Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles (14 page)

“You are a far better judge of that than I, Jane. Believe me, it will not hurt my feelings one jot if you decide to remove her.”

I appreciated her reassurance.

Before I could respond, Polly appeared in the door, looking flustered. “Sorry to bother you. There’s a woman at the front door.”

“Tell her I am unavailable,” said Lucy. “She can leave her calling card.”

But Polly didn’t leave. She slipped into the room and closed the door behind her, giving us a semblance of privacy. Polly spoke in a low voice, so her words wouldn’t carry. “I tried, ma’am, I did. I told her to go away. But she’s upset something terrible. She says she has to see you, now. Says it can’t wait.”

“Blast.” Lucy started to rise, but Polly shook her head.

“Sorry, Mrs. Brayton. It’s not you she wants. The visitor came for Mrs. Rochester. It’s a Miss Miller, and she says it’s a matter of life and death.”

The water dripping off of Nan Miller formed a puddle in the middle of the Braytons’ marble entrance hall. She must have run the entire distance from the girls’ school, because she panted like a harrier after a foxhunt. More shocking, she wore no bonnet. No head covering of any kind. Hunks of wet hair worked their way loose from the bun at the back of her neck and dripped water over her coat and down her skirt.

“Is it Adèle? Is she all right?” I ran down the stairs, disregarding the stiffness in my bruised legs.

“She is fine, still asleep.” With that Miss Miller commenced to shaking so violently I wondered if it was a prelude to a seizure.

Lucy must have thought the same. She turned to her butler and said, “Get me a blanket, Higgins. Do it quickly.”

The chatter of Miss Miller’s teeth was audible to everyone, with the marble tiles providing amplification. Although my old colleague was clearly in distress, her eyes darted this way and that as she took in the extravagant chandelier in Lucy’s foyer, the richly textured wallpaper, and the velvet curtains.
Nor did Miss Miller’s eyes miss Lucy’s lovely yellow gown or my new shawl from India. I pulled the pashmina tighter around my shoulders.

Higgins brought a heavy wool blanket, and we wrapped it around Miss Miller’s shoulders.

“Sadie, grab some towels to dry her hair. Tell Cook we need more tea. Hot with sugar.”

“I came as fast as I could. You made me promise Adela was safe, and she is. But a Bow Street Runner came to the school. He asked so many questions. Questions about Selina and how she died!” Miss Miller grabbed my hands. “That man questioned me for nearly an hour! He asked about the school and our students! Mrs. Thurston was furious. With me and with him. As if I had any say in his visit! Any say at all! Yes, Selina died. It happens. I am sorrowful. But I am not to blame!”

I put an arm around my old friend’s shoulder and asked my hostess, “What do you suppose has happened? Why would a man from Bow Street come around to ask questions?”

“I can think of one or two reasons, actually. None of them are pleasant,” Lucy said to me in a whisper. To Miss Miller, Lucy spoke clearly and in soothing tones. “I am sure everything will be all right. Let’s get you dry and cozy in front of a fire.”

“Higgins, tell Williams to fetch my brother,” said Lucy. “He’s not to come back without him, do you understand? I don’t care if he’s at Boodle’s. I don’t care what state he’s in. Bring him here, now!”

I thought it odd that Lucy was so disturbed about a Bow Street officer. The fact that one was asking questions seemed unremarkable to me. After all, they were little more than glorified night watchmen. Or were they? Lucy’s heated response and her demand that Williams fetch her brother put a new spin on this top. Perhaps Nan Miller really did have reason to be worried!

“Come along now.” Lucy took Miss Miller by the elbow.
“We shall go upstairs to the parlor. You can sit down in there. You poor thing. You have not eaten, have you? I believe we’ve met before—one time when I visited the school, perhaps?”

Lucy’s voice stayed low and soothing, as all the while she guided my former colleague up the stairs. Miss Miller moved slowly and rested on us heavily, her blocky frame and plain face an odd contrast to Lucy’s handsome visage and dazzling dress. Now that she had spent her anger at the constable’s intrusion, Nan Miller’s sobs dissolved into steady crying.

Lucy proved her good breeding and quality of character by showing Miss Miller the type of hospitality she might a baroness. I marveled at my hostess’s charity and generous nature. Even as Miss Miller left puddles of water all over Lucy’s carpet, my new “sister” neither flinched nor drew back.

“Here you go.” Lucy settled Miss Miller into an armchair by the fire and began to blot her hair with a warm towel that Polly provided. “Let’s get you dried off. Sadie, add more coal to the fire, please.” Lucy rubbed the warmth back into Nan Miller’s fingers. “Miss Miller, I think it would be wise for you to remove your boots.”

A puddle was forming around Miss Miller’s feet. Slowly she untied her brown lace-up shoes, revealing worn and raveled wool stockings. Polly removed them, emptied out the water on a fern in a terrarium, and set the footwear on the tiles in front of the fireplace.

Once we made Miss Miller more comfortable and poured her a cup of tea, Lucy whispered to me, “I suggest we wait for my brother. Bruce has experience with difficult matters, especially those involving criminal behavior. He even worked at the Bow Street station.”

“Is your brother an inquiry agent?” This might explain why his presence was perceived to be invaluable.

“Yes. Bruce also studied at the Inner Temple to become a barrister, and he served the Crown in the Army. He is very conversant with problems such as Miss Miller seems to be describing.”

Neither Lucy nor I asked our wet visitor any more questions. Instead, we worked toward restoring her sensibilities, which proved difficult. After her first cup of tea and a few bites of a scone, Miss Miller refused any sustenance and stared blindly into the red coals in the grate of the fireplace. Eventually, we plied her with more tea, a strong brew. I coaxed my friend into taking a couple of bites of the bread and cheese Lucy’s cook had sent up.

A little less than half an hour passed. The room smelled of wet leather shoes and woolen stockings as the warmth of the fire began to dry Miss Miller’s things. Lucy loaned her a linen handkerchief, and after thanking our hostess, Miss Miller vowed she would see that the scrap of fabric was returned to its owner, even as she examined the fine embroidery carefully.

“Hallo! Sister? You wanted me? I am here!” a voice called up from the foyer.

Lucy ran to the doorway and called down, “Bruce, we’re in the parlor.”

The house echoed with heavy footfalls. The parlor door burst open and there before us stood a man so nearly perfect, he hurt the eyes. His skin was burnished by time in the sun; his eyes were a lovely blue green. Golden strands threaded their way through his brown hair. Any artist’s eye would have lingered on a specimen like Mr. Douglas due to the pleasing regularity of his features, but it was his coloring that truly set him apart. He lit up the room like Helios, the Greek god who daily rode his chariot across the sky to bring sunshine to us mortals.

All that saved Bruce Douglas from being as pretty as a woman was a feathery mustache and an oddly twisted nose, which I would later learn had been earned in a tavern fight. Or two. Or three.

In keeping with such, it was also obvious that he was in his cups. Horribly drunk. In fact, he grabbed hold of an armchair
rather than fall over. The smell of liquor traveled with him as he wove his way into the parlor.

At first I thought his state quite shocking, but in reflection, Lucy had poured a generous amount of gin into our tea, hadn’t she? Perhaps my life had been too sheltered. I decided to defer full judgment of Mr. Douglas until I knew more of him.

“Bruce! What am I going to do with you?” Lucy wrung her hands, but her eyes shone with delight.

“I’ll be right as a line!” With two bounds, he crossed the room and scooped Lucy into his arms. He lifted her as easily as if she were a child and twirled her around. When they almost crashed into the fireplace, Lucy laughed. “Put me down! I repeat: Whatever am I to do with you?”

“Why, you must adore me, Sister. It is your job! That is what little brothers are made for!” Giving her a hearty kiss on the cheek, he set her on her feet.

Standing side by side, there was no question about their provenance. They were two peas from the same pod. But his coloring owed its vibrancy to hours in the out-of-doors, while hers showed the pale hues of a lady who never went without a hat.

“Miss Miller and Mrs. Rochester, may I present to you my brother, Bruce Douglas? Bruce, you remember Augie’s friend, Edward Rochester? This is his young bride, Jane Eyre. I have taken her for my sister, which makes her kin to you, too, little brother.”

“Shall I give you a twirl, too, Mrs. Rochester? I wouldn’t want my new sister to feel left out.”

“No, thank you.” I managed to hide a smile.

“Well then, Bruce Douglas at your service, ladies.” He executed a courtly bow to Miss Miller first and then to me. Like his sister, he clearly delighted in fashionable apparel, and his black cutaway coat perfectly conformed to his broad shoulders and narrow waist.

Miss Miller stared at Mr. Douglas, her mouth agape.

I understood. I fear I stared at Mr. Douglas myself, and for rather too long, because he reminded me of a work of art, so perfect was he. I admired him the way you stare at a fresh quince blossom, seeing the touch of the divine and wondering that the world could be so breathtaking. I believe he was accustomed to long looks, because he returned my frank gaze and stepped nearer. When he was close enough to touch me, he raised the tips of his fingers to my chin. “May I?” His glance drifted to my cheek.

I nodded. I know that I am plain and not usually inviting of a second glance, so I did not consider his approach an attempt at inappropriate intimacy. Instead, I understood it to be mere curiosity.

With exquisite gentleness he turned my face so that the candlelight shone on my disfigurement. “My, my. That’s an admirable black eye you’ve got there, Mrs. Rochester.”

“Yes, it is, rather.”

“On the streets they would call that a mouse,” he added.

“I wouldn’t know. However, the term rather fits, doesn’t it?”

Sadie reappeared bearing a tray and a huge smile. “I brought you that black tea from China, Mr. Douglas. Made it strong. Just the way you like it. Cook says she’s sending up a plate of those shortbread biscuits you fancy and some lemon curd. And lots and lots of cream and sugar for you, too. Anything else you want, sir?”

“No, Sadie. But thank you so much. Extend my thanks to Cook, will you? You both take such good care of me.”

She nodded and turned as red as a holly berry. Polly appeared on the parlor maid’s heels. “Anything you need of me, Mrs. Brayton?” she asked, but her glance was at Bruce Douglas, who did not seem to notice.

“No, thank you.” A smile teased the corners of Lucy’s lips. “I’ll ring if we need you, Polly.”

“Yes, madam.” She bowed and took her time leaving the room.

“Drink up, Bruce.” Lucy poured him a cup of the dark brown brew. “We have need of your best thinking, I fear. Williams found you at Boodle’s? Playing cards again?”

“Guilty as charged, Sister. I was actually winning when Williams came for me. Marcus Piper, the coroner, practically handed over his purse. I particularly enjoy playing with him because he often loses but also because he frequently provides me with the opportunity to acquire new business. On occasion, Piper recommends me to the families of victims because my services prove useful. But sometimes I simply sit and listen to the man talk about his work. Together we speculate about what might have happened. Like today. He had been called out this morning. Seems a doctor requested his presence at a school where a young girl was discovered dead in her bed.”

“Oh my!” Miss Miller gasped, a strangled cry that she quickly suppressed.

“Miss Miller is the head teacher at the Alderton House School for Girls,” said Lucy. “It was one of her students who died.”