Alexander
It was a dark and stormy night.
After everyone went to bed, Alexander penned a letter to Wellington. He wrote by the light of a single candle, keeping the scratch of metal on paper to a minimum. In the bed by the door, Branwell was already sleeping; Alexander didn’t want to wake him, as things were generally safer when Branwell was asleep.
The letter read:
Dear Sir,
I’ve pursued Miss Eyre to an estate called Thornfield Hall. Having seen her command the dead on several occasions, I am more convinced than ever that she is a Beacon.
While I am confident she will be persuaded to join us, I’d like to offer her £5,000 a year. I realize that is rather exorbitant, but with her being a Beacon, I believe the expense would be worth it.
I am your obedient servant,
A. Black
When the ink dried, he fastened the letter to one of the Society pigeons and opened the window. The bird left, and Alexander tried to sleep.
But Branwell’s nasal snores prevented sleep from reaching him, and Alexander lay in his bed going over every moment of the day.
Rochester remained absent from Thornfield, which made sense with the storm, but why had he abandoned his guests in the first place? Something was still troubling him about the man.
Alexander searched through his earliest memories, those fragments of his childhood before the explosion had killed his father.
He could remember his father taking him for walks by the River Thames, pointing out different shops he’d taken Alexander’s mother to before she succumbed to the Graveyard Disease, and then Westminster, which loomed over the water with its towers and arches and bells. His father knew everyone in the city, it seemed, from the merchants whose boats bobbed in the current to the boys who sold papers on every corner. When the crowd grew thick and Alexander couldn’t see over the heads of all the adults, his father would set him on his shoulders. Perched up there, Alexander had felt so big and tall and safe. When the breeze rustled through his hair, scented with the odors of smoke and people and trash in the river, Alexander had imagined he was flying.
He could also remember going into Westminster, seeing Wellington, who’d patted his head, and then stopping by an office where one of his father’s friends worked. That was Rochester, he was certain. The man had been younger then, with fewer lines around his eyes and mouth, but he’d seemed warm and generous to little Alexander, offering a sweet and then making him laugh by saying something in French.
And now his father was dead. And gone.
Not everyone became a ghost, of course. And it was better, wasn’t it, that a spirit moved on to find peace? But still, an ache lived within Alexander. He’d searched for his father’s ghost at first, convinced he must be out there somewhere, waiting for Alexander to find him. But gradually, he’d had to admit the truth. His father was gone. Forever, it seemed. He remained only in memories, and Alexander’s desire to avenge his murder.
“One day,” Alexander whispered into the night. “I promise.”
Branwell’s snoring was getting worse, rivaling the thunder outside. There’d be no sleeping like this.
Wearily, Alexander pulled on his robe and stepped out the door, into the candlelit hall. For a while, he wandered the maze of the house, letting his feet take him where they pleased. His head was back in those memories, that feeling of being held aloft on his father’s shoulders, high above the world and everyone in it.
He’d been thinking of his father a lot since coming to Thornfield—from the moment he’d realized Rochester had been his father’s friend.
“What are you doing out here?” The voice came from the translucent figure of Miss Burns, who was floating toward him from the opposite end of the hall.
Alexander glanced around before replying; they were alone. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
They stared at each other, having reached some sort of impasse with that brief exchange.
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I’ll let you get back to haunting the halls.”
“Are you going to trap me in a pocket watch?”
He frowned. “No. Why would you think that?”
“Jane is worried that you will. She doesn’t trust you or your pocket watch, and I agree with her.”
“Then there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not here to relocate you, only to offer Miss Eyre a job.” Perhaps this reassurance was all that Miss Eyre needed to change her mind. (Regarding the exploding flower incident, Alexander could keep a secret.)
“That’s good to know.”
“Will you tell her that?” he asked.
“I don’t have to do anything you say. You’re not the boss of me.”
“That’s why I phrased it as a question, Miss Burns.”
She tapped her finger against her chin. “Perhaps I’ll tell her. If the topic comes up again.” She floated away.
In the direction he needed to go.
Reader, you know that feeling when you say good-bye to someone and then you walk in the same direction with them, but you’ve already said good-bye and everything is awkward?
Alexander was desperate to avoid that. He turned the other direction.
Just then, he spotted someone else. Toward the east wing, a man fully dressed in a deep gray suit tested a doorknob, but it was locked. The man glanced over his shoulder, then pulled something from his pocket. A lock pick gleamed in the candlelight—just an instant before he fumbled and the sliver of metal clattered to the floor.
As the man rushed to find the fallen lock pick, Alexander strode forward. “Good evening,” he said. “Mr. Mason.”
The other man shot up. “Oh, Mr. Eshton, right? I didn’t see you there.”
“Couldn’t sleep?” Alexander nodded toward the other man’s day clothes.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. I’m something of a night owl.” He took a step to one side, as though to block the door he’d been trying—and failing—to open. “And what about you? You look preoccupied, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Mr. Mason was behaving awfully shiftily, but Alexander hadn’t become the star agent of the Society by showing his hand. He’d let Mr. Mason believe he hadn’t been caught trying to break into the east wing. “I was pondering how strange it is that Mr. Rochester left mere days after receiving a houseful of guests.”
“Very strange,” Mr. Mason agreed.
“You’ve known him a long time, I take it.” Alexander shoved his hands into his pockets. “Has he always been like this?”
Mr. Mason hesitated. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen the man, I must admit, but I recall him being more—ah—attentive in the past.”
“What kept you away?”
Mr. Mason shifted his weight. “N—nothing in particular. That is, years ago a favor was asked of me and it’s been so long. . . .”
Alexander waited for him to finish.
“It’s family business. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
How intriguing. Alexander barely restrained himself from reaching for his notebook. “Worry not, sir.” Alexander forced himself to smile. “I’d better be off to bed. Good night, Mr. Mason.”
When Alexander returned to his room, a wet pigeon waited on the windowsill, its feathers singed by lightning and a letter tucked around its ankle. Apparently it was still raining. Gently, he removed the note and offered the bird a bit of bread, then watched it fly back into the storm. (These Society birds were as tough as nails.)
Branwell’s snores filled the room. He slept deeply enough that he didn’t even stir when Alexander struck a match and lit a candle.
The note read simply:
Return to London immediately.
That was strange. More than anyone else, Wellington knew the importance of having a Beacon join the Society. And what was more, Alexander still had two days to persuade Miss Eyre.
No, Wellington must have misread his note. (No matter that this had never happened before.) Wellington must have missed the part where Alexander confirmed she was a Beacon.
It was perhaps the first time Alexander deliberately disobeyed orders from Wellington, but perhaps it was the first time Wellington had ever been so wrong.
Alexander would not leave Thornfield Hall without Jane Eyre.