Jane Slayre (45 page)

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stakes with great force in rapid succession. The crossbow had the advantage of being lighter and easier to aim, but the stake-o-matic held more stakes at a time, could be reloaded more efficiently, and fired effectively from a greater distance.

While St. John busied himself with adding our design modifications as we devised them, I searched through his many volumes on paranormal and supernatural beings to learn all I could about were-wolves, what might be their weaknesses, and how one might be brought down.

When not teaching, studying, or tinkering, I made some effort to become acquainted with my students and their families. I believe I became a favourite in the neighbourhood. Whenever I went out, I heard on all sides cordial salutations and was welcomed with friendly smiles. To live amidst general regard with working people was like always sitting in the sunshine, feeling peaceful warmth spread through me.

At this period of my life, my heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than sank with dejection. I used to rush into strange dreams at night, amidst unusual scenes, charged with adventure, with agitating risk and romantic chance, where I still again and again met Mr. Rochester, always at some exciting crisis. The sense of being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving him, being loved by him--the hope of passing a lifetime at his side--would be renewed, with all its first force and fire.

Then I would wake. Then I would recall where I was, and how situated. Then I would cry fresh tears and convulse with despair. I would get out of bed and renew my research into werewolves and how to stop them.

Miss Oliver made good on her promise of frequent visits to the school. She came during her morning ride, cantering up to the door on her pony. The children adored her and seemed to work harder in her presence. It helped me to judge my students' progress as they

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enthusiastically volunteered to correct Miss Oliver's small mistakes in stance or form.

Miss Oliver, I suspected, had ulterior motives for her frequent visits. She generally came at the hour when Mr. Rivers was due to stop by to give one of his lessons. For his part, a sort of instinct seemed to warn him of her entrance. His cheek would glow, and his marble features, though they refused to relax, changed indescribably.

Miss Oliver also honoured me with frequent visits to my cottage. I had learned her whole character, which was without mystery or disguise.

She said I was like Mr. Rivers, only, certainly, she allowed, "not one-tenth so handsome, though you are a nice, neat little soul enough, but he is an angel." I was, however, good, clever, composed, and firm, like him.

One evening while she was rummaging the cupboard and the table drawer of my little kitchen, she discovered my drawing materials and some sketches. She was first transfixed with surprise, then electrified with delight.

"Did you do these pictures?" she asked. What a love--what a miracle I was! I drew better than her drawing master. Would I sketch a portrait of her, to show to Papa?

"With pleasure," I replied, and I felt a thrill of delight at the idea of copying from so perfect and radiant a model. I took a sheet of fine cardboard and drew a careful outline. As it was getting late then, I told her she must come and sit another day.

She made such a report of me to her father that Mr. Oliver himself accompanied her next evening--a tall, massive-featured, middle-aged, and grey-headed man. The sketch of Rosamond's portrait pleased him highly. He said I must make a finished picture of it. He insisted, too, on my coming the next day to spend the evening at Vale hall.

I went and found it a large, handsome residence, showing abundant evidences of wealth in the proprietor.

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While I waited for Rosamond and her father to return from an outing, a servant brought me a glass of water. Her finger came off in my hand as she gave it to me. I looked up in surprise to hand it back, ignoring the light sheen of green goo in the socket.

"Were you, by chance, educated at Lowood?" I asked as I handed back her finger. Her cheeks were indeed gaunt, her colouring grey.

"Aye," she responded listlessly, reattaching her finger as she spoke. "For two years. Then I was sent away to work."

"Have you always worked here since then?"

"Nay. I was a maid for Lady Granby, but she turned me out for clumsiness. Miss Rosamond took me in."

"How kind of her."

The maid shrugged. So, the Olivers couldn't be very much attached to her. Might they not even notice if she suddenly went missing? I spied a balcony off the parlour where I waited and I had an idea. "Could you do me one favour? I wonder what the view is from the balcony through those doors. Could you open it up so I could walk out and have a look?"

Without another word, she dutifully followed my orders, as I knew she would. When she headed for the doors, I looked quickly around the room for something to make short work of her. A pity Mr. Oliver did not seem to be a collector of swords. I did find a brass letter opener and an umbrella in a corner holder, and they would have to do. When she leaned to shift the latch on the door. I clocked her with the umbrella. She made a dazed groan. To my surprise, she reached up and grabbed the umbrella before I could hit her again. I'd made the crucial mistake of underestimating her reaction time. She groaned, more forcefully now, and flipped me over her head through the one now-open door. I landed with a thud on the balcony, the umbrella still in my hand. She came at me--slowly. I had time to spring to my feet, letter opener in one hand, umbrella extended in the other.

"I mean to set you free," I explained. "You deserve to be free of this servitude."

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She stopped and looked at me. "Servi-wha?"

"Service. Domestic service. Drudgery." Oh, never mind. While she puzzled over this, I charged forth and whacked her again with the umbrella. I'd thought I might have to cut her somehow with the letter opener, but fortunately she was one of Mr. Bokorhurst's earlier works, like Martha Abbot. Her head blew clean off with the second solid whack. Now to dispose of the head, and body, before green goo oozed all over the rug.

I stepped back out and looked over the balcony's edge. As I'd hoped, the balcony overlooked a wooded area. Unless someone belowstairs saw the body land, it could easily go unnoticed for months, or longer. I dragged the corpse to the rail and heaved it over with all my might. It landed with a hollow thunk on a leaning poplar. When I went back in for the head, I could hear that someone was rapidly approaching. Oh dear, no time to spare! I retrieved the head and hurled it through the doors, right over the edge to land I knew not where, quickly closed the doors, and just narrowly avoided slipping on a patch of ooze on the way back to the sofa, where I had originally been seated in wait.

When Rosamond came in, I had been just about to sit, but I made as if I were standing to greet her. She professed to be "so pleased" to see me and was full of glee all the time I stayed. Her father was affable, and when he conversed with me after tea, he expressed in strong terms his approbation of what I had done in Morton school and said he only feared, from what he saw and heard, I was too good for the place and would soon quit it for one more suitable. By more suitable, I was sure he meant teaching more suitable subjects than how to pierce a heart with a stake or how to escape a choke hold.

"Indeed," cried Rosamond, "she is clever enough to be a governess in a high family, Papa."

I smiled at the compliment. At the same time, I noticed a large hawk flying off through the trees with the maid's head in its talons!

"Oh dear!" I said aloud, then wished I could take it back in case Rosamond and her father, who fortunately sat in chairs opposite

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with backs facing the windows, turned to see what I meant. "Dear, I have spilled my tea."

That got their attention. I pretended to sop it up, but Mr. Oliver had already started on a new topic. The hawk flew out of sight.

Mr. Oliver spoke of Mr. Rivers--of the Rivers family--with great respect. He obviously fancied a match between his daughter and St. John, and he took pains to point out how desirable the alliance with such a respectable old name would be. He accounted it a pity that so fine and talented a young man should have formed the intent of going out as a missionary.

I changed the subject by bringing up something nearer to my heart. It did not escape my notice that Mr. Oliver owned the foundry, as well as the needle factory, and I needed his assistance. I showed him some of my sketches of an adaptation of the stake-o-matic that could fire silver bullets rather than launching wooden stakes. Silver, I'd recently read, had the power to subdue a were-wolf long enough to ensure its destruction, slowing their regenerative powers long enough to allow for the fatal crushing of heart and brain. By the end of the meeting, I had secured a promise that Mr. Oliver would make some silver bullets for me in exchange for my portrait of Rosamond, as well as perhaps influencing Mr. St. John towards making a match with Miss Oliver, if appropriate opportunity should arise. My influence was not needed, I assured them, but I left feeling satisfied with my accomplishment.

It was the fifth of November, and a holiday. My little servant, after helping me to clean my house, was gone, well satisfied with the fee of a penny for her aid. All about me was spotless and bright--scoured floor, polished grate, and well-rubbed chairs. I had also made myself neat and had now the afternoon before me to spend as I would.

The translation of a few pages of German occupied an hour. Next, I sketched from memory a picture of Bertha Mason, and

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some alterations of face and figure through what she must look like when she was in transition, and finally in full wolf mode. I shuddered and put the drawing away. I fell to the more soothing occupation of completing Rosamond Oliver's miniature. The head was already finished, with but the background to tint and the drapery to shade off.

I was executing these nice details when, after one rapid tap, my door opened, admitting St. John Rivers.

"I am come to see how you are spending your holiday," he said. "Not, I hope, in thought? I have brought you new modifications to the stake-o-matic. The smaller barrels could accommodate the silver bullets, as you asked, and as silver is heavier than wood, I have increased the firepower to add force as well. I think we'll be able to make a smaller weapon, lighter for you. However, I still don't understand this obsession with werewolves. There have been no sightings in these parts. They remain legend."

"Werewolves are quite real. I've seen one, up close. But that is all I will say on it."

"Yes, well, my uncle would agree with you. It is the reason he left England, after all. He was offered a great sum to protect a wine-maker's family from werewolves rampant in the area, and also to try to find a cure for family members already affected. Oh." St. John paused. "In fact, I've had news from uncle's estate. He left a book of his notes that might interest you."

"Of course! You can show me tomorrow, and perhaps we can work on the modifications to the stake-o-matic then as well."

"See what you think." he handed me his sketches and notes.

While I looked through his modifications, which all seemed workable and well planned, St. John stooped to examine my drawing. He sprang up with a start. He said nothing. He shunned my eye. I knew his thoughts well and could read his heart plainly. I had been entrusted to make a case for Rosamond, and now was my chance.

"Take a chair, Mr. Rivers. Is this portrait like?"

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He almost started at my sudden and strange abruptness. He looked at me astonished. "A well-executed picture. Very graceful and correct drawing."

"I will promise to paint you a careful and faithful duplicate of this very picture, provided you admit that the gift would be acceptable to you. Would it comfort or would it wound you to have a similar painting?"

He now furtively raised his eyes. He glanced at me, irresolute, disturbed. He again surveyed the picture. "That I should like to have it is certain. Whether it would be judicious or wise is another question."

It seemed to me that, should he become the possessor of Mr. Oliver's large fortune, he might do as much good with it here in England, rather than to follow his plan to chase new vampyre uprisings in all areas of the globe.

"As far as I can see," I said, "it would be wiser and more judicious if you were to take to yourself the original at once."

By this time he had sat down. He had laid the picture on the table before him and, with his brow supported on both hands, hung fondly over it.

"She likes you, I am sure." I stood behind his chair. "And her father respects you. You ought to marry her."

"Does she like me?"

How could he not know? "Certainly. Better than she likes anyone else. She talks of you continually. There is no subject she enjoys so much or touches upon so often."

"I like her, too. I love her. It is strange that while I love Rosamond Oliver so wildly, I experience at the same time a consciousness that she would not make me a good wife, that she is not the partner suited to me, that I should discover this within a year after marriage, and that to twelve months' rapture would succeed a lifetime of regret. This I know."

"Strange indeed."

"While something in me is acutely sensible to her charms, something