Once I reached the neighborhood, it wasn't difficult to locate Mr. Frederick Woodhouse's residence. It was, as an irreverent young servant had proclaimed, the most ostentatious mansion in the vicinity.

It was indeed a magnificent house, and although I prided myself on not being easily swept away by the usual displays of wealth, I must confess that it was with a certain sense of awe and trepidation that I approached that particular building.

Standing before the golden entrance door, I couldn't help but wonder what I would do if Mr. Frederick Woodhouse turned out to be a frail septuagenarian, comfortably reading his morning newspaper while covered in his favorite flannel blanket. I probably wouldn't have ever dared to knock, and would have returned home, ashamed of my own cowardice, if, to my dismay, the door hadn't swung open, and a stern-looking servant hadn't dryly asked the purpose of my visit.

His cold, inhospitable reception compelled me to regain much of my determination. And I said, with a firm enough voice, that Miss Eyre had business to discuss with Mr. Frederick Woodhouse.

The zealous servant had no choice but to allow my passage after receiving the appropriate confirmation from his master, but everything in his tone and stance revealed that he considered admitting young ladies of somewhat dubious origin into their ancestral home to be a particularly unpleasant task. The way he sighed while leading me through the endless corridors made it seem as if it had been occurring with too much frequency lately for his liking.

Two men were inside the vast library where I was rather inelegantly conveyed. Under different circumstances, I would have loved to peruse the neatly arranged volumes, for I had to give credit where credit was due, it was a tasteful, interesting room, not solely conceived to impress the occasional visitor, as was often the case on those circles.

The younger man, about thirty years old, gentle looking enough but not handsome, was standing, holding one of the leather tomes in his hands, while the older, not far from his sixties and likely his father bearing in mind the resemblance, read a newspaper while sitting close to the empty fireplace. Luckily, there was no flannel blanket in sight, and he didn't look as frail as I had imagined.

At first, nobody spoke. The older man was absorbed in his reading, the younger man appeared surprised by my presence, and I struggled to find a way, elegant or not, to broach the subject that brought me to this dreadful visit.

"Miss... Eyre?"

Finally, his father, if indeed he was his father, looked up, amused by the scene unfolding before him.

"It seems this isn't the Miss Eyre you were expecting, Frederick."

His ironic words clarified the situation, at least for one of those present. This gave me the courage to say:

"My name is Jane Eyre."

Frederick Woodhouse's expression relaxed somewhat, but he couldn't help looking at me with curiosity as he said:

"Miss Emily Eyre's sister, I assume. I hope your charming sister is in good health. She didn't attend the dinner at Mrs. Chaterel's as planned."

I couldn't answer, and somehow my face was so eloquent that both gentlemen seemed to grasp the terrible truth. Probably they would have done so even sooner if I could have afforded a mourning dress, as the strict social conventions dictated. But poverty can be audacious, and I didn't have time to mourn.

The older man lowered his gaze compassionately and returned to his newspaper. Mr. Frederick Woodhouse had to summon a lifetime of education and good manners to ask me, with a slightly trembling voice, to take a seat next to him on the sofa.

My legs threatened to give way under my weight, so I gratefully accepted his invitation and began to speak. I spoke of Emily, my voice sharp and raspy, hardly recognizable as my own, under Mr. Frederick Woodhouse's sympathetic gaze, and encouraged by the elder gentleman's respectful silence. Yet, when I repeated my poor sister's final words, the room's atmosphere underwent an abrupt change. Mr. Frederick Woodhouse's lips quivered as if he were struggling against himself to say something.

"Miss Eyre... this must be a regrettable mistake. Your sister was a charming young lady, but between her and me... such a thing was never even discussed. I... I had, or rather, have, the highest regard for Miss Emily Eyre, but I never thought of her in that way. Please accept my sincerest condolences, as well as those of my family, in this terrible time."

His words sounded sincere enough, but I had to say, "But she seemed so convinced... True, she was feverish, but her mind was sound. She told me to find Mr. Frederick Woodhouse and bring him to her so she could see him before she died, as they had planned to marry..."

"Marry her?" A shrill, feminine voice chimed in from behind me. "That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard."

The elder Woodhouse addressed the woman who had just burst into the room, with just the hint of a smile.

"Augusta, were you eavesdropping again, my dear?"

"Some habits are hard to break," Mr. Frederick Woodhouse mused. "Mother, I don't think this is the right time..." He added, this time in a more audible voice.

Mrs. Augusta Woodhouse eyed her son with poorly concealed exasperation. Adorned in a dress of undeniable quality, though perhaps a bit too daring in style for her age and standing, she appeared more like a sister than the mother of her presumed offspring.

"Frederick, you know so little of the world... This woman is clearly attempting to extract money with her string of ridiculous fabrications."

I could scarcely contain my rage. But his husband, visibly irritated by what he deemed an unsightly spectacle within the sanctity of his library, intervened on my behalf.

"My dear Augusta," he said with a smile that didn't quite match the firmness in his voice. "I see you were already prepared to leave. Don't let our affairs interfere with your undoubtedly large list of previously acquired obligations."

"But Jeremy..."

Mr. Jeremy Woodhouse didn't need to say another word. One single look before returning his attention to his newspaper, prompted his now intimidated wife to make a silent exit.

Seeing her leave, all the blood that had rushed to my face dissipated, and with it, my strength. My vision began to blur as if life itself were abandoning me.

"But Emily told me..." I murmured, barely aware of my surroundings.

"Poor child," Mr. Jeremy Woodhouse said, looking directly at me for once. "Too many emotions at once. Doris will take care of you."

And by ringing a bell on the table beside him, he summoned one of the maids, who, judging by her uniform and bearing, held a position of importance in the house.

I found myself in their kitchen, that was bigger than our cottage, holding a steaming cup of tea that the efficient but not overly empathetic Doris had just prepared for me. The liquid gradually revived me, but the memory of what had just transpired was too terrible to allow me to regain my composure.

"Poor Emily..." Doris suddenly said, pulling me out of my reverie.

"Did you know my sister?"

Mrs. Augusta Woodhouse's personal maid nodded sadly.

"She often attended the Woodhouses' balls. If only she had known her place... It's not the first time a young lady who tried to associate herself with them has met an untimely end."

I didn't even know how to react to those unsettling words. What could Doris be insinuating?

"People like us shouldn't demand. Generosity is earned by being patient and discreet," she continued slowly, as if explaining life's truths to a child.

I rose from the uncomfortable wooden chair so forcefully that I spilled much of the still-hot tea onto the table. As long as a drop of blood remained in me, no one would speak of my sister Emily in such terms. No one.

"My sister wasn't one of your kind. She was a respectable lady..."

But Doris interrupted me, greatly amused by my reaction.

"No, Miss Eyre. Your sister was nothing like us. Perhaps if she had been, she would still be alive."

And she left the kitchen, signaling the disagreeable servant who had welcomed me before to dispose of me as he saw fit. I was led outside as promptly as I could have wished. The house had become oppressive, irrespirable.

My poor sister, my poor Emily. What had she ended up doing to secure the position she so eagerly desired? In what depths of depravity and immorality could she have fallen, while we had remained blind and distant?