And just like that, they seemed at an impasse in a contest of some sort, where the opponents had no idea what the contest was about.
“I do apologize, Charlotte, but I’m rather tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Is that Charlotte Brontë?” came Mr. Brocklehurst’s muted voice from downstairs. “Skulking about in the middle of the night? Disgraceful. She should be punished!”
Jane was glad that Charlotte couldn’t hear him.
“Did you go to the pub?” Charlotte asked. “I thought you might. It’s what I would have done, if I were allowed to leave the grounds.”
The girl apparently missed nothing.
Jane attempted to look scandalized. “Why ever would I go to a pub? A young woman of my position does not belong in such a place. So . . . no, no, I certainly did not go to a pub. I was taking a midnight stroll.”
Charlotte nodded. “Was the ghost there? Did you see the men from the Society? Did they capture the ghost? Was it very exciting?”
For a moment Jane was tempted to share her secrets with her friend, but that would definitely be breaking Rule #1, so Jane simply said, “I assure you, it was only a walk in the moonlight. You know I like walking. Well. Good night, Charlotte.”
She made her way up the stairs and to her tiny room.
Where Helen Burns was waiting. Her best friend and favorite ghost in all the world.
“Thank goodness you’re back! What happened?” Helen asked, her translucent cheeks flushed with the fever that had killed her so many years ago.
Jane dropped her face into her hands. “It was terrible. He just . . . bopped that poor ghost over the head.” And then the entire story spilled out of her in a rush.
“So the Society can do all the things the papers claim,” said Helen after Jane had finished talking.
“They can.” Jane kicked off her shoes and began to struggle out of her various layers of repressive clothing. “And they’re cruel. They didn’t even bother talking to the ghost much. They were simply intent on capturing her. And she wasn’t so very troublesome. . . .” Jane recalled the brandy glass smashing against the wall. The clock. The jar of pickled eggs. “Well, she did need help. But she didn’t deserve to be trapped in a pocket watch.”
“A pocket watch. How awful,” Helen said with a shudder. “It must be so cramped. And think of the ticking.”
Jane finished dressing and blew out the candle. The two curled up together on Jane’s small, lumpy bed, as they had always done, even though sleep was only required by one of them. For a long while Jane stared up at the dark ceiling, then suddenly said, “The Society might come tomorrow.”
Helen sat up abruptly. “Here?”
Jane sat up, too. “Yes. The agents seemed very curious about me. And one guessed that I teach at Lowood. If they come, you must stay hidden.”
“I’ll stay out of sight,” promised Helen.
Jane paused for a moment. “It’s time to leave this place. This time I’m serious.”
Helen’s lower lip trembled slightly. “You would leave me?”
“I will never leave you! I meant both of us would leave. Together, as always.”
Helen had been Jane’s first true friend, her only friend at Lowood until Charlotte had come along. Helen had stood by Jane when everyone else shamed and punished her. And despite Jane’s excessive plainness and her many other inadequacies, Helen had loved her.
But Helen died when she was fourteen. That spring a particularly nasty version of the Graveyard Disease had descended on Lowood. By May, forty-five of the eighty pupils lay in quarantine, Helen among them. One night Miss Temple helped Jane sneak past the nurses into the room where Helen lay dying.
Jane had climbed into Helen’s cot. “Helen, don’t leave me,” she whispered.
“I would never,” Helen promised. “Hold my hand.”
Jane clasped her friend’s hand tightly, trying to ignore how cold Helen’s fingers were. They fell asleep like that, and when she woke the next morning, Helen’s body was pale and still.
And standing above it was Helen’s ghost.
“Hi,” she said with a mischievous smile. “I think I get to stay.”
It was always hit-and-miss with ghosts as to which ones stayed and which ones left for some great beyond. But Helen had stayed with Jane, true to her promise. And Jane promised, in return, that they would never be parted. Helen was the closest thing to a sister Jane had ever had. She could not—would not—abandon Helen. But now she worried that the Society would storm Lowood tomorrow. And if it wasn’t tomorrow, it was only a matter of time. There were so many ghosts here, one was bound to cause a problem. Mr. Brocklehurst, probably.
“It’s not as if we have anywhere to go,” Helen was saying.
“I could get a job.”
“What job?”
“I could be a seamstress.”
“Your sewing is terrible,” Helen pointed out. “I love you, but you know it’s true.”
“I could wash clothes and press them.”
“Think of how chapped and red your little hands would get.”
“I could be a governess.”
Helen nodded thoughtfully. “You are a good teacher. And you like children. But you’re far too beautiful to be a governess.”
Helen was no different from the other ghosts in this regard. She thought Jane was beautiful, even though it was Helen, with her porcelain complexion, blue eyes, and long golden hair, who would have turned heads if she were still alive. “What does my appearance have to do with anything?” Jane asked.
“You’re so lovely that the master of the house wouldn’t be able to help falling in love with you,” Helen explained. “It would be a terrible scandal.”
Jane didn’t think that sounded so terrible. “I could handle it.”
“Trust me. It would end badly,” Helen said stubbornly.
“Please, Helen. We must do this. Say you’ll come with me. Say you’ll try.”
“All right. I’ll come with you. I’ll try,” said Helen.
They fell silent again. From outside Jane heard the mournful coo of a dove. Daylight was fast approaching. In a few hours, she had a French class to teach. She was quite good at French. And some Italian. She could conjugate Latin verbs. She could do maths. In spite of Lowood being such a hard place to grow up, she’d received a good education here. She’d studied classic literature and history and religion. She knew the rules of etiquette. She could embroider a pillowcase and knit socks (well, she’d only ever been able to finish one sock—two seemed overwhelming). She was adequate on the pianoforte, and more than proficient at painting and drawing and any kind of art. And she was a good teacher, she told herself. She’d make an excellent governess.
“You want to be a painter,” said Helen, as if she’d read Jane’s mind. “That’s what you should do. Be a famous painter.”
Jane scoffed at the idea of being a famous anything. “Yes, well, people aren’t posting job advertisements for famous painters at the moment.”
“They aren’t posting job advertisements for governesses, either.” This was true. Every week Jane scoured the job ads in the newspaper, seeking her escape from Lowood, and there had been nothing for governesses lately. It seemed that all the wealthy children in England were already being cared for.