Charlotte
The candle was almost burnt out, but Charlotte kept writing. She’d felt a rush of inspiration ever since this morning’s conversation with Jane. It was a new story, a better one than she had ever attempted. The mystery of Mr. Brocklehurst had flown from her consciousness. This story she was writing now—the one she’d been waiting for—the one, she knew, she was meant to compose, was not a murder mystery. Murder mysteries were rather base, weren’t they? It was not a ghost story, either, although it may have supernatural elements, Charlotte supposed. No, this new story was a romance. It was drawn in large part from Jane’s situation. It had come to Charlotte all in a rush as she’d listened to Jane reflect on her relationship with Mr. Rochester. There’d been this gleam of love in Jane’s eyes. Jane Eyre—little plain Jane—was in love. She had no right to be in love, of course, a girl of her status, especially seeing as the man of interest was the master of the house. But in love, Jane was. And it sounded as if the love were, at least in some aspect, reciprocated.
Charlotte could imagine it all so well. Jane and Mr. Rochester were bound together, no matter how improper it appeared. She sighed. Someday, perhaps, she’d find love, too. Or it would find her, as it had with Jane. How was it that Jane had described it? “He made me love him,” she’d said, “without even looking at me.”
For now, Charlotte would have to be content to write her own version of their story. She’d already filled a quarter of her notebook with her tiny, laborious scrawl about Jane in love. At the moment, as the candle burned perilously low, she was trying to write the perfect description of Mr. Rochester.
The fire shone full on his face, Charlotte wrote, drawing her lip between her teeth and holding it there as her mind whirled with words. I—she’d been writing it so far in first person because it felt more natural to her to try to feel as she thought Jane must feel, and to give her a voice—not the voice of some wise, presumably male narrator, judging her, but her own, pure voice, speaking for itself. (And also, if we’re being honest, Charlotte could live through Jane a little, if she wrote that way.) I knew my traveler, with his broad and . . . She frowned . . . jetty . . . yes, jetty . . . eyebrows, his square forehead, made squarer by the horizontal sweep of his black hair. I recognized his decisive nose, more remarkable for character than for beauty. She smiled at the line, dipped her pen into the inkwell and carried on in trying to describe his face. His grim mouth, chin, and jaw—yes, all three were very grim and no mistake.
She paused. There was indeed something grim about Mr. Rochester. Something ominous. She’d felt it every time she’d been in the man’s presence. But this was the man Jane professed to love. Charlotte, as Jane’s friend, should try to be supportive. And love was blind, was it not? Mr. Rochester possessed all the qualities that a young lady should yearn for. He was rather old, she could admit, but not feeble or senile. He was wealthy. He had an amusing talent—he was a decent actor, she’d seen when they’d played charades earlier. And he owned a very nice dog.
He would do. And Jane loved him, which was what truly mattered.
Charlotte turned back to her work. His shape, now divested of cloak—I suppose it was a good figure in the athletic sense of the term—broad chested and thin flanked, though neither tall nor graceful.
She paused again. For some mysterious reason her mind drifted to Mr. Blackwood. Mr. Blackwood was graceful. In her mind she conjured the way he walked, so purposefully and yet light on his feet. How he folded his hands when he sat. His serious expression—but then there was the way he tried not to smile even when something struck him as humorous—the way his eyes would give him away and the tiniest upturn in the corner of his mouth would appear for a flicker of an instant before he’d banish it. She did like the smile, even though it meant that he might not be taking her seriously, she supposed. Lately when he’d told her to “Go home, Miss Brontë,” that hidden smile had been present, too, as if he were only saying it out of habit now, but he didn’t mean it. He wanted her there.
Charlotte brushed an errant curl from her forehead. Focus, she told herself. Back to Mr. Rochester. She concentrated on picturing the man’s face, his stern features and heavy brow, his eyes and gathered eyebrows looking . . . ireful and thwarted. Yes.
But Mr. Blackwood . . . he could appear stern as well. Tonight, for instance, he’d borne an air of sharp determination as he’d pursued her about the house. He’d wanted to speak with her about her conversation with Jane. He expected her to report on Jane’s answer to the proposition of five thousand pounds.
And Charlotte had, well, avoided him. She wasn’t ready to tell him yet, that their endeavor to recruit Jane was futile. Jane had just divulged all the deep secrets of a woman’s heart. Mr. Blackwood couldn’t possibly understand.
And he was clearly wrestling with his own feelings concerning Mr. Rochester.
She sighed. Perhaps she was not ready to admit to herself yet that this had all been for nothing. That Jane would not become an agent, and therefore Charlotte’s life was likely to return to the way it had been before. Boring. Starving. Languishing at Lowood.
And she and Mr. Blackwood would have no reason for further contact. She would never truly get to know him, the way she had lately been feeling she was coming to know him.
Ahem. Mr. Rochester. Charlotte turned back to her writing. She supposed that if Mr. Rochester had been too good-looking, Jane would have been intimidated by him. She nodded to herself, then wrote, I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry, fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.
Charlotte sat back and stretched her arms, feeling pleased with herself. (But she was a writer, so while she did get this moment of thinking herself somewhat brilliant, it would soon be offset by a crippling doubt that she had a gift of words at all. Such is the way with all writers. Trust us.) She liked what she’d written because it felt true. Better that a boy not be overtly handsome, she thought, if one was plain. Better that there were simply individual parts of said boy to admire. Like the shape of his hands. Or a smile. Or . . .
There was a soft tapping at her door. Charlotte startled, nearly upsetting her bottle of ink. It was the dead of night, the house entirely still. Perhaps she’d imagined the sound. She listened. It came again, a gentle rapping, rapping at her chamber door. She stood and put on her dressing gown and went to open it. Then she lifted her spectacles to see who it was.
Mr. Blackwood was standing there—not in his nightclothes, but fully dressed, though uncharacteristically rumpled, frowning this troubled little frown.
“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately. “You look as if you’ve seen—”
Well, it would be ridiculous to say he’d seen a ghost. He was accustomed to seeing ghosts, after all.
“This is inappropriate,” he said dully. “I . . . I shouldn’t have come. I . . . I just . . .”
She didn’t know what to do. She should definitely not invite him into her bedroom.
She stepped back and held the door open for him. “Come in.”
He strode past her and straight across to the other side of the room, as if keeping some distance between them might preserve some semblance of propriety. He drew back the curtains and stared out the window into the moon-filled night. Charlotte closed the door gently.
“Do you wish to sit?” she asked, gesturing to an armchair.
“Yes.” He crossed to the chair and sat, then stood up again. “No. No, I can’t.”
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Rochester murdered my father.” He rubbed his hand across his face. “Well, I think he did.”
She felt instantly cold. “Mr. Rochester.”
“He was there, that night, the night of the explosion. They argued. There was shouting. I remember it.”
“The explosion?”
Mr. Blackwood quickly relayed the details of his father’s death, his voice wavering. Her heart swelled, picturing the little boy he had been. What he’d been through.
He drew a letter out of his pocket and handed it to her. She read it. “So they had a falling-out, over the Society, it seems. But . . .”
“Rochester’s a traitor,” Mr. Blackwood spat out. “He’s a villain of the worst kind. I . . .” His hands were shaking. “It must have been him. Who else would have reason to hurt my father? There’s no other explanation.”
“Oh, Alexander, I’m sorry,” she said.
His expression hardened. “He’s the one who will be sorry. I will kill him.”
She felt the color drain from her face. “Well, that’s a terrible idea.”
He scowled. “I suppose you’d like me to confront Mr. Rochester about his crime and have the authorities deal with it.”
“Why, yes,” she affirmed. “That sounds much more reasonable.”
“Do you suppose that Mr. Rochester will simply confess? That I’ll accuse him of this vile act, which is a crime worthy of death—and then he’ll respond with, ‘Yes, yes, that is exactly what happened. Arrest me, please’?”
“You need proof, obviously,” she agreed. “You will need to build a case against him.”
“I heard him arguing with my father. I saw him leave the building, just before the explosion. I saw him.”
“None of that proves that he actually murdered your father,” Charlotte pointed out. “You have no evidence that isn’t circumstantial.”
“So again I say, I should simply kill him. It’s what he deserves. Everything in my life has been leading up to this point.”
She shook her head. “Then you will get arrested for murder yourself, which would be a great embarrassment to the Society, I imagine. And it will fail to bring about the justice you seek. It’s a terrible plan, do you see?”
“I suppose you have a better one.”
“Of course I do.” She smiled up at him, her mind grasping at several wild ideas. She settled on one. “You’re going to carry on with the ruse. You are Mr. Eshton.”
“Impossible,” said Mr. Blackwood. “I cannot pretend any longer.”
“Now is not the time, Mr. Blackwood, to cry revenge and reveal all of your cards. You must wait. Watch. Remaining here, quietly, will allow you access to his home and his private life. Then you can gather the evidence you need to put him away.”
“I’m not a very good actor,” he confessed.
“You’re fine,” Charlotte assured him. “You’ve handled yourself brilliantly so far.”
“But it’s different now.”
“I know. This situation is entirely more important.”
Some of the fire seemed to leave him. He was quiet for a long moment.
“All right. I’ll remain Mr. Eshton. For now.”
Over the course of their conversation she had slowly traversed the room, to where she was presently standing just before him. She put her hand on his arm. “I will help you.”
“Thank you.” He seemed suddenly aware of the inappropriateness of their current circumstance. He rubbed at his forehead, then stepped back. “I apologize. I should not have burst in here. I . . .”
“You needed someone to talk to.”
He nodded. “I will go. It’s very late.” His brows squeezed together. “Why were you not asleep?”
“I was writing.” She gestured toward the small desk and her notebook. The candle had long since sputtered out. “I’ve been feeling inspired, as of late.”
“Inspired by what?” he asked.
She glanced away. “Um . . .” She couldn’t very well tell him that she was writing a romance now. Starring, as it happened, Mr. Rochester. Oh, dear. Mr. Rochester was now potentially a murderer. Which would make him entirely inappropriate as a knight in shining armor for Jane.
This would ruin her story.
Or possibly improve upon it. Charlotte wasn’t sure. It was important, though, that Jane be informed of Mr. Rochester’s alleged crime. Oh, double dear. What an awful thing to have to tell her. How exactly does one tell one’s friend that the man she’s in love with could be a nefarious villain?
At that very moment, the night was pierced by a fearful shriek. (Charlotte would later write this moment and describe it as “a shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall.”)
She and Mr. Blackwood froze. The cry had come from the east wing.
“What was that noise?” Mr. Blackwood said.
“It sounded like someone in need of help,” Charlotte replied, shivering.
“Help! Help! Help!” screamed the voice.
“See?”
“WILL NO ONE COME?”
They dashed out into the hall. It was crowded with the various guests of the house—Charlotte saw Bran looking dazed and the Ingrams and Colonel Dent—all milling around exclaiming things like, “Who is hurt?” “What has happened?” “Are there robbers about?”
Then Mr. Rochester appeared at the end of the gallery, holding a candle. Miss Ingram ran to him and seized his arm.
“What awful event has taken place?” she cried.
Mr. Rochester’s expression was completely, bone-chillingly calm. “It’s all right,” he answered. “It’s a mere rehearsal of Much Ado About Nothing.”
What? Just . . . what? Why was he talking about a play?
“A servant has had a nightmare; that is all,” he added. “Now all of you, go back to bed. I have things handled. There is nothing to fear.”
Was it a rehearsal or was it a servant with a nightmare? This story was not making sense.
The guests began to shuffle back into their various rooms. Charlotte glanced over at Mr. Blackwood. His dark eyes were still fixed on Mr. Rochester. His jaw clenched. His hands in fists. She touched his shoulder.
“Not now,” she whispered. “Remember the plan.”
He blinked, then looked around like he’d forgotten where he was for a moment. Then he turned to Charlotte again.
“Where is Miss Eyre?” he asked.
Charlotte’s breath caught. She turned around wildly, looking. Everyone was here—everyone . . . except Mr. Mason. And Jane.
Where was Jane?