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?
Think, Jane! This is but a problem to solve. Put your mind to it. How can you help discover who killed Selina? Why was she killed? If the murder was not random, there must have been a reason, an inciting incident. Perhaps if you found that event, it would point to the culprit.
First I would need to learn more about Selina.
How? Interviewing each person increased the risk of my exposure. Even Emma seemed cautious when I asked her questions.
There had to be a better way.
I could assign the Seniors an essay to test their German skills. The subject would be their friend Selina. They would write down their thoughts so I could see their skill level—and share their notes with Mr. Douglas.
With a plan in place, my thoughts circled back to Edward. Mrs. Thurston expressly forbade me to correspond with him, but her authority meant nothing to me. I would write him and give the letter to Lucy to mail. Even though he was joining me soon, and realizing that the letter might not arrive before he left Ferndean, I knew he could enjoy it later—and writing it would go a long way toward helping me sort through my thoughts. With that intention, I put pen to paper, but the distraction of Emma’s industry caused my mind to stray.
In desperation, I pulled the modesty screen around me. The resulting privacy pleased me even though the lump in my bed still confounded all my attempts at comfort. My makeshift “walls” allowed me to block out my environment. At length, Emma’s footfalls told me she had quitted the room. However, the screen provided me a sense of separation from my surroundings. With my mind freed of these restrictions, I wrote:
I hope this finds you well. I trust that you are taking care to rest for the sake of your vision.
I miss you more than words can express. At night, I reach for you and when I discover—alas!—I am alone, I think my heart will burst with pain. I miss our conversations, our daily rituals, and of course, I miss your affection. It is comforting to think that you will be here in London soon.
When I came to visit Adèle, I was surprised to see that Nan Miller, a teacher from Lowood, now serves here as head teacher. One would think that should alleviate our fears, but I admit the situation perplexes me. The new superintendent, Mrs. Thurston, is not the sort of woman who sets the proper tone for a school. Because we met under trying circumstances, I struggle to be fair to her. However, so far she has failed to impress me.
Complications abound. The choice of replacement for Mrs. Webster is but one problem. The other problem—and I hesitate to tell you lest you be unduly alarmed—involves the death of a schoolgirl.
Right now Adèle is not at risk. If the situation changes, rest assured that I shall take the necessary actions to secure her safety and well-being.
Please let Ned know that his mother misses him terribly.
All my love—
Your Jane
P.S. Tell Mrs. Fairfax she was right. Next time I shall take heed of her suggestions regarding the importance of fashionable clothing when one is in London. Perhaps Lucy and I shall go shopping while I am here.
I folded the paper and tucked it inside my bodice. The note succeeded in making me feel closer to Edward, but it also brought a pang of guilt. Was I really that confident that Adèle was safe?
And then the concern that I had pushed to the back of my mind demanded my attention: What on earth was I going to do about the missing Rochester diamonds?