My Plain Jane

Words were good. But sometimes they were simply inadequate.

But she was a writer, so while she did get this moment of thinking herself somewhat brilliant, it would soon be offset by a crippling doubt that she had a gift of words at all. Such is the way with all writers. Trust us.

If there was something strange in your neighborhood, you could, um, write the Society a letter, and they would promptly send an agent to take care of it.

Of course I’ve been lying. I’m a politician.

Never in any Jane Austen novel did the love interest pretend to be a fortune-teller," Helen said, "Why would someone do that?

There was only one conclusion Jane could draw from the style and design of the dress and it was this: it had to be thought up by men. Then women could in no way outrun them, and with the lack of oxygen to the brain due to a rib cage the size of a fist, they could not outthink them. And with the bright colors, they couldn't hide. No running, no thinking, no hiding.

She would imagine a different life. She would seek it.

The person who possesses the creative gift owns something of which she is not always the master - something that at times strangely wills and works for itself.

A radiant girl with red hair caught Charlotte's eye. She was dressed in a gorgeous embroidered, jewel-encrusted gown and Elizabethan headdress. In her hand she held a book. She smiled sweetly at Jane, and reached for the man beside her, who, to Charlotte's total astonishment, suddenly turned into a horse.

For everyone who's ever fallen for the wrong person, even though we agree that Mr. Darcy looks good on paper ... and in a wet shirt. And for England (again). We're really sorry for what we're about to do to your literature.

I have a thing for Rochester," confessed Jane. "It's not healthy.

Grace Poole shrugged. "If you're sure. I can whip something up in the cauldron." "Do not eat anything she whips up in a cauldron," Helen whispered.

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

You may think you know the story. Oh, heard that one, have you? Well, we say again: you may think you know the story. By all accounts it's a good one: a penniless, orphaned young woman becomes a governess in a wealthy household, catches the eye of the rich and stern master, and (sigh) falls deeply in love. It's all very passionate and swoonworthy, but before they can be married, a - gasp! - terrible treachery is revealed. Then there's fire and despair, some aimless wandering, starvation, a little bit of gaslighting, but in the end, the romance works out. The girl (Miss Eyre) gets the guy (Mr. Rochester). They live happily ever after. Which means everybody's happy, right? Um ... no. We have a different tale to tell. (Don't we always?) And what we're about to reveal is more than a simple reimagining of one of literature's most beloved novels. This version, dear reader, is true. There really was a girl. (Two girls, actually.) There was, indeed, a terrible treachery and a great fire. But throw out pretty much everything else you know about the story. This isn't going to be like any classic romance you've ever read.

You said ..." "Yes? I said a lot of things when you were dead." And suddenly he was running through every word. Then he remembered: he'd admitted (out loud, yes) that he cared for her. Cared for her cared for her, if you know what we mean. Her eyes widened. "That means -" "I know," he said. "I know it was forward of me to just say so, but in my defense, you were mostly dead." "No, no, that's not it." He was confused. "Then what?" "I can see dead people!

I'm afraid the Le Livre de l'esprit errance is quite impossible to obtain, mon chéri." Mrs. Rochester dropped her eyes. "He keeps it locked in a room guarded by a three-headed dog, which drops into a pit of strangling vines, followed by a life-or-death life-size game of chess, which opens into a room with a locked door and a hundred keys on wings, and then there's a mirror ..." Branwell gasped. "That's horrible! That poor three-headed dog!" "I bet he just keeps it in his desk," Alexander said. "Are you sure that obstacle course of death isn't something else?" Mrs. Rochester tilted her head. "Oh, I think you're right.

Jane had found a book on the proper way to string a corset, and the gist of it was this: tighten it until you could barely breathe. Then you were halfway there. Since she was dressing herself, she tied two ends to a bedpost and walked forward to tighten it. But then the bedpost broke, and when the neighbor came over to see what the ruckus was, Jane implored her to tighten the corset for her. Her neighbor acquiesced and then left her with this piece of advice: "Friends don't let friends corset alone.

The communication between Mr. Blackwood and Mr. Rochester went as follows: Dear Mr. Rochester, I'm writing to inquire about a 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.

Mr. Rochester grunted. "Miss Eyre, listen to me. I believe there is a string below your rib, and it stretches across class and age to me, and it is attached beneath my rib. And if you find another suitable position, and leave me, you will pull it out. And I will bleed.

His expression hardened. "He's the one who will be sorry. I will kill him." She felt the color drain from her face. "Well, that's a terrible idea." He scowled. "I suppose you'd like me to confront Mr. Rochester about his crime and have the authorities deal with it." "Why, yes," she affirmed. "That sounds much more reasonable.

Between the sudden reveal of Mr. Rochester, and Helen's commentary, Jane was at a loss of words. "You are much quieter than you were earlier," Mr. Rochester said. "Maybe that's because you're suddenly Mr. Rochester," Jane said. "It's not so sudden for me," he said. "It's been coming on for quite some time." Jane laughed nervously. Handsome and witty.

Charlotte smiled. She collected rumors the way some girls liked to accumulate dolls, recording the juicier details into a small notebook she kept. (Rumors were the only commodity that Lowood had in spades.) If the rumor were good enough, perhaps she'd compose a story about it later, to tell to her sisters at bedtime. But the death of Mr. Brocklehurst was much better than mere gossip passed around by a gaggle of teenage girls. It was a genuine, bona fide mystery. The very best kind of story.

He keeps it locked in a room guarded by a three-headed dog, which drops into a pit of strangling vines, followed by a life-or-death life-size game of chess, which opens into a room with a locked door and a hundred keys on wings, and then there’s a mirror. . . .

Friendship was indeed the most valuable of possessions,

This was distressing development. Charlotte could contend with Jane's low opinion of herself, her unfair prejudice against the Society, her unwillingness to picture herself as respectable or wealthy. But if Jane was in love, well, that was that. Jane would not be coming to London with them or joining the Society. Love trumped everything in a woman's life. More than ambition. Respectability. Common sense. Love, they'd both been taught, conquers all.

A fire was licking at the fringe of one of the drapes that hung from the four posters of Mr. Rochester's bed. It cast a warm light through the gloom, illuminating his face while he slept. The glow became him; as the fire danced, its darting light softened the severe lines of his brow and lip. "Please fall in love with me," Jane whispered. It shouldn't be totally out of the realm of possibility. After all, Mr. Darcy fell in love with the nearly destitute Elizabeth Bennet. It could be like one of those stories Charlotte and the other girls at Lowood were always telling - the ones with rich, handsome suitors, not the ones about murder. Wait. Murder. The bed was still on fire.

Adele took her place in front of the audience and began to sing. "Miss Eyre, perhaps you can tell me what he's saying?" Mrs. Fairfax said. "The only other person in the house who speaks French is the master, and he hates to translate anymore." 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. Jane's cheeks flamed. "Perhaps Mr. Rochester should translate." She turned to Mr. Rochester, who coughed. He waved his hand. "Please continue, Miss Eyre. You're doing such a fine job." Now Adele sang of the woman's roving eye, and another man visiting while her lover was away. "They continued to love each other," Jane said quickly, maybe a bit desperately. In the last verse, the boyfriend found out about her infidelity, and stabbed the dancer and her other lover. "That escalated quickly," said Helen. She also spoke French, but no one had asked her to translate. "And they both lived happily ever after," Jane blurted. She was going to have to teach Adele some new songs.

And then, to Miss Brontë, he said, "All right, please gather all the teachers together." Miss Brontë lifted her chin. "I'd rather not do anything until I know whether you're going to arrest my friend." Alexander frowned. "You don't scare me." Alexander kept frowning. "Not even with that mask." More frowning. "Fine. But remember, she's my friend, and even if she did kill him, she helped the school. You have no idea how bad things were. It was self-defense." "I know about the burlap." "Daisy was allergic to burlap!" Miss Brontë pulled out her notebook and scribbled what looked like He knows about the burlap. "All right, go ahead and solve the murder, but don't arrest anyone I like." He tried not to smile. "I make no promises, Miss Brontë.

(But she was a writer, so while she did get this moment of thinking herself somewhat brilliant, it would soon be offset by a crippling doubt that she had a gift of words at all. Such is the way with all writers. Trust us.)

She took a shuddering breath. Crying, she told herself sternly, does not indicate that you are weak.