My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(97)

“But, Helen, I already put the ring in the study!” Jane exclaimed.

“Oh right,” Helen said.

The door guards started to approach her.

Jane, Helen, and the tree ghost started to walk away. “How could the duke possibly possess the king anyway?” Jane said.

“The ring is a talisman,” Helen said. “It’s holding a ghost who can control the king.”

Jane’s heart sank. “We have to get back to the study.”

Just then, trumpets sounded, indicating the king had once again entered the ballroom.

The three of them rushed inside, and there was the king, sitting on his throne.

“Tree ghost, can you go to him? Distract him?”

But the tree ghost only backed away. “That is not the king.”

“What? Of course he’s—” Jane caught a glimpse of the king’s hand, and on it was the ring. “No. We have to get out of here and find Mr. Blackwood,” Jane said. “He’ll know what to do. Stay with me, Helen?”

“Always,” Helen said.





THIRTY-THREE


Alexander

Within the first ten days of Wellington controlling the King of England, Mr. Mitten (as the king) issued several royal proclamations. The first was that everyone should recognize that his coronation had been the most-attended coronation of all time. Period. (Even though it had been four years ago, and really, who even cares?) The second decree dismissed Parliament and appointed Wellington as prime minister.

Meanwhile, Alexander—and everyone else who knew the truth about the king’s possession—were living in a warehouse off the river. It was undignified and unsanitary. And to make matters worse, they were out of tea.

But they were together, and that was something. After Miss Eyre had emerged from the palace, she and Miss Bront? had embraced and bounced and embraced some more. Miss Eyre relayed Miss Burn’s happiness to see Miss Bront?, and then Alexander and the three young ladies returned to the warehouse.

Where Miss Eyre saw the Rochesters for the first time since Thornfield.

It was super awkward.

“Uh, hello.” Mr. Rochester shifted his weight. “I’m Edward Rochester. Pleased to meet you.”

Miss Eyre just stared at him.

Then Mrs. Rochester swept in and took Miss Eyre’s hand. “Hello, ma chérie. Wonderful to see you again.” Her smile was so warm and radiant that Miss Eyre returned it, obviously surprised.

“Good evening,” she said.

“I know what you’ve been through, but we Beacons are strong and resilient. You shall overcome it.”

“What about what you’ve been through?” Miss Eyre asked.

“As I said, ma chérie: overcome.”

The joyful reunion was cut short when news of the royal decrees reached them.

To be perfectly honest, Alexander was feeling rather sick about the whole thing. He didn’t sleep anymore; rather, he lay awake going over every conversation he’d ever had with Wellington, searching his memory for some hint that this had been coming. What had he missed? That was probably the most disappointing thing of all: his own failure to stop all of this before it happened.

After that, he’d taken to reading Miss Bront?’s notebook, which he’d retrieved from its hiding spot the first time the Rochesters allowed him out of the warehouse. He knew he should return it right away, but curiosity made him open it one night. After he came to a charming passage about burnt porridge on page twenty-seven, he couldn’t stop reading.

Some pages were the budding story of fictional Miss Eyre and fictional Mr. Rochester, while others were beautiful descriptions of people and places. Alexander was certainly no literary expert, but he knew at once that Miss Bront? possessed some faculty of verse.

The final entry read: Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I have as much soul as you and full as much heart. And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh—it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal—as we are.

Alexander paused at that paragraph, dated the day of the doomed wedding, and turned every phrase over in his mind. He could hear Charlotte in those words, feel the passion and conviction of the author’s feelings. Not just the characters she was writing about, but hers.

He’d read some secret part of her heart.

He really should give the notebook back.

He read the passage again and again, until he fell asleep.

The next morning, the group was collected on a circle of crates piled into uncomfortable imitations of sofas and chairs. Someone had managed to procure bundles of blankets and pillows, so they’d been able to put together a semblance of living quarters, one for the ladies, one for the men, and one for Mr. and Mrs. Rochester, who refused to be separated for any length of time now, even though the couple sharing a space was something of a scandal. (Remember, these were different times. Married couples of high rank didn’t always share a room.)

Speaking of scandals, Miss Eyre spent a lot of time watching the Rochesters from the corner of her eye, unconscious of the frown she wore, and Miss Burns’s occasional jabs. Like right now.