Page 22 of Jane Deyre

Even if she doesn’t know it.

I swear I wanted to kill that scrawny woman for almost striking her. Next time she tries, I may have to.

My growing impatience mingles with my anger. I glance down at my watch. My daughter and her new nanny were supposed to meet me here five minutes ago. Where the hell are they?

Hoping to see a sign of them, I drag my gaze to Thornhill.

Then blow the horn and keep my hand glued to it until my rage dissipates.

The front door opens.

CHAPTER 11

Jane

Bathing Adele has given me a glimpse of the second level of the house. It’s as opulent as the first. Filled with eclectic artwork and antiques that reflect a seasoned bohemian traveler. Many photos of Edwina at various points in her career line the walls. It may have lasted a lot longer had not two major tragedies sent her into early retirement. Or should I say, reclusion.

The upper floor is divided into four wings. The master wing, where I assume Edwina sleeps, the servants’ quarters, where Ms. Fairfax and Grace must sleep, the guest wing, where Ward must be staying, and the children’s wing where Adele is residing. Each is a suite, consisting of bedrooms, bathrooms, studies, and in the case of Adele’s, a playroom.

Freshly bathed and wrapped in a fluffy white monogrammed towel, Adele excitedly shows off her room. A vision in pink, it’s made for a princess. There’s a frilly canopy bed that’s so high it needs a stepstool to climb into, a hand-painted armoire, mirrored dresser, a wicker rocking chair, and built-in bookshelves lined with children’s books and plush animals. On the night table next to the bed, there are photos of another little girl with raven-black hair. Some alone, others with two adults who must be her parents.

“This used to be my auntie’s room,” Adele informs me. “It’s so pretty, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” It’s like the rooms I fantasized living in when I was a little girl. But being a princess was not my destiny. I flash back to the small, squalid bedrooms I used to inhabit, sometimes having to share the room—and even the bed—with two or three other foster kids. The worst was the bedroom I occupied in the Reeds’ house because it had no lock. John Reed picked it. Adele climbs onto the bed and stops me from mentally going there.

“Jane, would you braid my hair?S’il vous plaît?”

“Sure.” I spot a comb and brush on the dresser and bring them to the bed where I sit down facing my new charge. I’m good at braiding, and can do all types from French to fishtails, because I used to do my own when I was younger. I had hair down to my waist. Until John Reed chopped it all off with a butcher knife. Just for the fun of it. He dangled my locks in front of me and then flushed them down the toilet while I watched. I cried for days and it took over a year for my hair to grow back and cover my elfin ears.

I run the comb through her hair, gently getting out all the knots. Her hair is thick and as lustrous as spun gold. I have a window of opportunity to ask her about her mother.

“So, sweetie, where is your mommy?”

She shrugs a slender shoulder. “Papa said she had to go to a faraway place.”

Heaven? Did she die?I refrain from asking her in fear of upsetting her. I don’t want to broach the subject of death.

“Do you remember her?”

She shakes her head. “Jane, I don’t want to talk about mymamananymore.”

Well, that puts a lid on that conversation.

It takes me no time to create two perfect braids. I secure the ends with elastics.

“Now, let’s get you into some clean clothes,” I say, wondering what she should wear.

“That’s the only thing I have.” She points to the soiled pink dress on the floor. Next to it is her underwear, her muddied patent leather T-straps, and grass-stained socks. Something feels off. Why would she only have a single dress to wear?

But now, I’m in a predicament. Mr. Rochester requested we meet him downstairs in fifteen minutes. That won’t give me time to launder and dry her clothes. My eyes circle the room. A thought. Maybe some of Edwina’s childhood clothes are still in the closet or drawers. Fingers crossed.

I luck out. They are! While most of the garments are more suited for a teenager, I find an assortment of children’s clothing in one of the drawers. I pull out a yellow-checkered dress that is cinched with a sash. It’s very fifties, but it’ll have to do.

I return to the bed. “Honey, let’s put this on you.”

Adele frowns. “I don’t like yellow!”

“But it’s so pretty!” It’s actually rather faded and the white Peter Pan collar is frayed. It’s not even Goodwill material.