Jane Slayre (49 page)

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him and pulled the baker to the fore, using her as a sort of shield from my attack.

"I'll drain her," he said, menace in his tone. "I'll drain her and come get you."

"Lily was worried about you," I informed Mrs. Watson. "She sent me to bring you back."

Mrs. Watson cried harder, but the vampyre held her fast in front of him, his pudgy arms wrapped around her waist, his canines extended and hovering over her throat. I suspected I'd come just in time. He would have killed her or made her a vampyre as well.

"Don't you care about young Lily, Mr. Watson?" I addressed the vampyre by name. "She'll grow up without a mother. Or worse, raised by vampyres. It's no life for a child."

They could trust me on that.

"Bothersome chit," Mr. Watson conceded. "Always making a fuss and getting in the way. Even now."

He loosed his hold slightly, or so it seemed as the dimples in his hands relaxed. I kept my gaze narrowed, my aim focused.

I sniffed the air. "Is that burning bread?"

The air still smelled fragrant, but the threat of burned bread made Mrs. Watson start for the door, and I took full advantage of her brief separation from her husband to fire off a stake. Phut! It hit him in the chest, left of centre. It took a few seconds longer than usual, or so it seemed, for that big pile of flesh to disintegrate to a pile of cloth and dust. Watching it, I felt the usual sense of relief and power, a surge of triumph over evil singing in my veins.

Mrs. Watson was safe, and I could restore her to her daughter. I thought of my own mother and smiled. Had she led me here on purpose, to look after these people? To make sure no daughter had to be separated from her mother by vampyres again? I could not be sure, but it felt right that I was here now, preserving life amongst good working people. I turned to check on the baker just as she started to shriek.

I put down the weapon. "Mrs. Watson, I'm sorry. I had to do it."

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Quickly, she regained control of her emotions, only sobbing lightly when she spoke again. "You don't understand. I'm relieved, I am. He--" She choked on a sob. "He was always so angry and bullying. He left the baking to me and went to work in the needle factory, and then he was attacked. He was never the same afterwards. He went away. I said he was dead. I didn't think I would see him again, and then I was putting loaves in the oven and turned, and there he was."

She covered her mouth with her hands and went over to examine her husband's remains.

"He's truly gone," I assured her. "But you might want to check on that bread."

We brought fresh loaves back to the crowd gathered at the school. Lily and her mother had a happy reunion.

Fortunately, St. John soon returned to put us all at ease with his report. I watched from the window and I knew him by his walk--a strong, measured stride. St. John believed that we were no longer in imminent danger of attack. He and his men had kept watch as the vampyres headed into town, travelling in smaller groups and meeting up at the edge of the woods. The men allowed them to gather, then surrounded them, moving in until it was certain the stake-o-matics were within range. Once the first vampyres began to drop, the others began to run. But it was too late. Our men had them in sight, targeted, until they were shot down, eighteen in all. Some of the men were staying on to patrol the woods around Morton, but most were headed home.

"But what of Miss Oliver?" one of the girls, the baker's daughter, asked. "She never came. What if there are vampyres at Vale Hall?"

I met St. John's gaze. We both were struck by the same sense of alarm.

"Vale Hall!" I said. "If any had investigated the area in advance, it might be the likeliest place they would go to establish a base. The

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vampyre who attacked me last night said there had been twenty-two, but we've only accounted for nineteen."

"Grab your crossbow," St. John said. "Let's go have a look."

When we arrived at Vale Hall, all seemed dark and quiet inside, to be expected considering the late hour. A creak and a bang spun us in our tracks as we approached the front door.

"Oh, thank God," Rosamond Oliver lowered her weapon, one of the rapid-fire crossbows she had picked up from the school. "I thought you were more vampyres. When the servants came home with the news, the house was in a panic. I managed to sneak out before they barred the doors. I shot three right over there."

St. John went over to inspect the remains. "Well done."

He sounded amazed. I was equally surprised.

"Indeed, Miss Oliver. You were really paying attention in class," I said.

"I deserve very little credit. This is truly an amazing weapon. Ingenious design, Mr. Rivers."

"Miss Slayre is partly to credit for the design. Your father's generous Christmas donations, and your support of the school, helped us make it possible to arm all the citizens," St. John said. "The credit for that belongs to your father and to you."

She beamed with pride. "I suppose it's safe to go to bed now?"

"The danger has passed," St. John affirmed. "Allow us to escort you inside."

Days later, once things had again settled down, Mary and Diana planned a trip into Morton, but I had to excuse myself as I had come down with a terrible cold.

I sat working on my German translation skills while St. John sat nearby puzzling over some scrolls. I happened to look his way and found myself under the influence of the ever-watchful blue eyes. So keen were they, yet so cold, I felt for the moment superstitious, as if I were sitting in the room with something uncanny.

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"Jane, I want you to give up German and learn hindustani."

"You are not in earnest?"

"In such earnest that I must have it so, and I will tell you why."

He was studying Hindustani, he explained, and it would help him to have a pupil with whom he might go over the elements and so fix them thoroughly in his mind. Would I do him this favour?

St. John was not a man to be lightly refused. I consented. When Diana and Mary returned, they laughed that he had been able to persuade me to such a step.

"I know it," he answered quietly. "Jane is a good deal more interested in adventure than any other woman I've ever known."

"I daresay Rosamond Oliver proved more adventurous than you ever suspected, and she possesses a fair amount of courage. Do you regret letting her go now?" I asked.

He shook his head, not taking a moment to gather his answer. "Her courage was born of temporary excitement," he stated decisively. "Impressive, but fleeting. If confronted with a crisis on a regular basis, she would throw up her hands and run. She would prefer to live in her pretty house with her Mr. Granby sitting docilely at her side. She's not the type of woman suited to me. In fact, the more time passes, the more I wonder quite what I ever saw in her."

That evening at bedtime, his sisters and I stood around him, bidding him good-night. He kissed each of them, as was his custom. As was equally his custom, he gave me his hand.

"St. John!" Diana exclaimed in a frolicsome humour. "You used to call Jane your third sister, but you don't treat her as such. You should kiss her, too."

She pushed me towards him. I thought Diana very provoking and felt uncomfortably confused. St. John bent his head. His Greek face was brought to a level with mine. His eyes questioned mine piercingly. Before I could protest, he kissed me.

It was not a lover's kiss, but not quite a brother's, either. When given, he viewed me to learn the result. It was not striking. I am sure I did not blush. Perhaps I went pale. I might have trembled.

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He never omitted the ceremony afterwards, and the gravity and quiescence with which I underwent it seemed to invest it for him with a certain charm.

CHAPTER 37

PERHAPS YOU THINK I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst these changes of place and fortune? Not for a moment. The craving to know what had become of him followed me everywhere. When I was at Morton, I thought of him every evening as I sat alone in my cottage. Now at Moor House, I sought my bedroom each night to brood over him.

In my necessary correspondence with Mr. Briggs about the will, I had inquired if he knew anything of Mr. Rochester's present residence and state of health. But, as St. John had conjectured, Mr. Briggs was quite ignorant of all concerning him. I then wrote to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating information on the subject. I had calculated with certainty on this step answering my end. I felt sure it would elicit an early answer. I was astonished when a fortnight passed without reply, but when two months wore away, and day after day the post arrived and brought nothing, I fell prey to the keenest anxiety.

I wrote again. Perhaps my first letter had missed. Renewed hope followed this renewed effort, but not a line, not a word, reached me. When half a year was wasted in vain expectancy, my hope died out, and then I felt dark indeed.

A fine spring shone around me, which I could not enjoy. Summer approached. Diana tried to cheer me. She said I looked ill and wished to accompany me to the seaside. This St. John opposed. He

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said I did not want dissipation. I wanted employment. He increased our time training together and studying Hindustani as if the additional hours spent pouring over the intricate language would bring me cheer. I could not even find satisfaction in our training sessions, though it normally lifted my spirits considerably to shoot targets with the crossbow or to wrestle St. John to the ground.

I could not stop loving Mr. Rochester, and I couldn't imagine why I had ever left him. We were equals now. I could return to him with my own fortune, as my own woman, without any reason to feel inferior or worry that he might begin to regret my dependency. True, he had a wife. And now, all of our acquaintance knew he had a wife. I could be nothing but his mistress. It was hopeless, I knew, to think that he would ever let me kill Bertha Mason. He believed in mercy and would not stand for harming or killing her. He would not accept that in releasing her from her earthly bonds, I would be setting her free. Indeed, I wasn't sure of it myself.

Was she evil, like a vampyre? Soulless? Nothing in my reading indicated that she had chosen her current state and willingly given up her chance at heaven. By all accounts, she was a slave to her cursed nature, unable to resist the transformation under a full moon. Adding to her blameless state, she was a lunatic. It was a terrible combination of circumstances, but my argument that killing her would be saving others from harm would fail to impress the man that I loved. I loved him because of his reason and compassion, amongst other things, and to strike at Bertha Mason went against his very ideals.

What, then, did this leave us? Was it better that I become his mistress, and sacrifice my pride, or that we endure the torture of being apart for the rest of our lives? I was no longer certain I could bear the separation. But now that I had written and had no reply from Mrs. Fairfax, I wondered if I had been forgotten more easily than I imagined possible. Perhaps, with time, they all--including Mr. Rochester--had replaced me in their hearts and moved on.

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St. John called me to his side to read. In my effort to do this, my voice failed me. Words were lost in tears. We two were the only occupants of the parlour. Diana was practising her music in the drawing room. Mary was gardening. This fine May day was clear, sunny, and breezy. My companion expressed no surprise at this emotion, nor did he question me as to its cause.

"We will wait a few minutes, Jane, until you are more composed."

I stifled my sobs. I wiped my eyes and muttered something about not being well that morning. I resumed my task and succeeded in completing it.

"Now, Jane, you shall take a walk with me." St. John put away our books.

The sun was high as we walked out to the road along the glen. As we advanced and left the track, we trod a soft turf, mossy fine and emerald green, dotted with tiny white flowers.

"Let us rest here," said St. John as we reached some rocks at the edge of a little waterfall, a picturesque spot.

I took a seat. St. John stood near me.

"Jane, I go in six weeks. I have taken my berth in an East India-man, which sails on the twentieth of June. There is much trouble there with vampyres. The population grows unchecked and at an alarming rate."

"God will protect you, for you have undertaken His work."

"Yes, there is my glory and joy. I am the servant of an infallible master. One day, we will rid this world of vampyres and evil creatures."

"One day, perhaps."

"Jane, come with me to India. You, too, are blessed with the Slayre skills. It is right that we have found each other to help each other with the tasks ahead."

"To India? India?" Impossible! So far away from Mr. Rochester? There would be no hope, absolutely no hope, of ever meeting him again.

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"India, Jane. Think of it."

"There are still vampyres here. There is work to be done here at home. India is your choice. Not mine."

"Jane," he said calmly as if confident of his ability to persuade me. "I knew you were meant for me the moment you came in, breathless from fighting in the wood, with your skirts ripped, your hair undone. You were a vision."

A blush spread over my cheeks. I could not believe what I was hearing! That he had ever thought of me that way?

"St. John! You should not have noticed. And if you had, you should not be telling me so. Remember our circumstances, sir."

"Our circumstances? That we're cousins? If we're suited, I hardly see how that matters--and I believe we are suited, Jane. Very much. With you at my side, I feel stronger, more capable somehow. You--you inspire me."

"That is a compliment." I sighed. I was not accustomed to compliments. "I understand now why you wanted me to learn Hindustani."

"Humility, Jane, is the groundwork of Christian virtues. Who that ever was truly called believed himself worthy of the summons? Think like me, Jane--trust like me. We both were chosen."

"Thanks, in part, to your training, I am somewhat skilled at vampyre slaying, I grant you. But I am not called to a missionary life."

"Jane, you are docile, diligent, faithful, constant, and courageous, very gentle, and very heroic. Cease to mistrust yourself. I can trust you unreservedly. As a conductress of Indian schools for training, and a helper amongst Indian women, your assistance will be to me invaluable." He waited for an answer.

I could do what he asked of me, I reasoned. To join St. John in India meant doing worthy work, indeed. Was it the work I was born to do? Was it what my uncle Reed wanted of me when he told me of my history? Was it what my mother wanted of me when she appeared