Those of you who enjoy the Jane Rochester Mystery series will be pleased to know that I have been making great progress on the third book. As a writer, I have always tinkered with multiple projects at the same time, but there is always one that proves to be ‘the book that must be written’ and eventually wins my attention. The next Jane Rochester Mystery is winning out so far, and I am delighted to find that I may actually be passed the halfway mark on the rough draft, which is very exciting to me. And hopefully good news to some of you as well.

It has always been my hope to write at least three books in the series, (with the possibility of five altogether) but up until recently, I really only had a clear idea for four books. I had fragments of ideas that could be developed into something, but no fifth book idea that really demanded to be written. To my surprise, after completing The Recipient of Secrets, a handful of those fragments coalesced together and formed an idea for an actual novel, and one that fit beautifully into place as a book three. The tentative title is “The Art of Weeping”, which, I think, makes sense, but of course I know what happens! Hopefully others will find it engaging. I don’t have a book description as of yet – well, let’s see now – maybe I can come up with something, I’ve spent hours and HOURS teaching myself how to write book descriptions, and it still makes me gnash my teeth a little. But I’ll give it a shot.

Jane and Mr. Rochester are settled at last, but not into a permanent home. A house rented from a neighbour, in the vicinity of the former Thornfield Hall, proves to be a quiet abode. But Orpheus House soon has an unexpected visitor. Mr. Carlysle, husband of Jane’s vain and beautiful cousin, Georgiana, is searching for his wife.

Not only has Georgiana Reed gone missing, but her new family suspects that her mind is not sound. Jane knows she must find her cousin, but will she discover her cousin’s whereabouts only to learn that Georgiana has been driven to madness? To find the truth, Jane is led on a mysterious chase that takes her from Millcote’s richest daughters to wandering gipsy travellers, and ultimately to an enemy that even Mr. Rochester is unprepared to face.

Well, I kind of like that, for now. I will probably try out some other versions before I’m done, but it gives you an idea of what’s to come. And, since you already knew most of that if you read the preview at the end of The Recipient of Secrets, here is a sneak preview of a scene from the rough draft. Enjoy!

Sneak preview of The Art of Weeping: The Third Jane Rochester Mystery:

“Excuse me, ma’am, but Mrs. Carlysle wishes to see you. She asks could you spare her a few minutes?”

I turned around to see a trim maid addressing me. “Certainly. I should be happy to.”

“I’ll take you to her, ma’am.”

I followed the maid down the hall, towards the opposite end of the house. “I thought Mrs. Carlysle was too ill to receive visitors.”

“She’s not but middling this morning. But she said she wanted to see you.”

The maid opened the door with a gentle hand and announced me. I entered the room, and saw before me what at first appeared a wrinkled, red-faced child. As I drew near the bed, I saw that it was merely a small woman in a very large bed. Her hair was done up in a cap, and there was rouge on her cheeks, but it only made her wan complexion more pronounced. 

“Come and sit,” she said, waving her hand towards a wooden chair alongside the bed. “Bring a cushion, Susan, there’s a good girl. That chair has never looked comfortable to me.”

“I’m quite all right, ma’am. Never fear for me.”

“Well. Let me have a look at you.” She gave a me a frank and long stare, and then released a sigh. “You are very young.”

I greeted this remark with silence.

“I must admit a tremendous curiosity about you. I have known Edward Rochester since we were children, and always wondered what sort of woman he would choose to marry. I live such an isolated life you know, that one cannot help dwelling on the faces of the past. Let me tell you something about him. Perhaps you do not know who I am? I thought not. Do you know Colonel Dent? Good. He is my brother, and older than me by about ten years or so. He has always been a good brother, but he was far too grown-up to play childish games with me. I recall once playing with some other children at some gathering or other at Thornfield, and we were playing tig or some such game. I was always so little that my only chance to play was an attempt to chase after stronger children. Not surprisingly, I was knocked bodily to the ground by Edward. Although younger than me, he was quite fast and strong. But do you know, he stopped at once, though it brought the game to a halt, and carefully helped me up out of the dirt—I expect I was crying—I had gotten dirt on my nice new dress. He brought me straight to the kitchen where a maid helped me clean up. Then he brought me a bun and sat with me while I finished it. He was a very ugly boy,” she added thoughtfully, “but I always liked him. When I was married, he sent me a quaint figurine of a wide-eyed little girl. I still have it about somewhere.”

“Perhaps you would like to see him. I’m sure he would not mind speaking with you.”

“Oh, thank you dear, but it is such trouble rising from my bed. And I don’t care to entertain gentlemen in my bedroom. But I did just wish for a peep at you. He is so much taller than you! You must scarcely pass his shoulder.”

“Not that high, I don’t think.”

“Well, it is the fate of us little women to look up in the world.” A smile raised the corners of her mouth, and for a moment she appeared less weary. “And how interesting that you are Georgiana’s cousin. She mentioned her cousin Eyre once—she has a painting of yours I think, in her boudoir—but I had no idea at the time that it was Mr. Rochester’s Jane Eyre. And she could make two of you! She must take after some other part of the family.”

“Yes, indeed. She has never been considered little. I am grieved that her whereabouts seem to be unknown.”

The older woman sighed deeply, her fingers trembling a little. “Yes. Quite a hardship for poor Cecil. I do hope she can be found. Although what we shall do with her if she is, I don’t know.”

“Was she much trouble?”

“Trouble? Oh no. Only, she does not seem quite right. And I’m afraid Cecil will not be able to get his heir.”

“Does he particularly need a child?”

“I know he would like one. Some men are like that you know. They hardly give the matter a thought, and then all at once, it’s the only thing they can think about, And some women are even worse. I believe they think they shall never grow old, and suddenly find that they are.”

“Is there anyone but your son to inherit the property?”

Instead of answering, she turned her head to the window. I followed her gaze and noted that the little island upon the lake was visible from here also, although the Grecian grotto was hidden by the trees. My attention was drawn back to her when she said, “My husband and I were never very fortunate. Perhaps it is a family curse.” She turned her head back to me, revealing eyes that had grown watery. Her cheek was growing very pale. She reached out her fingers, soft from disuse, and patted my hand. “Perhaps it is well that you are so young. It will give you plenty of time for babies. I always wished for more of them. But—one must not complain against Providence. I will not keep you any longer. Thank you for indulging me in this way and coming to visit.” 

I left her room and found Mr. Rochester listening passively to his host’s long monologue about the wonders of Sicilian pottery fragments.

“I believe we must go,” Mr. Rochester declared peremptorily. 

“Oh?” said Mr. Carlysle, looking about him with an open mouth and raised eye brows. “Yes, yes of course. Here is your charming wife. Thank you for coming to visit. I hope you found everything satisfactory?”

Did he even recall my reasons for being there? “You are very kind, sir. But I cannot be fully satisfied until my cousin is restored to her proper home. I hope, if you have any news of her, that you will send us word at once.”

“Yes, certainly. Certainly. Rochester, you must come again. I have a great deal more to show you from this collection. And next week I shall be receiving a statue found in Delphi itself!”

“I will keep it in mind, sir. Good-bye for the present, Carlysle.”

“Good bye, good bye. Now then, where was I? Ah yes…”

Mr. Carlysle returned to his book and his aged pointer lowered his head in contentment, while I led my husband in the footman’s wake to the door.

“Have I ever told you, Jane, how much I dislike the habit of old men growing obsessive about their trifling hobbies?”

“Have you no obsessions, Mr. Rochester? No trifling hobbies?”

“I daresay I have both, but I endeavour not to confuse one with the other. A man who succumbs to a passion for a thousand year old bit of clay surely has nothing of passion left to him.”

“Well, sir,” said I, as we climbed into the carriage. “I suppose we shall see what you are like when you are old.”

“I hope I will never grow as old as that.”

“This morning I spoke with one who seems to think you have hardly grown at all.” I told him Mrs. Carlysle’s tale of her childhood and his. He laughed. “Yes, I remember. At least I recall the fall. I’ve forgotten the bun entirely.”

Mr. Rochester put his arm around my shoulder and drew me to him. A smile curved his mouth, and he touched my lips, to see what my face displayed of my emotion. As he did so, his smile departed. “What is it, Jane?”

“It is nothing. Only—only a trifling thing.”

“Well? Out with the thing. Speak.”

“Mr. Rochester, do you particularly desire children?”

His heavy brow furrowed at me. “Particularly? What does that mean?”

“Men often do marry for the sake of having children.”

“Did you think I married you for such a purpose as that? That I intended a mere contractual exchange? That I wanted you for anything more than your own sweet self?”

“”I suppose a wish for a family did, perhaps, enter your mind on occasion.”

“As I loved you so well, it seemed but natural that our children would love you as much, should we be blessed with any. But I know better than most men the folly of planning one’s future too exactingly. Providence is a chancy horse to place a bet upon.”

“I believe the younger Mr. Carlysle married, at least in part, for the sake of producing an heir.”

“And Georgiana has not fulfilled her part of the bargain?”

“I begin to suspect such is the case.”