Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles (8 page)

If he thought my bruised face surprising, he showed no sign.

But there was a flicker in his eyes. Yes, he’d noted my injuries. He simply refrained from remarking on them. I had the impression he’d likely seen worse.

“Yes, I am. Thank you for meeting me.”

He nodded gravely. “Guard? What has happened? Mrs. Rochester here is a guest of Mrs. Captain Augustus Brayton. Why has she been detained?” His straightforward way of speaking seemed at odds with his fussy uniform.

I admit Williams surprised me. As far as I knew, coachmen did not speak unless spoken to. Yet here he was, asking questions of the guard.

“A thief, that’s what happened here. Or so she claims,” Glebe said, tugging at the flaps of his own jacket. “He made off with her reticule. Strange, when there were all sorts of other fancy passengers. Yet he only picked on you, madam. Why?”

Williams stepped between the guard and me. “Mrs. Rochester, Mrs. Captain Brayton is expecting you. I trust this good man has made a report to the constabulary?”

“Not yet, I ain’t.”

“Then do so,” said Williams. “Mrs. Rochester? Our carriage is this way.”

Williams gave a neat half bow, the line of him interrupted by that stiff right leg that refused to bend. “Mrs. Captain will be happy to see you. Don’t fret, ma’am. Mrs. Captain has all sorts of resources. She will help you get this sorted. See if she don’t.”

Ensconced in the Braytons’ handsome carriage, I peered out the window to see London, as best I could through the rain. The number of people astounded me. My impression was of a moving sea of persons in all shapes, sizes, and colors! Soon, I was forced to bury my nose in my sleeve because the stink of this place was worse than a privy on a hot summer day. Moreover, there was a prevailing dank darkness to the sky. My gray dress had been quickly covered in a mixture of soot and grit that had entered through the window. This, added to the mud from my tussle with my attacker, rendered me quite unpresentable. I thought to close the curtain, but my curiosity got the better of me and I quickly went back to staring out the window. I felt certain there was much to recommend the place, but alas! Given the dirt, the smog, and the press of the crowd, I confess that I found London less than desirable! In fact, I was bitterly disappointed.

Unlike its redbrick neighbors, #24 Grosvenor Square wore a fresh coat of white paint. Rather than the usual black shutters, Mrs. Lucy Brayton had added a touch of yellow to the paint, turning her trim a dark evergreen. Bountiful pansies, their heads heavy with flowers, spilled over window boxes, making them as colorful as gypsy caravans. The scent of her spicy geraniums added a tingle to the air, although the droop of the leaves told me that the frosts of fall had already done damage.

As the carriage pulled up, the front door opened and a figure came rushing out.

“Jane! There you are, at last!”

As a footman helped me alight from her carriage, Mrs. Captain Brayton squealed with joy and threw her arms around me. “At last I have a sister!” she exclaimed. “And I want to hear all about the baby!”

To describe Lucy Brayton was to attempt to pin down a butterfly and examine it carefully as it flapped its wings. The woman stayed in constant motion, her curls bobbing, her lashes fluttering, her hands moving, and her overall posture one of preparation for flight. Taken along with the vivid colors of her wardrobe, the effect dazzled the viewer.

While she was quite handsome, I believe she was never beautiful. Somehow her features—while pleasant enough when viewed separately—were less than harmonious when assembled. However, a light of curiosity shone from her eyes, functioning as a beacon that drew you closer. Lucy’s apparel paid homage to the highest art of the Parisian dressmakers, and yet she did not wear it stiffly and cautiously as a mannequin might. Instead, she seemed wholly unaware of its delicacy and costliness. Indeed, after a small amount of time in her presence, I, too, forgot how fashionably she was dressed. That was nothing except butter on the bread. The true focus was not the artificial outer garments but the woman’s sparkling character, which no amount of apparel could obfuscate.

I guessed her age at thirty and five years, or so.

Her embrace sent me moaning in pain.

“Oh dear, and I finally have a sister and I broke her already!” She stepped away from me, her face contorted with dismay. “Goodness! Just look at you! Your eye is the color of a blooming pansy, and you have more dirt on you than my gardener moves each spring. Come along, Jane. I want to hear all about little Ned—and the story behind your disarray!”

Her use of my Christian name and her exuberant welcome confirmed my earlier suspicions that my hostess would not let our friendship develop as such relationships naturally did.
That is, slowly. No, based on our husbands’ long-standing friendship, Lucy Brayton was apparently already confident that we would be good friends, too.

That had been a more fulsome welcome than I expected, though Edward had warned me not to be misled by Lucy’s fashionable exterior and overt cheerfulness into thinking that she was lacking in intelligence.

“Lucy has more substance than many men I know. She travels with Augie, gets to know the natives, and generally explores the world on her own terms. In every way, she is remarkable. Such a shame that she and Augie have been unable to produce an heir,” Edward had said as he kissed our Ned.

“Yes, well, hello—” I managed now.

The front door opened slightly and a small dog tumbled down the stairs and onto the street. At first, I thought him to be a white muff, sewn out of human hair, so silky was his coat. However, his high level of exuberance quickly altered my impression.

“Meet Rags,” Lucy explained as she scooped him up. “He was a gift from Augie. Isn’t he adorable? Everywhere that I go, he comes along to save me from getting overly lonely while Augie is serving the King in climes unfit for humankind.”

She took my hand and helped me up the stairs. My lack of food and the nagging pain from my injuries rendered graceful movement nearly impossible, so I succumbed to Lucy’s guidance. We stepped over the threshold and into a black-and-white marble foyer, where her staff stood in a line for introductions. I struggled to concentrate, but I did manage to note that Polly was Mrs. Brayton’s personal maid, and Sadie was the kitchen and parlor maid. Higgins was the name of the butler.

“They are all at your disposal,” Lucy said as she concluded her introductions. “Now we shall get you upstairs and see to your injuries.”

Before I could protest, I found myself in an opulent guest
bedroom, decorated in shades of yellow and green, with extravagant gold brocade curtains, a four-poster bed, and a chair positioned in front of a roaring fire. One of the footmen brought up a bathtub. He returned with a housemaid, and both carried buckets of hot water. I was whisked behind a screen, where Polly helped me remove my garments. Lucy scooped out sea salts and lavender from a brilliant cut glass container.

“I believe more lavender is also in order,” she said to the maid. Polly left us and came back with a tin of dried herb leaves. When added to the hot water, the fragrance of lavender relaxed me, even before I stepped into the tub.

As I soaked happily behind the screen, Lucy plied me with questions about Ned.

“He sounds like a perfect darling!” she declared.

When the water grew cold, Polly toweled me dry, bandaged my wounds, and helped me into a dressing robe.

“Polly will see to your frock,” said Lucy as her lady’s maid left the room. “She is the finest abigail in all of London. I’ve instructed her to unpack your portmanteau. Cook sent up a tray. I’ll be mother.” Lucy lifted a delicate teapot. “Weak or strong?”

“You don’t believe in that old superstition, do you?” I helped myself to a slice of cold meat, a piece of bread, and a slice of cheese. My stomach warned me these would only partially slake my hunger, but dinner would not be served for four more hours.

“That two people drinking from the same teapot risk bad luck?” She smiled at me. “No. I am a contrarian. All that is conventional arouses my suspicions. That said, you have had a run of ill fortune. Care to tell me what happened? I do not imagine you left Edward’s tender care in such a state of dishevelment!”

I sighed. “It is rather a long story.”

“Do your injuries hurt much?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “Especially around my eye, where the skin feels most tender.”

“Polly?” Lucy called out. “Run and fetch my flask, won’t you?”

Polly returned with a small silver flask. Lucy tipped some liquid into my tea. “Try that. It should help you feel better.”

“What is it?” I sniffed it cautiously.

“Gin. I find refreshing beverages like it to be delightful. Alcohol does wonders for the disposition, and it will hasten the process of getting to know each other. You are lucky I am willing to share. Now drink up.”

I followed her lead. The beverage scalded my throat. I sputtered.

“You will get used to it. I daresay you will even grow fond of it, given a chance.”

After that initial shock, it went down as a treat. To my amazement, my injuries stopped throbbing. In fact, I welcomed another helping in my second cup of tea. The faint aftertaste of juniper intrigued me. “How did you come to develop a taste for this?”

My hostess laughed. “Augie introduced me to it. You see, in India our men drink this mixed with quinine. It helps mollify the effects of malaria.”

“I see.”

“Why not start your story at the beginning? Why did you quit Ferndean so abruptly?”

I told her about Adèle’s letters and showed her the foul note that threatened the child’s safety.

“I asked around about Maude Thurston,” Lucy said after she had read the note and returned it to me. “She has survived a precipitous fall from the rarified levels of high society. Her husband used to belong to Boodle’s, the same club at which Augie and my brother are members. But Mr. Walthrop Thurston gambled away his fortune, and then committed suicide. The wretch. He left his poor wife to face the bill collectors
alone. Her employment by Lady Kingsley as the Alderton House superintendent is more than simply fortuitous; it is necessary for survival,” Lucy said. “Now tell me all about your travel here. I want to know everything!”

I explained about the offer from Mr. Carter for a ride, concerns regarding Edward’s vision, and how I overheard Mrs. Carter. “I could not hear everything, but I heard enough to believe that she rejected my company because she had heard scurrilous remarks about me from a woman named Blanche Ingram.” The gin loosened my tongue.

Lucy nodded solemnly. “Yes, I, too, have heard what Blanche Ingram and her mother have said about you and about Edward. They are terrible gossips, I’m afraid. They have been telling everyone who will listen that Edward tried to marry you while he was still married to another. Of course, they never let an opportunity pass without pointing out that you were his ward’s governess. The Ingrams have complained long and loud over what they term ‘Squire Rochester’s ill-bred behavior.’ But do not let it worry you overmuch. I doubt that you’ll run into them much while you are here.”

“Not that I care!”

“Ah, but things might change, when Ned is older. You might well shun Society now, but later you will see the advantages it can offer your child. Take my word for it.”

I did not respond. I had not considered my new responsibilities to my son’s future. Instead I sipped my tea, trying to ease the cotton wool texture inside my mouth. We sat for a while without speaking. At long last, I gathered my courage and said, “What should I do, Mrs. Brayton? You are quite right; I need to look ahead.”

“I absolutely must insist that you call me Lucy! What you must do is form alliances. To see and to be seen, my darling. If that sounds odious, do it for Ned’s sake. And for Edward, because a squire never knows when he might need a favor from
someone in London. You still haven’t explained what happened to your eye.”

I told her about my trip in the mail coach and the incident with the thief. I ended my recitation with, “I hate the thought of telling Edward I have lost the Rochester diamonds!”

“I can assure you, Jane, that Edward will not care one whit about the jewels. They meant nothing to him until you came into his life.”

“I know that. However, he has changed since Ned’s birth,” I explained. “Before we became parents, Edward thought of his family’s legacy as a painful situation that must be endured. After all, it was his father’s desire to keep Thornfield unencumbered that got him tricked into his first marriage.”

“I know, I know,” said Lucy. “What a horrible injustice!”

“For years, Edward thought of family and felt only disgust. But since our son’s birth, my husband thinks in terms of what he—and the Rochester family—can offer Ned. He keenly regrets that several portraits of Rochester ancestors burned in the fire. A portraitist has been commissioned to re-create one from a miniature. Even more surprisingly, Edward has communicated with a distant relative to see if he will loan us a painting of his mother to be copied.”

“You are worried Edward will be angry not because you lost the diamonds but because he will miss the chance to pass his mother’s jewelry to his son? I admit, that makes more sense to me. Every man hopes his family name will live on. For that very reason our system of primogeniture continues to exist. Any child is a blessing, but a son doubly so.” Her voice wavered and she looked down at Rags, gathering him close and giving him a hug. His tail wagged merrily as he licked her face.

Lucy feigned absorption with a tangle in Rags’s hair. But something in the slump of her shoulders told me she was thinking about her own situation.

I knew I should comfort her, but I could not. It went
against my natural feelings of restraint. As much as I liked her, I was not in the habit of pressing my affection on women I’d barely just met. I wanted friendship, but I was not sure how to pursue it.

“Edward will not so much be angry as disappointed. I hate being the instrument of his distress. It angers me that I did not fight harder.”

“You must not say that.” Lucy’s voice turned forceful. Rags responded by hopping to one side and whining at her. “That is entirely wrong. Your assailant wielded a knife. You were lucky to escape with your life. Your courage is not at issue here. A victim should never be blamed for an attack! I am certain that Edward would wholeheartedly agree with me.”