Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles (21 page)

“No,” Miss Miller said, “you were not silly. You had a fright, that’s all. We’re all upset. Let’s splash water on your face and tidy you up.”

Below us a clock bell chimed six times. Miss Miller nodded. “Good. Time for dinner. Come along, Rose. Let’s show Miss Eyre to the dining room.”

“Give me a minute to check on Adèle,” I said. After again noting the even rise and fall of her chest, I readjusted the sleeping child’s covers and planted a gentle kiss on her cheeks. She sighed in her sleep but made no effort to awaken.

As Rose, Miss Miller, and I started down the stairs, I paused to extend my hand to the girl. “I assume your name is Rose?”

She took my hand and shook it solemnly. “Rose Amanda Taylor. How do you do, Miss Eyre?” As children often do, she had moved from panic to self-possession in the twitch of a cat’s whisker.

The other girls had already preceded us down the stairs. They waited for us in front of the dining room. I could tell from the expressions on their faces that Rose’s screams had left them terrified.

And they had a right to be.

Our arrival in the dining room caused scant attention. I presumed that the girls were either accustomed to having guests or so exhausted by the emotions of the day that my insignificant presence caused little commotion.

The students took their seats and waited quietly with their hands in their laps. To a one, their eyes were red and puffy from crying.

The table settings represented the finest of their ilk. Eggshell porcelain teacups, white with blushing red roses and trimmed in gold. I must admit, the splendor surprised me. The delicately translucent teacups and gleaming silver brought home the differences between my new situation and my past. At Lowood, we’d supped from tin cups and plates as battered and tarnished as our dreams—there was nothing delicate about our lives. If one was not hardy and tough, one did not survive.

Quickly, I corrected my thinking. What had I expected? I had been a charity case. These girls were privileged members of the upper class. As if thinking the same thing, Miss Miller
leaned into me. “Mrs. Thurston believes, as did Mrs. Webster, that the girls should be familiar with the dining habits of their class. Not only do I concur, but I have certainly come to appreciate it. It adds a dollop of civility even on the worst of days.”

Miss Miller stood, clapped her hands together, and announced, “Ladies, may I present to you our new instructor, Miss Jane Eyre. Miss Eyre is a former student of mine. Please line up to shake her hand and tell her hello.”

The Senior girls led the queue, each introducing herself to me.

Rufina Garland-Simmons, an untidy child of about fifteen whose hair was coming out of its braids, shook my hand with surprising strength. “Welcome.”

Nettie Inslip managed a tiny bob and a quiet, “Hello, miss.” I judged her to be a little younger than Rufina, but not much.

Rose Amanda Taylor curtsied low to me, her delicate hands spreading her skirt gracefully. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Eyre. I do hope you’ve been well since we last met,” Rose said gravely.

I replied that I had, indeed, been well, as I struggled to keep a smile of amusement to myself at such formality when we had met just five minutes earlier.

While Rose’s face retained the plump cheeks of a young girl, her features were more adult. I would guess her to be around fourteen. That meant that all of the Seniors were at least four years older than Adèle.

One by one, the other students filed past me. A moppet from the Infants’ group twirled a curl on one finger, took my hand with the other fingers, and stared boldly at my black eye. “Does it hurt you much, miss? Your eye?”

“Caroline! One does not make personal comments about the appearance of one’s elders,” admonished Miss Miller.

All eyes turned on me. I knew the import of this moment.
The girls were waiting to see my response. Would I be harsh? Churlish? Or kind? My decision would set my course here, as the students watched me carefully, hoping for clues to my demeanor.

I leaned close to the girl. “Yes, my eye hurts terribly. I advise you to avoid getting hurt like this, if you can help it.”

This set all the girls to giggling, and the strained atmosphere eased immediately. Rose cupped a hand over her mouth and said to her sister Seniors, “She was ever so nice to me when I was scared. Really she was. And I saw her lean over and kiss Adela, but Adela didn’t notice, of course, being so sleepy and all.”

After the youngest students marched back to their seats, Miss Miller led us in prayers. After the last “amen,” she reached for a small crystal bell to signal that the serving should begin. Emma staggered in under a tray heavily laden with loaves of bread and three soup tureens. She set the offerings down on a tablecloth of snowy white damask. A young man—Caje, I presumed—came along behind her, carrying a tray with two platters, one heaped with sliced venison and the other, I could smell, with baked fish.

I noted that for all his youth, and I judged him to be about eighteen, he wore an expression of weariness. Although he was wearing a jacket, no one could have missed the fact that he was lean and muscular, clearly accustomed to hard work.

After the servers made a second trip to bring another set of trays and assorted dishes containing peas, salad, and beetroots, Miss Miller said, “You may eat.”

She turned to me and said, sotto voce, “I know that some suppose children do not need much food, but Mrs. Thurston believes in feeding the girls well. That way they present good figures for their debuts. Can you imagine how this would have delighted us at Lowood? Even at the best of times, the food there was still meager.”

Emma stood at the doorway and gave the table one final
glance, checking to make sure she’d forgotten nothing. Her attention moved quickly, efficiently, but I deemed I caught a hint of her naked longing. I turned my own gaze away, feeling embarrassed for both of us. I knew how Emma felt. Being an outsider nettled, and worse yet, there was nothing anyone could do. You were born into your status; you most likely would also die there.

Miss Miller and I sat next to each other. An older woman, as thin and spindly as a winter-stripped sapling, took a seat to my right. An oversized black shawl drooped carelessly from her shoulders, and her grizzled hair escaped from a crocheted snood.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” she said to me in formal, heavily accented English. “I am Signora Ambrosia Delgatto, the Italian tutor and singing mistress.”

With this she touched one hand to her chest, closed her eyes, and executed a charming half bow from the waist.

“
Piacere di conoscerla, signora.
” I returned her bow similarly, but wondered: If Signora Delgatto was here, why weren’t there enough adults to chaperone the girls?

She broke into a large smile. “Ah! You speak my native tongue.” If she was curious about my bruised face, Signora Delgatto hid it well.

“Alas, only a few words,” I said. “I have an affinity for languages. My name is Jane Eyre—” I caught myself before “Rochester” could slip out.

“Miss Eyre is our new German and drawing instructor,” Miss Miller hastened to add.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Eyre. I am Parthena Jones,” said a tall woman to Signora Delgatto’s right, as she extended a cool hand to me. She was probably the same age as I, with an open face and wide-set eyes under finely arched brows, but her nose was a bit too wide and her mouth a touch too small for her to be pretty. Her robust stature and proud profile reminded me of the Amazon women in ancient mythology.
She towered above me, as I was much closer in scale to the Junior students, while Parthena Jones could have easily been mistaken for a man. “I am the Juniors’ proctor, and I also teach math, Latin, and needle arts,” she said.

“For the record, I teach English literature, grammar, and composition. And history. That has always been my passion.” With that Miss Miller buttered a large slice of bread. “And of course, as I told you, Mrs. Thurston teaches French. Deportment as well.”

Signora Delgatto helped herself to the butter, too. “Oof!” she exclaimed in a voice heavy with irritation. “I could not get the girls to pay attention to their lessons today. I stayed late this evening to help them. I shall have to ask Caje to help me home. My eyes are no longer good in the dark. I have very poor vision for one of my species!”

I smiled to myself, since
del gatto
was Italian for “of the cat.”

“Signora lives in Clerkenwell with her brother, who needs her assistance,” Miss Miller explained.

“Some call Clerkenwell ‘Little Italy,’” said Parthena Jones to me.

“Ah, he has the bad heart. I have the bad leg. We are a pair!” Signora Delgatto said. “But together we manage.”

“I am certain you are happy to be shed of us today, signora. This has been a sad day, Miss Eyre, what with the loss of one of our students,” Miss Jones said.

“So I have heard,” I said. “Please allow me to tender my condolences.”

Signora Delgatto finished her meal hurriedly. “I must go now. My brother will be wondering where I am. Oh! What a day I have to share with him! One of my own students—dead!”

As she stood, she leaned close to me and whispered, “
Lei è morta e ne sono contenta.
”

Surely my translation was wrong. Could the old woman really have said, “She is dead and I am happy”?

While Signora Delgatto struggled out the door and I considered her surprising parting words, Miss Jones turned to me.

“So you are the unlucky individual who arrived soaking wet in the kitchen just this morning, are you not? I heard Emma remark on your injuries,” she said.

“Yes, a thief accosted me at a coaching inn.”

“Oh dear! What a dangerous place this world is for an unmarried woman. What a shame. For a woman, being unmarried—without a male protector—and safe are mutually exclusive. Our inferior status forces all of us into a role as chattel.”

I found this curious. I did not think of Edward as my protector. He was my spouse, my helpmate, and my equal. We were both charged with protecting our son…and Adèle. A sudden wave of homesickness engulfed me. Surrounded by other women’s children, I missed my own Ned. So physical was this longing that my breath caught in my throat.

“Are you all right, Miss Eyre?” asked Miss Jones. “For a moment, your face showed extraordinary sadness. What might I do to help? I want to be your friend as well as your new colleague.”

How peculiar. Twice in as many days, women I’d barely met professed to desire my friendship.

Miss Jones rephrased her offer. “Forgive me if I am being forward, but I do hope to get to know you. There are so few of us, and having the society of other teachers makes this post much more desirable than the solitary position of being a governess, don’t you agree?”

“I do.” A governess could not mingle with the staff, nor was she generally accepted as an equal by her mistress and master. Save in one instance…mine.

Miss Jones stared at me.

“Yes, I understand what you are saying. Being a governess can be very lonely.”

Miss Miller sent a sidewise glance at me, then quickly studied her serviette.

“Where were you in service last?” Miss Jones asked.

“North of here, in Yorkshire,” I said, and to channel the conversation in another direction, I stifled a yawn. “Pardon me! It has been a rather long day.”

“Yes, Miss Eyre, it has been a trying and troubling day for all of us,” Miss Miller said. Her eyes caught mine and her tone sent another message:
And you must not let down your guard. Not yet! A killer may walk among us!

Recognizing I would have to rehearse even my most casual and mundane speech with care added to my overwhelming sense of exhaustion. Every part of my body ached, and the bruising around my eye pulsed with sharp arrows of pain.

After dinner, Miss Jones, Miss Miller, and I conversed about desultory topics as the students quietly occupied themselves with their assignments and reading. The women shared with me a general overview of the school’s routine, along with a sense of what rules and expectations there were for the students. Discipline, I learned, was left largely to the individual teacher’s judgment.