My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(92)

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” Bran said again, slinging his arm around her.

“Thank you, Bran. Let’s go home.”

They got a room for the night at the nearest inn. At dinnertime, they walked to the local pub and Charlotte gathered information regarding the ruin of Thornfield Hall. It was hard to get a straight story from anyone—the rumors abounded. After an hour of interviews with the local townspeople, this is what Charlotte had been able to ascertain:

Mr. Rochester had his wife locked up in the attic. (She knew that, of course.)

Mr. Rochester had tried to marry his governess, but it had all gone afoul when it was discovered that he had his wife locked up in the attic. (She knew that, too. Firsthand.)

People felt very sorry for Mr. Rochester and held a lot of mixed but largely negative opinions about this Jane Eyre person—who had reached above her station, who had deliberately set to entangle poor Mr. Rochester, a treacherous Eve type, she was, a tempting siren, but also small and plain and utterly unremarkable in every way. (Charlotte held her tongue. Barely.)

The events that followed were thus:

Mr. Rochester had gone a bit mad, after his failed attempt at bigamy, and he’d lit his own house on fire, killing everyone inside: Rochester, the wife, and the girl, all together.

OR

Mr. Rochester had burned his house down in order to dispose of his wife, and then he and the girl had gone to live in the South of France.

OR

The wife had set the place on fire, and succeeded in doing away with both herself and Mr. Rochester. No one knew what had become of the girl. But Mr. Rochester was most certainly dead.

OR

Mr. Rochester was most certainly alive. He’d nobly tried to save his wife from the fire, but she’d leapt to her death from the roof of the house. Mr. Rochester had been trapped in the inferno, and part of the house had collapsed upon him, but he’d been pulled out very much alive.

BUT

He’d lost one eye and the vision in the other, therefore being made totally blind. Helpless as a wee lamb. A beggar on the streets of London now. Very sad.

OR

His hand was crushed and had to be amputated. Now he had a hook and had been last seen applying for the job of a pirate.

OR

All of the above. (Somehow.)

As a storyteller, Charlotte liked the “nobly trying to save his wife” version of the tale best. It felt like the proper ending to redeem a man (sort of). But none of the townspeople had any knowledge whatsoever of a Mr. Blackwood. It was impossible to tell, under these circumstances, if Mr. Rochester was alive or dead or possibly a pirate. And she was no closer to finding out what had transpired with Mr. Blackwood.

“He’s not dead,” Bran said suddenly.

“You think so? Is he a pirate, then? Or a beggar? A pirate is a bit far-fetched, in my opinion. Just because one loses a hand doesn’t make a person qualified for piracy.”

“Not Rochester. Mr. Blackwood.” Bran was staring at an empty space just past Charlotte’s right shoulder.

Her breath left her. “Mr. Blackwood’s not dead?”

Bran shushed her. “I’m trying to listen. To the ghost.”

“The ghost?”

“The one standing right behind you. Mr. Rochester.”

Charlotte glanced behind her, but of course saw nothing. “You’re talking to Mr. Rochester? So he died in the fire, after all?”

Bran shook his head. “Mr. Rochester, it turns out, was possessed by a ghost. Apparently he’s not a bad fellow at all, but was being held a prisoner in his own body.”

“By whom?”

“By Mr. Rochester.”

Charlotte frowned.

“The ghost of his older brother,” Bran clarified. “During his clash with Mr. Rochester, Mr. Blackwood discovered the possession and was able to separate the man from his talisman, thereby releasing Mr. Rochester from his spiritual bondage.”

“That sounds just like Mr. Blackwood,” Charlotte agreed.

“Afterward, Mr. Blackwood departed for London.”

Charlotte was crying again. She pulled out a handkerchief. “Thank heavens. But how, then, was the house destroyed?”

“Grace Poole, who was also apparently employed by Mr. Rochester—the evil one, I mean—burned down the house in an attempt to do away with the Rochesters, but they had already escaped.”

“But I thought you said Mr. Rochester was a ghost? The one speaking to you, in fact.”

“Oh. No.” Bran smiled apologetically. “The ghost who is speaking to me now is also a Mr. Rochester, but not the Mr. Rochester. This is Mr. Rochester the eldest, our Mr. Rochester’s father. He’s been haunting this pub for years, apparently, ever since Mr. Rochester, the brother, died and took possession of Mr. Rochester—the one we know.”

There were, in Charlotte’s opinion, entirely too many Mr. Rochesters. But that was of no matter. Mr. Blackwood was alive! In London! She blew her nose, put her handkerchief away, and stood up.

“Well done, Bran,” she said to her brother. “Excellent job ferreting out all of this vital information. Now we should go.”

“To London, I suppose,” Bran said faintly. “To find Mr. Blackwood.”

“To find Mr. Blackwood,” Charlotte said, beaming. “And to talk to Jane. The story this ghost has told you does not match up at all with the Duke of Wellington’s account. I fear that Jane is being led astray. She could be in danger. We need to get to the bottom of the matter immediately.”