Death of a Dowager (2 page)
Read Death of a Dowager Online
Authors: Joanna Campbell Slan
For my aunt, C. Shirley Helmly
First, I want to thank the many wonderful book clubs that have chosen to read
Death of a Schoolgirl,
the first book in the Jane Eyre Chronicles. Your emails to me are a source of great joy and encouragement. I am so very, very pleased that this new series has sent many of you back to read or re-read Charlotte Brontë’s classic
Jane Eyre.
It certainly remains my favorite book of all time. For book club questions or more information about my other work, please visit my website at www.JoannaSlan.com.
Second, I offer my deep and humble appreciation to “Team Jane.” My talented, perceptive, and devoted editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez, was actually editing this book while going into labor. I’m sure that little Sam was worth the interruption! While mother and son were bonding, the fabulous Michelle Vega stepped in. Meanwhile, my superagent, Paige Wheeler, continues to be my guiding light, and I adore her. Kayleigh Clark, my Berkley Publishing Group publicist, has done a great job of spreading the word about
Death of a Schoolgirl.
Maryglenn McCombs, my personal publicist, has always been my advocate and my cheerleader.
Last but not least, my sister, Jane Campbell, provided wonderful insight along the way. She’s a fantastic plot-buddy who never lets me down. If you are lucky enough to write books for a living, better hope you have a sister as wonderful as Jane.
It is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within them.
—Charlotte Brontë,
Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
There is abundant evidence to prove that despite the wrong he did her in after years, she was always in his heart of hearts his “only real and true wife.”
—William Henry Wilkins,
Mrs. Fitzherbert and George IV
Love has a transformative power, an alchemy that reshapes the most intransigent personality. I hear its magical intonations when my husband talks to our infant son, Ned. I see its thrilling ascendance when I watch my friend Lucy Brayton fuss over garments for her new son, Evans. I note its charming selflessness as our housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, anticipates our needs. I feel its strength coursing within me at night whilst I stare at the moon and count my blessings. In the still hours of the night, when the only sounds are soft snores of the sleeping persons who make up our household, I thank God for this familial harmony, this wondrous sense of belonging. Here, in the shelter of Ferndean Manor’s leaking roof and crumbling walls, we thrive as a small tribe of like-minded souls. We are bound together by mutual affection as strong as any iron chain. It pleases me mightily to think how all of this is a result of our love, Edward’s and mine.
What folly caused seekers of old to search for recipes to change base metal into gold? Far more potent is that emotion that transfers blissful ignorance into warm affection. For when we are surrounded by love, everything is tinted with a new hue of happiness. And that, I am confident, is the chemistry most worthy of pursuing. That transformation of the human soul! Love is more rare and treasured than any lump of gold. It is the prize that all of us seek, its end product is acceptance, and its denial is at the root of all sorrow.
To refuse a woman the chance to follow her own heart is cruelty beyond imagining. To force a man to marry a woman he can’t love is to inflict misery. To brush aside the passions inflamed by love is to invite disaster. To underestimate the love of a parent for a child is folly.
This I have witnessed with my own eyes. It happened thus . . .
Ferndean Manor, Yorkshire
May 15, 1821
“A nice day for a walk on the moors.” My friend Lucy Brayton’s sweet smile caused her blond curls to bounce becomingly under her bonnet. Halfway to her fortieth year, she could accurately be called handsome rather than beautiful, until she smiled. Then the sparkle in those summer sky blue eyes and the lilt of her lips proved transformative.
I agreed with her. “It is lovely.”
White-as-wool clouds dotted the gray blue sky, and the freshly washed landscape glistened. Here and there, new green tree leaves served as a stunning background for the plum purple of the Northern Marsh orchids and the brilliant red of the poppies. She and I meandered along, watching out for puddles and picking posies to fill her trug.
“Lovely despite the standing water,” I added.
“Here or there?” She nodded toward Ferndean Manor, and we both laughed, thinking back on the mess that last night’s storm had made of the kitchen. Spring rains announced the changing of the seasons, and the fearsome storm had been exceptional. The elements had assailed us, blinding bursts of lightning and deep booms of thunder that put us all on edge. The combination of shocking sight and startling sound had produced a surreal counterpoint to our domestic tranquility as we gathered around the fireplace in the drawing room. After several hours, there had come a more intimate sign of the storm’s fury—the clatter of rain hitting tiles. The roof in Ferndean’s kitchen had buckled under the assault.
It was yet another sign of how the house, never meant for permanent inhabitants, had fallen into disrepair. Displaced from his family seat at Thornfield Hall due to fire, my husband, Edward Rochester, had decamped to his hunting lodge, and I’d joined him here. We made do with a small staff: John and Mary Harrigan, my husband’s elderly manservant and his wife; Amelia Sands, my son Ned’s nursemaid; Cook, a woman who came in from nearby Millcote several days a week; Leah, a maid of all work; and Mrs. Alice Fairfax, our housekeeper and distant cousin to my husband. Our household also included our son, Edward Rivers Rochester, who celebrated his first birthday on April 1, and Adèle Varens, Edward’s eleven-year-old ward, home from school for the summer; as well as our houseguest Lucy Brayton, wife to Edward’s good friend Captain Augustus Brayton, currently posted to India. I had been Lucy’s guest in London the previous autumn, and we had quickly become close friends ourselves. The severity of the disaster demanded that all of us pitch in to help. The multitude of pots in our cupboards could not contain the water flowing through the ceiling at an alarming rate. Even little Adèle did her best to move jars of preserves and tins of spices. We spent much of the night and part of the morning trying to save what foodstuffs we could.
While we were elbow deep in the mess, John volunteered to inspect the roof. Someone needed to measure the size of the crater, determine what could be done, and send to Millcote for supplies. Neither Lucy nor I thought this a wise course of action. A glance between us confirmed our unanimity, our concern for the old man’s safety. We managed to convince him to hold off at least until daylight. Then, early this morning, a rap on the back door announced John’s grandson, Leah’s husband, James. Hearing the howl of the wind and the pounding of the rain, the younger Harrigans had figured, quite rightly, that Ferndean would sustain damages. When he heard that his grandfather was set to climb on the roof, James quickly volunteered to go instead.
“Nay,” said John. “I’ll tend to it.”
“Why not let the younger man prevail?” In a whisper, I expressed my worries to Edward, who shushed me, saying quietly, “John has always done for me, ever since I was a lad. I shall not shame him over his advanced age. If he thinks he can inspect the roof, I shall let him. He takes great pride in helping me.” The fire that destroyed Thornfield Hall, his family home, had also taken Edward’s left hand and right eye—leaving his other eye to suffer in sympathy for its lost companion—and rendering him more dependent upon John than he’d been in years.
Again, Lucy and I traded looks. This time hers was accompanied by a shake of her head and a suggestion for me. “After you see to Ned and Adèle, why don’t we take a walk? We can gather wild roses from the bushes.”
“Yes.” I sighed. “I would rather be anywhere but right here. I have a bad feeling about John’s adventure.”
As I expected, Amelia had the children well in hand. Adèle was playing with a new set of paper dolls that Lucy had brought her from London, and Ned was busy chewing on a silver teething ring, yet another gift from my friend. I dispensed hugs and kisses all around before putting on my bonnet and meeting Lucy at the front door.
And so we found ourselves rambling in the surrounds, taking care not to step into standing water, and searching the bushes for signs that blackberries would follow. These we marked by tying white rags to them. The spring rains were harbingers of the onset of warmer weather.
Lucy showed me a branch of yellow blossoms. “Isn’t the gorse lovely?”
“Gorse? The locals call it furze. The word means ‘waste’ as in reference to the vast lands before us.” With a sweep of my arm, I directed her attention to the endless sea of heather purple moors, bracketed by pansy purple hills yielding to a bluebell-colored sky.
“Wasteland? Hardly. I thank you for bringing me here so I can appreciate this untamed beauty,” Lucy said as she slipped her arm through mine. “How unlike my life in London, where I hurry from one social call to another, speaking of unimportant matters, staring at dusty interiors of overdecorated houses.”
“Surely there is more to it than that. What do you talk about?”
A slight incline of her head served as an agreement. “The coronation of King George IV two months from now. That is all anyone thinks about. On and on and on. How much Prinny is spending. Who will be invited.” She paused and then asked, “That reminds me: You still have the letter, don’t you?”
I knew what she was referring to; due to an unusual series of events, I had in my possession a letter written by our sovereign to one of his paramours back when he was Heir Apparent. In this missive, he made several inopportune admissions, the most damaging one being his admission to bigamy—a union that could cost him the throne.
I hurried to assure her. “The letter is quite safe. Mr. Rochester had a strongbox installed in our bedroom wall.”
“If the contents become known . . .” Lucy’s voice trailed off as she bent to pluck a cluster of rose hips, their burnt orange hues vivid against her milky white skin. “Can you imagine the general anarchy that would follow? Already the people in the street despise His Majesty. Each day brings news of another extravagant purchase. Why just last week I heard he ordered a twenty-seven-foot-long robe of crimson silk velvet to be lined with ermine. Can you imagine? Did he learn nothing from the French? How can he go on and on spending money so freely while ignoring the fact that so many of his people are hungry?”
“Will you be invited to the coronation?”
“I have been presented at court. We often appear at the same fetes, levees, and other events. Will I be invited? Possibly. I don’t know. I don’t really care. Not much at least.”
I smiled to myself. Although she could protest the desultory lifestyle she enjoyed in the heart of the city, Lucy Brayton’s status there as one of the ton, the elite ten thousand that formed the uppermost crust of society in London, mattered to her more than she would admit. While her husband, Captain Augustus Brayton, protected the soon-to-be-crowned King George IV’s interests in India, Lucy labored to raise her status among those who wielded a very different sort of power. I believe it had rather become a game to her, a challenge that kept her busy while Augie was away. But that pastime had recently taken on a new importance, because Lucy would soon have her heart’s desire . . . a son. Though Evans Forrester could have brought Lucy much sorrow, being as he was the product of an illicit liaison between her husband, Augie, and another woman, rather than reject the infant because of his provenance, Lucy was overjoyed to “adopt” Evans when she learned that his mother had died. To her, Evans was not a burden or a sad reminder of her husband’s unfaithfulness. He was the answer to a prayer—and she planned to transfer to this child the benefits she had accrued in her slow climb up the social ladder. She had yearned fruitlessly for children of her own, and now eagerly awaited young Evans’s arrival from Brussels. His travel to England had been postponed until his nanny resolved certain family matters.
“Have a care, Lucy.” Taking her by the elbow, I gently steered her away from a cluster of white sneezewort yarrow blossoms thick with industrious bees. “It would never do for you to return to London all swollen with beestings.” What a pair she and I made! I was as ignorant of the social set as she was of our natural surroundings.
“Jane, you worry too much—”
A loud crack like the snapping of a large branch caused Lucy and me to turn toward the noise, which was followed by the sound of more wood cracking and splintering. Then a scream ripped through the morning calm. Next we heard a loud, resounding thump.
“John must have fallen off the roof!”
“Or through it!” Lucy said, as we picked up our skirts and started running toward Ferndean Manor. Our feet took us down the hillock, through a clump of elder trees and up a small rise, atop which sat Ferndean like a squatty brown teapot without a lid.
We heard a cacophony of voices shouting over one another trying to decide what to do. My husband’s voice trumped them all when he ordered, “James! Ride for Carter! The surgeon! See if you can find him quickly. Tell him to come straightaway.”
Was Edward sending James away because he didn’t want the boy to know how badly his grandfather was injured? Or was my husband truly hoping that James could locate Mr. Carter in time to actually help John? Our seclusion would prevent medical assistance from coming quickly.
“Oh, Lord, please let him be all right!” I whispered as I pushed my way past John’s wife, Mary.
As lady of the house, it was my responsibility to attend to the crisis. I saw John’s right arm bent at an odd angle under him. His eyes were open, although his skin was a sickly greenish color and clammy to the touch.
“Lucy, could you fetch me a blanket from the stable? A clean one?” I asked.
A broken bone often caused a shift in the body’s humors, and this, in turn, caused shivering and a general feeling of cold. A blanket would help allay these symptoms.
“John, please blink if you can hear me.”
The old man did as I asked.
“He responded and he is breathing,” I told my husband, whose damaged eyesight prevented him from seeing these things himself. “A bit of blood is trickling from his mouth and ear. There is some on his forehead as well.” I stooped to lift the man’s wrist. “His heart beats quickly but it is steady and regular. John? Can you speak?”
“Aye.” The word leaked out from him.
“Where do you hurt?”
“Me arm.” He spoke so quietly I strained to hear him. “Don’t feel nubbit in me legs, either.”
I recalled once having seen a girl fall out of a tree. The impact stunned her temporarily. I prayed that John just needed a few minutes to catch his breath. At least he was alive. Mary gently dabbed away the blood on her husband’s forehead. The result showed that John was not as badly injured as we had thought at first. I could have cried with relief.
Lucy appeared with two wool blankets that smelled faintly of horse. She handed them to me then disappeared again. I tucked one under John’s head and wrapped the other around him, trying to ease the fabric between the man and the wet ground.
Edward took his servant’s hand in his and murmured encouragements until Lucy returned with a damp towel that she touched to John’s mouth, urging him to suck a bit of the water.
Over the next four hours, Lucy and I took turns keeping watch over John. Mary held his hand while sitting as close as possible on a campstool.
James did not come back with Mr. Carter until nightfall. By then the old man was barely conscious. One look at Mr. Carter’s face in the reflected light of the lantern and my worst fears were realized. The situation was very, very bad, indeed.
