Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles (10 page)

I completed another half turn and used my back to slam the door.

“Aye, and don’t that just cap the globe?”

A woman stared boldly at me. She wore a cook’s apron, and a trace of flour smudged her broad forehead. She squinted and stepped closer to examine me. “What a sight! Ain’t only the rain that’s been beating on ye! Someone has been giving ye a good what for!”

A low snicker drew my attention to a young girl chopping vegetables.

“That will be enough, Emma,” said Cook.

Resting my back against the door, I caught my breath. The short walk in the elements—and the disturbing glimpse I’d had of a dead girl—had drained my reserves of energy. My compelling desire to see Adèle was all that fueled me.

“Wouldn’t send me worst dog out in this weather, I wouldn’t. Go on and get over by the fire.”

Following her directives, I stepped nearer to the wide brick hearth, where yellow, orange, and red coals glowed brightly. There I proceeded to shake the rain from my garments. As I moved, my bonnet tilted. More water dripped down, splashing a wooden box lined with rags. One of these shifted, revealing a large, lugubrious black cat. He hunched his spine in a stretch before settling into a seated position, where he regarded me haughtily.

I stared back.

He didn’t blink. His gaze suggested he felt quite my superior.

But then,
he
was dry, and I was not.

“Hope ye ain’t superstitious. That there is Mephisto, and he is the very devil. Ain’t got a spot of white nowhere. Mean, but a good mouser. Got a soft spot for the girls, he does. He’ll scratch you and me till we bleed like we been stuck with knives”—Cook pulled up a sleeve to show me the proof—“but he don’t never hurt the students. Never.”

Mephisto twitched his nose at me, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

“Ah,” was all I could manage. I unpeeled my wet shawl from my aching shoulders. With effort, I wrung it out on the floor. Water ran in rivers.

Cook kept up a rhythmic turning and slapping of dough against a flour-dusted tabletop. Small clouds of flour flew around and resettled. Emma chopped her vegetables in a stately cadence.

“Emma, put that down. Run tell Miss Miller that her
German teacher has finally arrived. All the way from Hamburg, she has come to us.”

A correction formed in my mind as a wave of tiredness and hunger nearly bowled me over. One hand on a nearby counter steadied me, temporarily.

Emma took her time untying her apron, clearly using Cook’s instructions as an excuse to examine me at length. “That is quite the black eye,” the girl said.

“Aye, it is. Now run along.” Cook left the dough and slid a long-handled wooden paddle under three fresh loaves in the oven. My stomach growled at the aroma of baking bread and caraway seeds.

I wasn’t alone. Emma cast a rueful glance at the fresh-baked bread before aligning her knife with the pile of half-peeled turnips. “Aye.”

“Mind, she might be too busy. What with what has happened and all. If she is, ask her what to do with this one.” Cook spoke in an undertone, but I could still hear. “I cannot have her hanging around my kitchen, not with those beggar eyes. Well, one beggar eye. The other is all swelled shut.”

I edged nearer to a shiny copper pot hanging from the ceiling. There I caught my reflection. The right side of my face resembled an angry purple pansy. My mouth was double its normal size. A bright red slash divided my lower lip in two.

I was glad I hadn’t examined my injuries more carefully back at Lucy Brayton’s house. They were horrible!

Suddenly, the purpose that kept me rigid, the force that had compelled me to keep going, vanished. My knees went weak and I wobbled a bit.

“Sit.” Cook shoved a stool beneath me. From the cupboard she retrieved a white china teapot, festooned with forget-me-nots and finished with a gold trim. The piece took on an unexpected glow of delicacy in that dreary, heavy kitchen.

I sank down and rubbed my forehead. Closing my eyes, I surrendered to a parade of images: little Ned in his cot, the
long carriage ride with Mr. Carter, the trip in the mail coach, the man who came from the shadows at the inn and—

“Here.” Cook poured from the teapot, her chapped red hands thickly incongruous against the translucent white of the pot. She pressed a mug of lukewarm tea toward me. I took a tentative sip. I wished it had milk and sugar, but I was grateful nonetheless.

I closed my eyes to savor the brew. One more image impressed itself on my brain—a flapping sheet, the spectral silhouette I’d witnessed from the walkway.

I squeezed the thick mug, trying to transfer its warmth. I was cold and hungry and tired. When the senses are overstimulated, the imagination naturally attempts mediation, doesn’t it? I decided that my mind had taken my concern for Adèle, my guilt at not visiting, her fearful letter, and my own memories of Lowood and woven all these separate occurrences into a new and fantastical tale. Mixed together with the sight of a sheet flapping in the wind, I’d invented a dramatic intrigue. My mind had merely woven disparate visions together, hoping to create a narrative, even where none existed.

That couldn’t have been a dead body that I had seen.

Taken in tandem with the threat to Adèle, it conjured up all sorts of wild imaginings.

Don’t go there, Jane,
I warned myself.
Keep to your plan. Surely Adèle is fine!

Industry. I wanted motion and purpose to keep my emotions in check. I drained the mug. Before I could thank the cook, she took the cup from me and turned her back on me.

“Hamburg. That’s a long way away, eh? Ye been running from someone. He done ye harm, eh?”

She had confused me with someone else. I opened my mouth to correct her, but before I could, she said, “No matter. Miss Miller will be happy to see ye. Especially after what happened this morning. She is going to need all the help she can get, I’ll warrant.”

“Miss Miller, the headmistress?” The name was familiar. However, there are nearly as many Millers in England as there are sheep on the hillsides.

“Who else would it be?” Cook laughed, a snort of derision that sent a cloud of flour flying. “Mrs. Thurston, the superintendent, would not be talking with the likes of ye. Nor would ye be passing the time of day with Lady Kingsley, the founder. If Mrs. Thurston did have a tick to spare for ye, wouldn’t she give ye what for? Showing up like this. Three weeks late.”

Clearly, she still took me for the errant teacher. By dressing in an improper manner for my station in life, I now realized how I invited misinterpretation. Breaches of etiquette did, indeed, send the wrong message, especially here in fashionable London.

I shivered. Digging deep into my skirt pocket, tunneling through the wet fabric, my hand bypassed the soggy note from Adèle, plus the offensive threat, and withdrew a limp handkerchief in time to cover my sneeze.

Cook looked up and set fists on her hips. Her watery blue eyes lingered on my bruises. “I had one of ’em once. Talked with his fists, he did. He was a good man, except when after he had himself too much whiskey.”

I attempted to nod and was rewarded for my efforts by a stabbing pain in my temple. My fingers flew to my eye. They cautiously explored the swelling flesh. The bulge was big as an apple now. I believe that I whimpered.

“Well, ye’re here and ye’re safe. It’s an ill wind that blows no good, I always say. Ye look smart enough, like ye spends all yer time reading. That’ll make ye all skinny and pale. My daughter looked a bit like ye.”

“Did she?” I perched on a stool. A pain shot through my ribs. I bit back a moan.

“Ye’re hurt bad, ain’t ye? I’ll get ye a piece of meat to put on that eye. Just ready to turn it into a nice stew, but it won’t hurt my cooking to wait, and it might do ye a world of good.”

“Thank you kindly.” What I really wanted was another hot cup of tea with milk and sugar, and perhaps a piece of that bread. My eye could not be helped, I feared, but my stamina was fading quickly.

“Ye speak English right nicely. Blimey. I bet learning German is awful hard.”

With consideration to my mistaken identity, I quickly added, “
Danke
.”

“Aye. Don’t hold much with foreigners.”

“I was born in Thornton, Yorkshire.” No need to tell her that my cousins and I taught ourselves German by reading great literature with a dictionary propped open on our knees. Thinking of Diana and her sister, Mary, I pulled my dripping shawl tighter around me.

“Good.” My English pedigree thus established, Cook reached into a pot, withdrew a large hunk of uncooked meat, and transferred it carefully to my hands.

I raised the meat to my aching cheekbone. Perhaps the raw flesh could, indeed, provide relief. But I held little hope.

Emma reappeared and held the door open for another woman. When this second entrant raised her head, I gasped in surprise to see Nan Miller, a teacher from my days at Lowood. Relief rushed through me as I beheld a woman I once knew well.

“Jane Eyre! What on earth are you doing here? Your face!”

Nan Miller’s careworn countenance had only grown more haggard over the years since I had left the school. When I first met her, she was an under-teacher with a ruddy complexion and a propensity to scuttle. About ten years my senior, Miss Miller was also an orphan who, like me, had been sent to Lowood and who aspired to a better way of life.

I juggled the meat with one hand and reached out to shake Miss Miller’s outstretched fingers with the other.

“I will take that.” Cook scowled and gestured toward the meat.

“
Danke
,” I said.

“
Dan-kee
,” Cook mimicked my earlier thanks.

“
Danke
,” I repeated sternly, unwilling to let her atrocious accent go unchallenged.

“Emma, bring us tea. We’ll take it in the parlor.” Miss Miller jerked her head in the direction from where she had come, indicating she expected me to follow. “What a pleasant surprise, Miss Eyre. But I cannot visit for long. It is a very sad day. One of our students has died.”

At that, I fainted.

I fought to regain consciousness as the world came back into focus. A dull ache thrummed in the back of my head. My stomach rumbled with hunger.

“Miss Eyre? Please, wake up. I haven’t time to play nursemaid.” A blocky hand waved a vial of strong scents under my nose. “Put the tray on the table, Emma. That will be all. Close the door on your way out.”

We were seated in a highly decorated parlor, a veritable jungle of overbearing palms. Dark and gloomy portraits frowned down on us from all four walls. Vases, an obelisk, and a multitude of porcelain figurines competed for space on a white mantel. Reaching for opulence, the decor achieved clutter. The general stuffiness and the overabundance of items added to my mental confusion.

“Drink this. I added a touch of ratafia.” Miss Miller guided a delicate rose-sprigged teacup to my lips so that I could take a fortifying swallow.

I gasped. The tea could not disguise the fact that the ratafia
tasted like oak barrels, where I assumed the beverage had fermented.

I added more tea to my cup and asked, “What happened?”

“I am not sure. Emma summoned me to the kitchen. I thought to meet our long-lost German teacher. Imagine my surprise to find you in our kitchen, and in this battered state! Then you fainted dead away. From the looks of that fresh bruise and broken lip, it is clear that you have had a most trying experience.”

“A highwayman robbed me.”

“Oh dear! They roam the roads with impunity, do they not? You must have put up quite a struggle.”

“I did,” I said. I sought to direct our conversation into another channel. There was no reason to dwell on my past misfortunes. “Did you say that someone had died?”

“Yes.” Miss Miller’s voice was little above a whisper.

“Who?”

“Pardon?”

“I need to know. Who died?”

“Why, Miss Eyre! I hardly think it is any of your affair!”

“Which girl is dead? Is it Adèle?”

“Adèle? We have no student named Adèle.”

“Adèle Varens. She is here. I know it! Tell me she is all right.” My head began to swim with pain.

“Oh! You mean Adela Varens! You call her by her French name? You see, Mrs. Thurston issued strict instructions to only call the girl ‘Adela’ in order that she might become more British in her manner and—”

“Is she all right?” Her evasions proved so frustrating that I could have grabbed Miss Nan Miller by both shoulders and shaken her.

“Of course, Adela is fine.”

I tried to organize my thoughts. Adèle was not dead. However, another girl was! What was happening here?

“How did that girl die?” I needed to know if this was
somehow connected with the threatening mail Adèle had received. Was my young friend in imminent danger?

Miss Miller sighed. “Selina Biltmore was found dead in her own bed this morning. An undisclosed illness, or some unknown weakness, appears to have felled her. Really, Jane, you are most provoking. As I said, I need to get to my responsibilities, especially given this sad occurrence. I shall see you to the door.” Miss Miller attempted to stand.