tell.

I need to climb onto the bank, he thought, but his mind was so sluggish that the thought could hardly form at all. I need to go after Wellington. I need to find Miss Bront? and Miss Eyre.

But his body did not respond.

He floated on the door until the force of the earth, the river, and all the debris finally succeeded in drawing him down far enough that the door tipped.

And he slipped under.

“Welcome,” whispered the ghosts who’d drowned here.

What Alexander did not see—could not see—were their eyeless forms, the shriveled echoes of their skin picked to shreds by fish. They reached for him, translucent fingers drifting through his ribs and face.

He didn’t see them because he’d fallen unconscious again, but even without his guidance, his body fought for survival. His lungs held fast against the urge to breathe in. His mouth pressed tight against the temptation of falling open. Even as his blood pumped into the water and his body began to shut down from the lack of air, that human desire to live kept him going.

Until even that failed.