Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles (25 page)

Prayers began promptly at six thirty in the dining room as a prelude to breakfast. I followed the girls, but once I crossed the threshold, Miss Parthena Jones motioned to me to join the teachers at the head of the table. I took a seat between Miss Jones and Miss Miller. Mrs. Thurston sat to Nan Miller’s right.

Toast soldiers stood at attention in silver toast racks. The yeasty fragrance of the fresh bread caused my mouth to water and my belly to rumble with hunger. Generous pots of jam, cheese, and butter also decorated the white tablecloth.

Chairs scraped as girls took their assigned places. We opened the Book of Common Prayer. Mrs. Thurston mumbled her way through Psalm 119, as well as the first and the second lesson.

When Mrs. Thurston finished, all of us waited expectantly to hear what the woman would say.

“We shall all observe strictest mourning for our departed friend, Selina Biltmore,” she said. “Her remains will be returned here to Alderton House. Tonight during your quiet
time, the dressmaker will measure each student for her white clothing, as is appropriate when a child passes. Teachers, I’ve instructed the dressmaker to measure each of you for white dresses in a suitable fabric. You will also be expected to purchase mourning shoes. As I speak, Emma covers the mirrors and windows. During this time, I expect all of you to act with proper seriousness and decorum.”

Mrs. Thurston started to sit, glancing around as she did. Miss Miller jerked her chin in my direction and mouthed, “Introduction?” With that, the superintendent froze halfway to her seat, and added, “Miss Eyre joins us to teach German and sketching.”

No words of welcome accompanied this pronouncement, nor was I asked to stand and greet the group. Perhaps Maude Thurston believed that Miss Miller had introduced me the night before. Or perhaps her rudeness knew no bounds. I thought it the latter.

The aroma of breakfast grew more tantalizing with every second. How different this was from Lowood, where the scent of bad food caused our stomachs to turn even as they rumbled with hunger! Although Miss Miller had warned me that life at Alderton House would be different, in no way did her comments prepare me for the continuing surprise of bounteous spreads of food.

Struggling with the weight of a heavy tray, Emma first brought in teapots of steaming tea and pitchers of milk, cool with foam on top. The girls took turns pouring tea for their schoolmates, and at last serving themselves. The students’ manners rivaled those of the gentry, holding the cups just so, pinkie fingers extended. Stirring the tea without splashing or making noise. Passing the sugar and cream to one another. When necessary, lifting snow-white damask serviettes from their laps and dabbing at their mouths.

Miss Miller’s plate overflowed with delicacies, and great portions disappeared faster than I could imagine. I sipped my
tea and watched my old colleague out of the corner of my eye. She chewed contentedly, staring silently at her plate.

So this was how the wealthy schoolgirls lived. Coddled and cosseted.

A superintendent might budget the needs of her pantry in a lavish manner, while actually serving nearly inedible food. I expected similar economies from Mrs. Thurston. Her acceptance of Lucy’s “sponsorship” and the meager salary she offered me proved the woman’s avarice.

But Mrs. Thurston was shrewder than I’d credited. By delivering well-fed girls to their families, Mrs. Thurston prepared her students for the marriage market, where well-rounded figures were a badge of desirability. From the looks of it, she settled on a strategy: “Feed the girls and please the parents.”

“Manners, Elspeth,” warned Miss Jones, as a girl from Miss Miller’s Infants’ group reached across the table for a pitcher of milk.

The child withdrew her hand abruptly and apologized. Other students flinched with obvious distress. Miss Jones smiled at the girls. “Remember, Miss Eyre has just joined us. We all want to make the right impression.”

What is the right impression? Especially since I saw your schoolmate dead and cold on a stretcher?

That led me to wonder, was Miss Jones as aware of the danger as Miss Miller and I? I needed to ask. But what if we shouldn’t trust Miss Jones? What if
she
was the murderer?

My mind traversed broad circles, following each idea around and around. In short order, I found myself suspecting everyone I had met at Alderton House except the elderly Signora Delgatto.

Was there any benefit to my staying? What if it had truly been a random act? If so, it might be impossible to trace the killer’s actions.

This will never do! You must seek out information and have a reason for your thinking,
I admonished myself.

I set down the bread I was eating and massaged my temples. Despite my various scenarios, I could not shake a deep conviction that Selina had been the target all along.

If what I’d learned about the girl was correct, there was no shortage of possible killers!

More morning prayers and singing followed breakfast. The sound of Rose’s pure soprano brought me back to the melancholy of the day. The sweet intonations of her voice dipped and soared and created a sacred space, a reminder that heaven awaited all of us.

As we left the dining room to start our school day, the girls elbowed one another, vying for the chance to take my hand. Adèle pouted when Rufina usurped her accustomed place.

“She is my mademoiselle. Mine.” Adèle gave Rufina a rough push with her shoulder. Rufina, sturdy as the crossbeam in a roof, absorbed the blow and carried on, never loosening her grip on me.

I paused and whispered in French, “Adèle, I shall always be ‘your mademoiselle.’ However, right now you have to share me.” This reassurance brought on a dismissive Gallic shrug and a stomp of her foot.

“I am so glad you have come, miss,” said Nettie.

Unable to compete with Rufina and Adèle for my hand,
Nettie contented herself with wrapping her fingers around the trailing end of my shawl. Rose held herself apart and walked a bit ahead of us, but an occasional glance over her shoulder proved she, too, wished to stay close.

I found these gestures touching, and the girls’ affection fortified my intention to see that they were safe. Together the children and I climbed the stairs to the classrooms.

I bid the Seniors good-bye as they went to their first class. Since I had decided to stay, I needed to prepare for the German lessons, so I carried the primer and a notebook under my arm as I searched for a quiet room.

The music room was unoccupied. There the pianoforte took pride of place, guarded by a gaggle of black music stands. Sinking into a comfortable wing back chair, I began flipping through the German text. The door opened and in walked Signora Delgatto with a group of Juniors ready to take their piano lessons.

“Stay. Please stay. My students are very talented.” The morning light cruelly highlighted the woman’s age-ravaged face, and she smelled strongly of unwashed hair. Walking was very hard for her, and she limped her way across the music room slowly, awkwardly. It was impossible to imagine her breaking into the school, climbing two flights of stairs, and subduing a student.

“I would enjoy remaining to listen. However, I must prepare to teach my classes. Another time, perhaps?” With that I carried my German primer up to the Senior dormitory.

I sat on my cot and tried to concentrate, but Emma showed up to empty the washbasins and slop jars. Her small frame was at odds with the heavy job, but her approach to her work spoke of efficiency. I paused to watch her, thinking of how few options were open to young women, especially those of a less fortunate station.

“Sorry to bother you, miss,” she said, noting my attention
but misreading my thoughts. “If I don’t get this done now, Mrs. Thurston will not be happy. I have got hers, the Infants’, and the Juniors’ yet to clean. Also I am supposed to strip Selina’s bed and take everything down to the laundry.”

“Yes, of course.” I bent my head to the German text. But only for a moment. I realized that Emma probably observed more interactions than any other denizen of the school. “Emma, what was Selina Biltmore like?”

The serving girl froze midway through yanking the sheet from the bed next to me. As she tugged it, a puff of white dust flew up, swirled around, and finally settled lightly on the wooden planks of the floor, like a fresh falling of snow.

Bath powder
.
Selina liked her luxuries.

Except that most powders featured floral fragrances, and this had none, at least none that I could detect.

“Emma?” I prodded the maid. With her back still to me, her posture went rigid as a red deer in the forest. Twisting toward me, her eyes wore an anxious look. “Miss?”

“I wondered what you thought of her. Selina Biltmore.”

“It ain’t my place to say.” She turned away, knelt down, and wiped the powder from the floor around Selina’s bed.

“But you must have formed an impression. Did she get along with the other girls?”

Emma paused with a rag in one hand. The white powder had mixed with water from the bucket to form a pastelike slurry. Slowly, Emma dunked the rag in the bucket, then wrung it out, hard. “I couldn’t rightly say.”

“I heard she took their belongings.”

Emma scratched her head, scanned the room, and picked up her bucket. “I might have heard something like that, too.”

“Was she kind to them? To you?”

She had missed mopping up a bit of the powder, but that did not matter. Not really.

This provoked a stronger response. Emma’s eyes narrowed
and her mouth flattened into a thin, straight line. “I can’t say as how she was.”

“Would you call her cruel? I ask only because I sense she was not well liked, and I wonder why. The girls were frightened last night. They seemed to fear that Selina would come back to haunt them.”

Emma’s face moved through a variety of emotions. I held my breath.

“The others were scared of her. I guess it don’t change just because you’re dead, does it? I mean, she weren’t any better than she should have been. Because she had this wonderful hair, and she were a little older, see, she knew how to get her way. With the littler girls especially.”

I nodded. “I grew up in a charitable institution. I saw how certain girls bullied their classmates. Perhaps Selina did the same.”

“Be careful what you say, miss.” Emma lowered her voice and glanced at the partly open door. “Selina was Mrs. Thurston’s special pet. You don’t want to get on Mrs. Thurston’s bad side. Now, if you don’t mind, I best be about my business.” With that she started dumping, rinsing, and wiping in a fit of furious activity.

Emma was warning me, trying to help me—and the oddity of the situation did not escape me. Here I was, the wife of a squire, being cautioned by a serving girl about getting on the bad side of a lowly superintendent. Instead of worrying about pleasing Mrs. Thurston, I could be at home, in Ferndean, the mistress of my own hearth.

That small amount of powder left on the floor bothered me. It struck me as just one more bit of unfinished business. Grabbing a damp towel from near my washbasin, I marched over and started to mop up the thin film of white dust. My curiosity—a faculty that can be both blessing and curse—got the better of me. Wetting a fingertip, I touched it to the powder. Cautiously, I brought it closer to my nose. Try as I might,
I could still detect no fragrance, and the consistency of it was not slick the way bath powder usually is.

How odd!

Nothing about this place or its occupants conformed to any logical premise. I fought an impulse to toss down the book of German, grab Adèle by the hand, and march out of this wretched warehouse for abandoned children. Worse of all, I had abandoned my own son in order to help a group of girls who were strangers to me.

I should leave.

I should.

Bruce Douglas’s words ran through my head. How would I hold my head high if I turned away from these children? Especially now that they eagerly put such trust in me? What if one of them had been my own flesh and blood? Would I choose differently then?

Emma pulled another chamber pot from under a bed, her thin arms bowed under the weight of the porcelain jug and its contents. Her dress hung on her thin frame. Her shoulder blades protruded through the fabric of her apron.

“How old are you, Emma?” I asked.

Continuing her steady efforts, she sighed and said, “I’ll be sixteen at the end of the year, ma’am.”

Fifteen. Barely any older than most of the Senior girls.

If the killer targeted young women, this poor child was at risk, too.

I had to stay. At least for a while. The ache of homesickness was fleeting, but the blotch on my soul would remain forever if I turned my back on this situation.

I wondered if my son had noticed his mama was gone. I wondered how Mrs. Fairfax was getting along. Of late, she’d wound down, moved more slowly, like a tired clock with little energy left in its spring. And Edward? How was my husband doing? Had he taken Mr. Carter’s advice and rested? Was his eye improving? Did he miss me as much as I did him?

With any luck, I would return home in a day or two. Surely it would not take long for the police to find Selina’s murderer. How difficult could it be?