Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles (18 page)

I nodded at my friend. “That should work well.”

“One of Bruce’s men will be watching for it. He has a group of like-minded former military men who work for him on a regular basis. They served together in India, so they are tested and true. You will never be without resources.”

I stared at her. Lucy was more thoughtful and more versed in the art of subterfuge than I ever would have expected.

As if reading my mind, she smiled. “At a later date, we can discuss how I came to be so conversant with such matters. But this is hardly the time. May I suggest that you do not share this information with Miss Miller?”

I quickly grasped the reason. Clearly Lucy and her brother also felt a pinprick of doubt regarding Miss Miller’s loyalties.

“I shall keep the existence of a watchman our secret. The prearranged signal will go no further than the two of us.”

Impulsively, my new friend—for such she was proving herself to be—embraced me, a gesture I accepted with pleasure. “What courage you have! We’d best get you on your way. Williams will drive you and Miss Miller to the school and let you out two streets away, as to avoid suspicions about your arrival by carriage. My brother and I will be in the park tomorrow afternoon and every afternoon thereafter. We shall wait for you on a bench. You can expect at least one of us to be there daily.”

She stepped back and stared into my eyes. Hers had changed, deepening from that springlike shade of bluebells to the midnight blue associated with the fathomless depths of the sea.

“You can count on me for anything. Anything at all,” she insisted again. “When I said I wished to be your sister, I offered you my home, my hearth, and my heart. After glimpsing your character, I am proud to be your sister. You are not alone in this venture. I stand in the shadows, but I am here. I am ready to assist you in any way possible.”

This embrace was quicker, but the emotion that welled up inside us made us grasp each other much more tightly. A
signal, perhaps, that we both feared those rocky shoals and storm-tossed seas ahead.

As we parted from our hug, she gave my hands one more quick squeeze of affection. The pressure from my wedding band reminded me of the part that I would be playing. Lucy must have read my mind because her fingers lingered against those of my left hand.

“Your ring.” A sadness filled her eyes as she turned my hand over before clasping it with both of hers.

I stared down at my wedding ring. I had expected to never remove it, to wear it with my shroud to the grave, but here I was, less than a year and a half later, tugging at it. Reluctantly, I worked the simple gold ring down the length of my finger. My skin fought the ring’s slow progress. The removal tore my heart in two. When, at last, it slipped over my fingertip, I grasped and squeezed the band tightly, hoping to burn the shape into the flesh of my palm.

Lucy plucked the ring from my hand. “It’s not the ring or the ceremony that binds you and Edward. It’s your heart. I see it in your face, in your eyes as they light up when you say his name. Do not despair. Gold is a soft metal, easy to dent or ding or melt. But a woman’s heart is a substance immutable even to the most skilled alchemist. Have no fear, Sister. With or without this ring, you are still his, and Edward is still yours.”

With that, my friend left to instruct her cook to pack up a bit of cheese and bread for Miss Miller and me, in case she and I had missed our supper. Higgins was getting Miss Miller’s coat when Mr. Douglas intercepted me in the hallway. He motioned me into the library.

“I must be quick. I sense that you are that rare person who finds strength in adversity. Good. I have served with such men in India, and I tell you they are the strength of any organization. Since you lack neither the will nor the intellect, I shall endeavor to give you self-preservation skills that should serve
you well if you are confronted with a deadly adversary. Pay strict attention, please. The first is simple: Never underestimate your opponent. Trust no one. Stay alert. Do not allow yourself the luxury of an unguarded moment.”

“
Maim samajh guyi
,” I said.

“You speak Hindostanee!”

“Only a little. Thank you for your good advice. I shall follow it carefully.”

His eyes widened in wonder. “You are welcome. Entirely welcome.”

Once in the carriage, Miss Miller shrank so far back into the shadows that I could only discern the outline of her fingers pressed against her mouth. The
clop-clop-clop
of horse hooves drummed us away from the Brayton home. Over the course of the day, my muscles had stiffened, and each bump and bounce along the cobblestones sent lightning bolts of pain through my body. After one particularly rough jolt, I gasped in pain.

“Does it hurt much?” asked Miss Miller.

“I shall be fine.”

“I hope we both shall be.”

Another carriage passed by, its coach lights illuminating our cabin and highlighting an anxiety in Miss Miller’s eyes.

“I rarely ride in coaches.” She ran her hands over the horsehair seat covers. “My, my.”

My heart softened toward her. “You have done right to tell us about your fears, and therefore, you have done your duty to Alderton House.”

“And what of you? Surely taking Adela home would have been a simpler solution. Your husband would applaud your
good sense, and you could rest easily at night with his ward under your roof again. It’s not too late, Mrs. Rochester. The driver could wait outside Alderton House. You could take Adela and leave.”

The thick landscape of the park presented an impenetrable fortress. Tree leaves moved against a sky of gray, a ceiling that pressed heavily upon us. I moved restlessly, feeling closed in and panicky. My thumb rubbed the spot where my wedding band had been. Miss Miller was right: It would be easier to take Adèle and go home. No one would blame me. Besides, I had a husband and son to consider. My life was not mine alone anymore. Their own lives and well-being depended upon my safe return. My scheme threatened those sacred obligations.

But as Bruce Douglas had pointed out, how could I live with myself if I did nothing to aid the girls at Alderton House?

I straightened my shoulders. “My course of action is set. Perhaps we should turn our efforts toward making me a credible German teacher, even if my hire is temporary.”

“You do possess the necessary language skills, don’t you?”

I sighed. Why were we going over old ground? Was she that fearful that our plot would be discovered?

I bit back my impatience and said, “I have studied German. I can read and write in that language. As for conversation, I have mastered enough to teach other beginners. Before we met, my husband traveled through Europe, spending time in all the capitals. He has a good ear for languages. He corrected my pronunciation of simple words.”

“‘My husband traveled through Europe.’” Miss Miller echoed what I had said in a tone of wonder. “How different your world is these days! Well, you should feel at home at Alderton House. At Lowood, we were trained to serve others. At Alderton, we train girls to be served by others. There is merit to both ways of life. In truth, the more I learn about the expectations visited upon these children of privilege, the sadder it makes me. They have less freedom than one might
suppose. Mrs. Webster, our former superintendent, once compared a hothouse orchid to a common thistle. Both may be delicate and luminous in their beauty. But one can only survive under the constant, tender care of a gardener, while the other can scratch out an existence in the most meager of soils.”

Miss Miller fingered her skirt thoughtfully and said, “Mrs. Webster would then ask us, ‘Which flower is to be envied?’”

“I have no doubt. I know I am the thistle, and glad to be so.” I sat deep into the well-worn carriage seat. The day had tired me, and my eyelids begged to close. The end of day had the opposite effect on Miss Miller. The darkening gloom and the rhythmic swaying of our carriage rendered her garrulous.

“I concur. The plant is useful, sturdy, and distinctive.”

Suddenly her voice sounded just like our old superintendent, a woman we had both known and admired, Maria Temple. Miss Temple had challenged us to use our minds, finding rote repetition and mimicry offensive. “A split-tongue rook can be trained to repeat words,” said she back then, “even if they be nonsensical. But God has granted you the gift of reasoning. Use His gifts wisely!”

I wondered: If Miss Temple were here, would she applaud our scheme?

I fervently hoped so.

The carriage lurched to a stop. A storm of emotions assailed me. Could I follow through with this charade? Would my masquerade fool Mrs. Thurston and, possibly, a killer? If I learned that someone had murdered Selina Biltmore, what might I do with that knowledge?

Williams rapped on the carriage door, and before he could send water cascading over me for the second time in one day, I quickly rose to exit. He gravely handed me my pillowcase full of clothing. Miss Miller and I made our way to the curb, waving him on.

My colleague and I stood side by side, watching the light
of Williams’s receding coach lamps glint and skip along in the running rainwater. Neither of us spoke. The task ahead loomed large before us, a steep hill, a Sisyphean ordeal far too arduous for two tired women. Silently, we turned and started to trudge toward Alderton House.

“I assume he is much older than you?”

She did not need to specify whom she was speaking of. “Edward is twenty years my senior.”

“Then he is old enough to be your father! Although that is not unusual, is it?”

“I scarcely gave the matter any thought. Edward is my ideal match; the two decades between us mean nothing to him or me.”

“We can use the age difference to your advantage. I suggest you emphasize your innocence,” Miss Miller said. “If Mrs. Thurston questions you about the rumors she heard, tell her of your lack of experience with the opposite sex. Proclaim how little you knew about Squire Rochester and his designs on you.”

“Is that truly necessary? The circumstances were extraordinary.” A catch in my chest squeezed hard, and I found it difficult to speak. This was the first time that I fully realized how at Alderton House, I would need to adopt a far different relationship to the man I loved! Why, Nan Miller did not even know that I was a mother! During my first visit, she and I had focused on Adèle’s welfare. On this second visit, we had concentrated on the safekeeping of the Alderton House students. Suddenly I realized how little I had told my old friend all about my new life. I gasped slightly, and she reached out to steady me, thinking I had stumbled upon a rock.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Fine. Just momentarily overcome with homesickness,” I said. Seeing her expression and recalling the scandalous gossip she’d heard, I gave Miss Miller the brief—correct—details of my past three years, concluding with the news of my baby.

She stopped. The rain punished us, but Miss Miller stood there, soaking it up. “You have a child? Of your own?”

“Yes,” I said, and a smile came to my face. “He is six months old, and his name is Edward Rivers Rochester. We call him Ned, and he is beautiful.”

“A happy ending,” said Miss Miller.

“Yes.”

We walked a bit without conversation. I asked, “What of yourself? What has happened in the years since we last met?”

“After you were successful with your advertisement, I placed a similar note in the paper. A school in Liverpool required a headmistress. I served there for a year and a half.”

We both wiped water from our faces, as the rain showed no signs of slowing and the droplets hit hard with venom. “And then?” I encouraged her.

A hesitation, a catch in her voice, warned me that she was fighting a strong emotion. “Circumstances changed. I came to London, and then Miss Gryce—do you remember her from Lowood?—mentioned in a letter that Lady Kingsley needed a headmistress.”

I sensed there was more, but a fresh gust of wind sent a shiver down my spine. My injuries cried out in protest. I gritted my teeth and struggled to keep pace with Miss Miller, whose legs were longer than mine and presumably not stiff with pain.

“What sort of woman was Mrs. Webster?” I asked at last.

“In temperament, she was Mrs. Thurston’s opposite. Quiet. Unassuming. We had hoped she would not retire for years to come. Unfortunately, her health took a turn for the worse. You would have liked her. We all did. I miss her. Which brings me to the situation ahead. Mrs. Thurston must hold you blameless in regards to the machinations of Edward Rochester. You must appear to be without guile or she will reject you out of hand immediately.” To this bald indictment, Miss Miller added a harsh gesture, a chopping sweep of the fingers that signaled she would brook no discussion.

Swallowing hard, I nodded. “I was but an innocent.”

This much was true, but our story did not end there, thank God!

“You must warn Adela not to talk about your abortive wedding,” said Miss Miller. “If she does, we are lost.”

“But we did, indeed, marry!”

“Yes, and you know that Mrs. Thurston would not hire a married woman. No superintendent would.”