Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1) Read online

  She’d once been a beauty, and he often wondered if it was his artist’s eye that had drawn him to her…or perhaps his unresolved issues with his equally overbearing father. She had commissioned him to paint her portrait—the one hanging over the fireplace in the drawing room—and while she sat for him day after day, they grew closer. Then, one day, quite unexpectedly, she said to him, “I need a handsome man on my arm and in my bed, and you need my patronage to paint as you wish, so what would you say to being a kept man?”

  He felt no love for her, only a small spark of attraction he hoped might ignite into something more over time. But alas, coming to know her better had the opposite effect.

  And yet, he stayed with her in spite of his dislike. Why? Fear of poverty? Fear of failure? Fear of being alone? He had no idea. He only knew that to paint the way he longed to, he needed to feed his passions, not starve them.

  Regret exploded within him, sudden and overwhelming. Finding it hard to breathe, he got up and went to the window. Drawing back the heavy drapery, he opened the sash to let in some air. As he drew the refreshing breeze into his lungs, he looked down at his garden and fabrique—the things he would miss most when he left Cœur Brisé.

  Yes, it was a terrible thought to have at such a time, but ill-usage could make even the nicest person mean-spirited. And he had been kind-hearted once—and wanted to be again.

  All at once, he was back in the garret whose windows overlooked a squalid alleyway in Montmartre. At night, all the villains of Paris gathered there like the rooks in the graveyard beside his father’s church. Those big, black scavengers used to plague him no end when he sought solace among the headstones as a boy.

  And soon, he would be back there, painting portraits of Paris’ wealthy denizens instead of the poetry-inspired works that would set the art world on its ear.

  “Matthew, where have you gone?”

  Mathilde’s desperate question spun him toward the bed. “I am here, ma chérie. At the window.”

  “Come and sit beside me,” she implored, struggling to speak. “For there is something I must tell you…before the Heavenly Father calls me home.”

  He quickly reclaimed the chair, set his elbows upon his thighs, and steepled his fingers. When she didn’t proceed, he leaned closer, eager to hear what she had to say. “What is it you wish for me to know?”

  “I have altered my legacy.” Her voice was but a graveled whisper. “You shall have Cœur Brisé for the duration of your life—and the funds required to maintain the estate and your lifestyle—unless and until you choose to marry.”

  Her proviso made his heart rise in revolt. “Why would you make such an unreasonable request of me? Do you wish me to be alone for the rest of my days?"

  “No.” Her voice was no more than a rasp. “That is not the reason."

  “Then pray, what is? For, I confess, I am at a loss.”

  “I do not wish for you to marry because”—she paused to draw a rattling breath—“I will not pay to have another woman enjoy what I was so cruelly denied.”

  Stung by her accusation, he lowered his head. “It was never my intention to be cruel."

  “Nor did you make the least effort to return my love.”

  He bit his lip to keep his objection from escaping. Return her love? Had her illness made her delusional? If she loved him, it was in the possessive way a child loves a pet. And he was not a dog who could wag his tail, careless of the deficiencies of the one who fed him.

  Even so, he had tried very hard to love her. He simply found that he couldn’t. Whose fault that was, he really couldn’t say. Perhaps they were equally to blame. She had chosen him for his looks and he had accepted her terms because of her money. In the end, perhaps they both reaped what they sowed.

  With a hard swallow, he asked, “And if I should meet someone and decide to marry in spite of your wishes, what will become of Cœur Brisé?”

  “The whole…of my estate…will go to…my nephew.”

  The difficulty she had speaking told him she had mere minutes left. If he was going to say his piece on the subject of her good-for-nothing nephew, he had best be quick about it.

  “Phillippe is a scoundrel, who will no doubt gamble the whole of your fortune away, including the château, within weeks of inheriting. Is that what you really desire?”

  “I would rather…see it lost…at the gambling tables…than squandered…on a rival.”

  Matthew stroked his unshaven chin. As much as he detested the idea of giving in to yet another of her demands, he favored even less the prospect of returning to the hard life of a starving artist.

  As Mathilde wheezed her last breaths, he whispered, “Au revoir, Mathilde. In Heaven, there is rest.”

  When she was gone, he felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his chest, allowing the door to his heart to open just wide enough to admit a ray of hope. Perhaps now he could be content or, at the very least, more at ease than he’d been living under her thumb. And maybe someday, he would fall in love with a beautiful heiress with the means and inclination to support a poor painter. For, as George Sand (another woman writing as a man) once wrote, the only happiness in this life was to love and be loved.

  He agreed with the sentiment unstintingly. He just wasn’t sure he was capable of such feelings. Or worthy of them.

  Chapter Two

  Jane Grey pulled off her gloves and stretched her cold, numb fingers toward the fire’s warmth. The fourteen-hour carriage ride from Le Havre had chilled her to the bone.

  Though she still wore her cloak and bonnet, she’d set her muff and umbrella on a small table beneath an etching of Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte, the current president of France.

  A large painting by Eugene Delacroix of a lion devouring a rabbit hung above the mantelpiece. Jane, as fond of the romantics as she was of animals, felt much like that poor cottontail at the moment.

  Shuddering, she moved to the painting beside the fireplace—an off-center bust-length portrait of a striking man with an unapologetic stare and wild black hair. Did such a man exist somewhere in the world?—or had the artist only imagined him?

  Part of her hoped he didn’t exist, because, were she to meet such a person in the flesh, she would be reduced to a quivering, stammering puddle of uselessness. She had no experience with men, let alone well-favored ones, and the handsome fellow in the portrait had dark, gypsy eyes that seemed to stare straight into her soul.

  Tearing her gaze from the subject’s, she examined the signature in the lower right-hand corner. Though her mother had acquainted her with all the noteworthy artists of the day, the name she read there—Matthew Brontë—was unknown to her.

  Stricken by a sudden chill, she pulled her cloak more snugly around her small frame. She was as weary as she was cold. After cross the English Channel, she’d spent the night in Le Havre and rose before daybreak to board the carriage that brought her to Tours.

  She’d expected to find someone waiting to take her on to the château. But, to her great vexation, no one was there. When she asked a porter if anyone had inquired after her, she received a negative response. Her only contingency, therefore, was to seek permission to wait in the parlor. And here she remained, an hour hence, with all manner of uncertainty and dread preying upon her peace of mind.

  “Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle. Votre nom serait-il Grey, par hasard?”

  The Frenchman’s voice, from behind her, gave her a start. Turning, she saw the porter she’d spoken to earlier addressing her from the doorway. Having learned the language from her mother, she understood him perfectly. He’d asked if her name was Miss Grey.

  “Oui,” she replied with a trembling smile. “Je suis Mademoiselle Grey.”

  “Someone has come for you,” he told her in French.

  Jane, relieved but still anxious, gathered her things and began to quit the room. Then, remembering the man with the soulful eyes, she stopped and turned back. “That painting there—of the dark-haired man. Can you tell me who he is?”


  “Oui, Mademoiselle. That is a self-portrait by Matthew Brontë, a local painter.”

  Knowing the man in the portrait not only existed, but also lived nearby, unnerved her. “He lives here in Tours?”

  “Non, Mademoiselle. Lord Brontë lives at Cœur Brisé, which lies a few miles to the north.”

  “Lord Brontë? Is he a titled gentleman then, as well as a talented painter?”

  “Oui, Mademoiselle. He is no less than a count.”

  Jane, her energy now restored, hastened into the passage, where she found a tall, bewigged man in a blue livery uniform posted by the open outer door. Just beyond, in the cobbled road, stood a finer carriage than any she’d ridden in before. Even the elegant equipage owned by her last employers humbled in comparison.

  While pulling on her gloves, she scrutinized the carriage with more care. The exterior was black with glass windows, large red spoked wheels, and a leather roof of the sort that folded down for open-air rides in fine weather. Two large brass lanterns flanked the suspended driver’s box, which was draped with a fringed cloth of the same pale-blue damask as the upholstered interior. Harnessed to the front was a well-groomed and perfectly matched quartet of snow-white horses.

  “Is that all you brought with you?” As the coachman posed the question in French, he pointed to her trunk in the passage.

  “Oui, Monsieur.”

  After securing her luggage, he opened the door and lowered the folding steps. Gripping the door frame, Jane climbed into the coach. Before taking her seat, she turned back to the driver. “How long is the journey?”

  “Ten miles or so.”

  He closed the door, climbed up to his own high perch, and off they went. As the carriage juddered along the rutted road, Jane reached into the pocket of her cloak and stroked the folded letter from her new employer. She’d read it so many times in the fortnight since the offer arrived, she’d committed every word to memory.

  If Miss Grey, who advertised in the London Times last Thursday, is learned, accomplished, experienced, of a serious disposition, and can provide satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered her as the governess of but one pupil, a young lady of seventeen years of age. Please send the aforementioned references and all other particulars to: Madame DuBois, Château de Vouvray, Tours, France.

  Madame DuBois of Château de Vouvray. How elegant and exciting that sounded. Six years ago, when first she set her mind to governessing, she’d thought how wonderful it would be to see more of the world. She’d been one-and-twenty at the time and had never ventured outside the small rural parish in Somerset where she was born and raised. And now, here she was in France on her way to no less than a castle!

  She imagined Madame DuBois to be a wealthy young widow, and her daughter to be an older version of Adèle Varens, the pupil of the heroine in Jane Eyre, the only novel she’d brought with her.

  Adèle was the lively and somewhat spoiled ward the hero had adopted after she was abandoned by her mother, a French dancer who’d once been his mistress. Mr. Rochester wasn’t the girl’s father—an interesting authorial choice over which Jane still puzzled. Had Currer Bell presumed his readers would dislike Mr. Rochester if he’d fathered a child out of wedlock, but not for locking his mad wife in the attic or attempting to commit bigamy with Miss Eyre?

  Jane shrugged the question away. The author’s choice to make Adèle Varens another man’s daughter was the least of her concerns at present.

  Weighing heavier on her mind was if she would prove equal to the task of preparing a well-bred young lady to be launched upon society; she, who’d never had a suitor or attend a ball in all her twenty-seven years.

  Luckily, Jane’s mother had schooled her well, neglecting only painting and drawing—subjects for which the dear lady had no aptitude. Jane, who took pleasure in sketching, deeply lamented the lack of instruction in art, believing her drawing might have been good enough to sell if she’d only had better training.

  Thirty or so minutes later, the coach stopped before a towering iron gate displaying medallions of gilded grape clusters. The coachman climbed down and threw them open before reclaiming his seat. They drove on, jostling along a sandy drive past row upon row of trained vines. At the end of the drive, across a suspended walkway, stood a castle straight out of a fairy tale.

  The orange-gold radiance of sunset bathing its face only enhanced the enchanting illusion. As the carriage came to a stop at the end of the bridge, a maid opened the enormous arched front doors and stood waiting. With the driver’s assistance, Jane climbed down and walked alone to where the servant had posted herself.

  “Follow me, Mademoiselle.” The girl, tall and reed-thin, had flaxen hair and looked to be somewhere between eighteen and twenty.

  Thrumming with apprehension and nervous excitement, Jane trailed the young woman down a long hall paved with uneven tiles to a small but comfortable room that smelled strongly of beeswax and lavender.

  In a wing-backed arm-chair beside the fire sat an elderly lady in a black silk gown and snowy muslin apron. Silver spectacles sat low on her nose and gray curls peeked out from beneath her black-lace cap. She was nothing like the lady Jane had imagined, making her wonder if her picture of her new charge was just as ill-conceived.

  As Jane entered, the old woman got up and came forward. Taking Jane’s small gloved hands in her gnarled and spotted ones, she said, “How do you do, my dear? After your long journey you must be cold and tired. Come to the fire and thaw yourself.”

  Grateful for her kind reception, Jane asked, “Are you Madame DuBois?”

  “Oui, Mademoiselle.” The old woman motioned toward the high-backed chair from which she’d just risen. “Do sit down. We would not want you to take a chill.”

  Madame DuBois took Jane’s cloak and began to untie her bonnet strings, making her miss her mother something dreadful. “Please, there is no need to trouble yourself on my behalf.”

  “It is no trouble,” said the lady, undeterred. “And your own hands will be too stiff from the cold to manage the task yourself.” She turned to the maid who’d been standing in the shadows since delivering Jane. “Louise, fetch Miss Grey a bowl of consommé and a slice of the terrine cook made for supper. Here are the keys to the storeroom.”

  From an elaborate silver chatelaine pinned to the waistband of her apron, Madame DuBois removed a key and held it out to the servant.

  “Now then, do draw nearer the fire,” she urged, addressing Jane once more. “And, while you warm yourself, I shall see to your luggage. You have brought your trunk with you, yes?”

  “Yes, but it’s still on the carriage…unless the coachman has unloaded it already.”

  “Très bien. If he has not done so already, I shall see to it he does so before he sets off to fetch the Brousseaus.”

  Jane blinked at her, unsure who she meant. “Pardon me, Madame, but who are the Brousseaus?”

  “Oh, dear me.” A smile again softened the lady’s wrinkled features. “Did I erroneously omit that small detail in my haste to secure your services?”

  Still at a loss, Jane asked, “And what detail might that be?”

  “Lord Brousseau is the master of this house.” She moved toward the door. “And Lady Cécile, the young woman you’ve been hired to improve, is his daughter. I am only the housekeeper.”

  Jane hid her surprise at this news and the odd turn of phrase. “In what area does Mademoiselle—I mean, Lady Cécile want for improvement?”

  “I will leave that for her father to explain tomorrow.”

  After Madame DuBois quit the room, Jane remained by the fire, warmed by the flames and her congenial reception. At her last place of employment—Hedgesparrow Hall in Kent—she’d been treated with only criticism and coldness.

  A few minutes later, Madame DuBois returned and cleared the table beside Jane’s chair to make room for the tray Louise brought into the room behind her. When Jane finished the offered soup, she asked, “From where is the
coachman fetching the Brousseaus?”

  “What did you say, my dear? I am a little hard of hearing,” returned the good lady, cupping her ear and leaning closer.

  As Jane repeated the question with added volume, Madame DuBois claimed the chair beside her. “They have been at the home of their nearest neighbor. The poor man’s wife died yesterday of cholera—but do not be alarmed, my dear, for she did not contract the disease here in Tours. She fell ill after visiting Marseilles.”

  Though the old lady’s kindness eased Jane’s angst, she could not relax, for she’d not yet met the two people upon whom her future happiness largely relied.

  “Pray, what are the Brousseaus like?”

  “That can wait until tomorrow, my dear,” the housekeeper replied. “For tonight, let us concern ourselves with making you comfortable. If you are warm enough, allow me to show you to your chamber.”

  “Thank you,” Jane said, suppressing a yawn. “I am rather tired at that.”

  With a kindly smile, Madame DuBois took up a candle and led the way out of the room. Jane started to follow, then, remembering her cloak and bonnet, returned for them. She caught up with the housekeeper at the foot of a staircase made entirely of white marble. The air in the stairwell was cold and musty and, for a fleeting moment, she felt adrift, like an anchorless ship without a star to guide her to safer waters.

  When finally they reached her bedchamber, Jane was pleased to find a fire already burning in the chimneypiece at the foot of the iron bed. Her trunk, too, was waiting upon her like an old friend.

  After Madame DuBois left her, Jane examined her new room. A small table stood on one side of the bed. On the other, a marble-topped washstand offered a basin, ewer, bar of soap, and embroidered linen towel. The curtains at the window were of the same pretty floral pattern as the wallpaper and a faded Turkish carpet covered the dark plank floors. Such small luxuries she’d never been afforded at Hedgesparrow Hall.

  A glance at her disheveled appearance in the standing looking glass made Jane glad the Brousseaus hadn’t been there to welcome her. After stripping down to her chemise, she unpacked her trunk and climbed into bed. She tried to read Jane Eyre, but was too preoccupied to focus—not by her worries about meeting the Brousseaus, but by how she might act if ever she chanced to encounter the man with the gypsy eyes.