My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies, #2)

by Cynthia Hand

Charlotte had always known Jane to be a kind, thoughtful sort of person. Even when she was committing murder, she was thinking of others.

“They’re coming here.” Jane pressed a hand to her forehead as if she was suddenly feeling faint. Which didn’t alarm Charlotte, as young women of this time period felt faint regularly. Because corsets.

“All right, go ahead and solve the murder, but don’t arrest anyone I like.”

That's not how it works , not how any of this work.

This meant that Alexander’s side business was actually the revenge business, though to be completely honest he had just the one customer: himself.

“It’s haunted. It’s haunted,” Helen said, pacing back and forth. “It’s so obviously haunted. If we looked up ‘haunted’ in that one book . . . what is it?” “The dictionary?” Jane guessed. “Yes. If we looked up ‘haunted,’ there would be a painting of this house.”

Jane sighed. “You’ve been around ghosts your whole life—er—afterlife. What are you afraid of?” Helen shook her head. “I think it might be haunted by the living.”

“But . . .” Jane glanced around the room, confused at the utter lack of alarm. “But shouldn’t we make sure no one is hurt?” “Why, dear? The entire household is here. So, you see, it couldn’t have been a human. And if it were a human, they would probably scream again. But no, there was just the one scream.” “What if they can’t scream again?” Jane said with a tone of dread. “Well then, there’s not much to be done about it is there?”

Fucking English people

Helen smiled. “Well, I couldn’t wash my hands that morning, for the water was frozen. Miss Scatcherd called me to task for it, and struck my neck with a bundle of sticks.” “Not that part!” Jane hated that part. “But it’s the reason you came and spoke to me that day, isn’t it?” “Yes,” Jane allowed. “So I will never resent that memory,” Helen said simply.

“You told me that day that it was not violence that overcomes hate, nor vengeance that heals injury,” Jane said. “And it’s a good thing you did, because I had formulated a plan to escape Lowood and beat my aunt Reed with a very large stick.” “No!” Helen exclaimed. “No, of course not,” Jane said. She would never. Not with a large stick.

“That was a long time ago.” “That was last week.”

Jane glanced at Mr. Rochester, but he stared straight ahead. Jane listened to the song. “The first few lines are about a famous dancer . . . in a club. . . . She wore flowers in her hair and a dress that . . . oh.” Adele sang in detail about how much the dress covered. Or didn’t cover. Jane blushed and glanced at Mr. Rochester, searching for a reaction to the scandalous lyrics. But he just listened. Not scandalized. “So, yes, the dancer wore a dress,” Jane continued, with slightly less detail. “And she was in love with a . . . dealer. Of cards. And at night, they . . . oh my.” Adele sang of a very special hug.

The communication between Mr. Blackwood and Mr. Rochester went as follows: Dear Mr. Rochester, I’m writing to inquire about the governess you recently hired, a certain Miss Eyre. I believe she may be of great importance to the RWS Society, and I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with her. Sincerely, A. Black A reply was delivered rather quickly: Dear Mr. Black, No. Edward Rochester Mr. Blackwood would not be deterred so easily, so naturally he tried again: Dear Mr. Rochester, Please. It’s important. A. Black Only one word came in return: No.

Jane’s perception of men, which was gleaned mostly from books and art that tended to glorify tall, dark, and brooding ones. The broodier the better. And Mr. Rochester was among the broodiest.)

Something had changed in the few weeks since Jane had left Lowood. Like she had grown up from a little girl into a woman in the space of a month, not as thin or homely, either, with more confidence, more bearing. And there’d been something else about her, too. A kind of glow.

<3

“He made me love him,” she’d said, “without even looking at me.”

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.

Helen’s mouth fell open. “What. Is. Wrong. With. The. Living?!”

Asking myself the same question since I was born, dear Helen