Escaping Mr. Rochester, page 3
“She has, though I’ve not had the pleasure of making her acquaintance just yet. I thought it best to give her time to settle in.” Grace positions the cutlery before setting the plate in front of me. She always makes a show of properly preparing my dinner.
“There you are.” Grace takes the dome and withdraws. “I’ll be back to collect the tray within the hour.”
“Thank you.” I squeeze my hands between my thighs and wait for her to leave the room.
Before the last lock clicks into place, I grab the knife and stand, gripping it hard enough my fingers ache. I wait and listen. Grace’s shuffle carries her to and down the stairs. When I’m certain she’s truly gone, I hurry for the closet.
The muted light from the boarded-up window doesn’t reach this far. I must feel my way through dust and darkness, then along the farthest wall. My fingers brush over wood, smooth and polished at first until the surface dips inward and turns suddenly rough and jagged.
I grip the knife and drive it into the wood. Again, and again, and again, I chip away at the gradually thinning planks.
Every few moments I stop, hold my breath, and try to listen past the beating of my heart for signs of anyone coming to investigate.
For now, I am safe from interruption.
After several minutes of quietly digging, I pause to feel along the serrations I’ve created. Every few inches or so I apply pressure, testing the give of the wood. My breath catches when one spot dips outward. Then another. The third time I push, what remains of the plank gives with a soft snap.
A rush of excitement moves through me, and I press my entire palm against the area. It bends but doesn’t break. Yet. I’m so close. With another few hours of work, I will be through.
It takes everything in me to resist trying to pry or kick the planks free. The noise will surely bring Grace or others running.
No, no, I have to be patient. I’ve waited so long, what is another day? And if I work through the night, I’ll break through by morning. Edward will not be home until the following evening, and my plan is to be long gone by then.
“Pace yourself, Little Bird,” I whisper into the gloom. Maman used to say this whenever I grew frustrated or overeager in some aspect of my life. My studies or music lessons or, frankly, anything. There’s a pang at the center of my chest when I think of her. I miss her. I miss her face, her voice, even the sharpness in her tone when she scolded me.
Without thinking, my fingers fall to my chest and the one treasure I cannot bear to part with. A string of pearls ornaments my neck. It was a gift from Maman on my wedding day. Passed down from her mother, and her mother before, so on and so forth. It is a simple thing, beautiful, delicate, and all that remains of my life before Thornfield.
If I close my eyes, I can remember the last time I laid eyes on my mother. It was a crisp and clear morning. She stood with my father amidst a sea of well-wishers gathered at the New Orleans port, there to see off any number of ships. Her thick hair was pinned into magnificent rolls carefully tucked beneath a blue hat. The pale but beautiful color sticks out in my memory. It was her favorite. She waved her hands frantically, matching gloves catching the sunlight, her smile wide and her eyes bright with tears.
I fight the sting of my own at the memory. I feel her absence keenly, and my father’s. I fear I may never see either of them again.
“Madam?” Grace’s voice causes every muscle in my body to stiffen to the point of pain. My breath catches in my throat. I should have heard her coming long before she reached my door. Instead, I lost myself so deeply in the past that not even the rattle of the locks drew me out of it.
“What are you doing down there?” Grace asks. Her tone remains more curious than suspicious. For now. She’s still standing in the doorway. I think. And it’s hard to think while fighting off the beginnings of panic.
My mind scrambles for an answer as the sound of dragging steps brings her closer. If I am caught, if the damage to the wall is discovered, I will be thwarted. And when Edward returns . . .
I need a distraction.
“Oh, Grace,” I say, forcing emotion into my voice. I clutch at my necklace, my fingers working along the pearls anxiously. “I was . . .”
Then I’m struck by the suddenness of a thought. It is an idea. An awful idea. One that pains me immediately. But rather than shove the hurt aside, I cling to the sharpness of the feeling, allow it to fill me. This will make what comes next, loath as I am to do it, more believable.
I sniff and whimper audibly.
This causes Grace to pause. “Whatever is the matter?”
There’s a grunt from outside the bedroom door. Devin or Marsters no doubt listening for signs of trouble.
My hand shakes as I tighten my grip on the necklace and yank. “I thought I’d lost them!” I shout over the sound of a few pearls peppering the floor, bouncing and rolling off. The rest are still on the string clutched in my hand. I let some slip silent into the folds of my skirts while hurriedly plucking up the others.
Grace trundles forward. “What are you on about?”
When she draws close, but not too much, I turn and hold out the damaged bit of jewelry.
“I—I don’t know how, but I’ve broken it.” My voice flakes away under the weight of my genuine sorrow. I look up and into the old woman’s eyes. “Some of the pearls rolled under the door. I was trying to fetch them.” I make sure not to let forth too much emotion. Just enough for it to seem like I’m fighting and failing to keep my composure. Which isn’t all that far from the truth.
Grace looks from me to the darkened closet. With the window boarded up, I pray she cannot peer too deeply into the shadows to see the mess I’ve made of the wall.
Her fingers slide over a glass of what I can only assume is wine that she’s brought to go with my dinner. I hadn’t noticed it was missing.
After an eternity of seconds, Grace huffs. “You poor dear.” She moves to set the glass on the table.
I deflate a little, on purpose, as part of my act. The tears continue to flow. I swipe at them with my free hand. Relief and anger battle one another in my chest. I have tempered her suspicion, but at a cost.
“You shouldn’t search around in the dark like that.” Grace moves toward my chest of drawers and the lantern there. “Let me get a light.”
“No need.” I push to my feet and close the closet door. “I’ve got them all, I’m certain.” I carefully place the necklace and loose beads upon the tray, along with the knife, making sure to conceal the action with my body.
Grace hobbles to join me near the table. Her fingers press my shoulder in a gesture that is likely meant to be comforting. It takes everything in me not to flinch away from the touch.
“Perhaps I can inquire after repairs.” She fixes me with a look one might give a child who’s been misbehaving. “The master may not be amenable after your last tantrum.”
I feel a muscle in my jaw jump. To hide the shift in my expression, I turn away as if chided. “Please? It is dear to me.” Revealing the truth of this is dangerous. Almost as much as releasing the necklace into Grace’s and thus Edward’s possession. But I must be convincing.
She huffs as if put-upon by the request, then begins to collect the remnants of the jewelry. “Very well.” Her words are pleased. She’s enjoying this, the fact that I am now beholden to her in this way. “It’ll have to wait until he returns, of course.”
When he returns, I will have left this place—and thus my pearls—behind. The reality of this burns through me, hot and furious. I am furious. But I force out a shaky “Thank you.” My eyes linger on the necklace clutched in her thin hand. The knowledge that I won’t be able to take it with me, even in pieces, is like a blade in my heart.
“Lovely,” Grace says, considering. “Now, you get back to your dinner before it goes cold.” With that, she makes her way to and through the door.
By the time the sound of her departure fades, I am all but shaking with rage. A jagged, ugly feeling claws at my insides, hollowing out my chest. My vision blurs with it. More tears. But I will not let them fall.
One more thing has been taken from me.
5
Dinner, Dessert, and Despair
Jane . . .
Heeding Emm’s warning against wandering Thornfield’s halls for the moment, I spend my time before dinner unpacking. Thankfully, my room is not in the same dilapidated condition as the rest of the house. The ceiling is high, and a row of large windows dips outward to cradle a bench just large enough to sit and read. It is more space to myself than I’ve ever had. The furnishings are clean. The linens on the bed fresh. A fire dances in the hearth, filling the room with warmth and light. Clearly, my arrival was expected. Perhaps even eagerly.
Despite being little more than four walls and a few large windows, the space feels less oppressive than the rest of Thornfield. I can breathe in here, stretch myself and my being. There’s no sense of something hidden in the corners waiting to pounce. The firelight reaches every inch of the room, banishing the shadows. Still, I imagine them waiting outside my door, ever vigilant, biding their time.
It does not take long to put my belongings away. I do not have very many, but they are mine. The last item is a journal. My journal. I know the perfect place for it. Upon entry, I immediately spied a small desk tucked away against one wall. A quick perusal of the drawers revealed no pens or ink, but I’m certain I can request these.
My task complete, I have nothing to distract me from the fact that I have not eaten since before dawn. After such a lengthy ride, mitigating the scuffle between Lord Punctual and my luggage, then fully unpacking, I’m fit to starving. Well, if I’m not to meet Adèle just yet, perhaps I can be of help to Emm in preparing supper. I take one last look around my room, then depart.
There’s likely another few hours until sunset, but the waning daylight has already stripped all familiarity from the corridor. I move in the direction we came before. At least, I think it was this way. Everything is dust and sheets and slowly lengthening shadows. It’s easy to imagine something resembling fingers reaching to try to snag my skirts with claws or talons. The house is slowly being devoured by the encroaching night.
I quicken my steps.
Around the next corner I stop just in time to avoid slamming into a body as it leaps from the darkness, and my heart in turn leaps into my throat. I scream.
“Heavens!” cries an elderly woman, who presses her hand against her chest as something bounces against the carpet. Several somethings. They scatter along the floor.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, reaching to steady her. “I didn’t see you. Here, let me he—”
“Pay attention to where you’re going!” The woman huffs and turns her attention to the carpet. Her spotted and lined face creases with a frown. “Oh, that’s just lovely, isn’t it?”
“I apologized.” There’s an edge to my voice I don’t take care to dull.
She doesn’t reply, just mutters to herself as she shifts onto her knees to begin plucking at the rug. “Racing through here like some brat. The impertinence.”
Forcing a practiced smile into place, I simply nod. “As I said, I didn’t see you.” I move to step around her, then pause, my thoughts peeling themselves from beneath my anger.
This woman, mean-spirited as I can already tell she is, is likely another of Mr. Rochester’s employees. She’s been here longer than I have, meaning she most likely has a trusted and less precarious position than mine. Being on her bad side so soon would be less than ideal. I take a deep breath and push my feelings somewhere deep down.
“Here,” I offer before dropping down beside her. “Let me help.”
“No need,” the woman grunts, but I’m already gathering up the small baubles that have spread around us. I place a few in my palm and lift them for inspection.
Pearls, I realize with sudden surprise. Actual pearls. They glisten softly in the low light, almost seeming to glow.
“Don’t go getting any ideas.” She thrusts her hand out, wagging her fingers demandingly. “Hand them over.”
“Only one of us has their mind on thievery,” I say evenly. I pour what I’ve gathered into her waiting palm.
She looks me over. Her eyes hold the familiar weight of judgment. I feel it settle into my bones, but I shift my shoulders, shaking it off. I deserve to be here.
“Lovely pearls,” I say, gesturing at her now clenched fingers. “Are they yours?”
“Yes.” The old woman glances around, likely making sure she’s collected all of them. She shifts as if to rise but looks to be having a bit of trouble getting her feet under her.
I rise to mine and reach for her. “That’s all of them, I think.”
She eyes me but doesn’t resist. Together, we get her upright. She rocks with the motion of standing.
“I’m Jane.” I nod in greeting. “Jane Eyre.”
“Eyre? You’re to be Adèle’s new governess, then?”
“Yes. I arrived not too long ago. I’ve just gotten settled and was attempting to find my way to the kitchen.”
There’s a pause as a look of consideration passes over her face. It’s brief, then she sniffs again. “I can show you to the kitchen, but I suggest you stay out of Emmaline’s way.” She shuffles past and gestures for me to follow.
We fall into a less than amicable silence, even though I have countless questions—what it’s like to work for Mr. Rochester, who else I can expect to potentially crash into while roaming these dark halls—but I say nothing. I don’t imagine she is the talkative type, and I want nothing from her. I know her kind.
The aroma of roasted meat and vegetables reaches us before we arrive at the kitchen, along with the sharp scent of burning wood. There’s also a sweetness in the air, and the crisp smell of something baking.
Stopping just inside the door, I take in the wide space with walls lined with cupboards on one side and pots and pans hung along the other. Emm stands at the stove, fussing over a pan filled with something steaming, surely the source of the delicious scents that have all but called us here. At a nearby table, I spot a little face greatly resembling the one that peeked out at me when I stood at the door earlier.
Still round with youth and slightly rosy, it belongs to who I must assume is Adèle. Such a pretty thing, looking every bit the age of ten, her brunette hair braided back and ribboned, though it rises here and there in the peaks of coils wishing to be rebellious. Freckles dust her light brown cheeks and wide nose, and she looks up at me with large, dark eyes before hurriedly returning them to her plate.
I bite down on my eager greeting. The way the girl shrinks herself, timidity all but radiating off her, is enough to pull at my sympathies almost painfully. I’ve known shy children. I was such a child myself. I’ll have to be careful, go slowly, let her open to me so I don’t go stomping over boundaries I may not recognize immediately.
“Took ye long enough,” Emm snaps. She gestures to a nearby station. “Help yourself, but don’t get too excited. A few other bellies need filling.”
“Thank—” I turn to say to Grace, but she’s vanished. There’s no sign of her in the hall either. “. . . you.”
“Yer welcome.” Emm straightens from sliding the pan into the large brick oven. “What I do?”
“Not you; Grace.” I glance around, but it’s as if the sour woman simply vanished into thin air. “She showed me how to get here, but now she’s . . . gone.”
“Aye, quick as death, that one, when she wants to be.” Emm wipes her hands on the apron around her waist. “I figure it’s because she’s out footing ’im.”
“Neat trick.”
There’s a faint sniffle of laughter from the table, then a shift in attempt to conceal it. I pretend not to notice, fighting the smile that wants to pull at my face as Adèle ducks her head once more.
“You should see the ones she does at parties.” Emm smiles and winks.
The tight feeling in my stomach from before eases a bit, though the confusion that replaces it is equally uncomfortable. This Emm, quick with a joke and a smile, seems so completely different from the cold and irascible woman who answered the door. What could be responsible for such a transformation?
I step farther into the kitchen. It’s warm here, and full of life, unlike the rest of Thornfield. I imagine it’s the same in Emm’s room, as with mine, and likely Adèle’s as well. Pockets of vitality dotted throughout Thornfield like islands spread across cold, unforgiving seas.
As I take up the ladle to stir what looks like stew, I’m hit with the briefest pang of regret. A memory bubbles up unbidden, of an afternoon spent on kitchen duty, poking fun at common enemies with another fetching face. I recall a smile. Sweet laughter. And a kiss behind the pantry door. It’s a pretty memory of a moment stolen long before I knew the value of it.
Shaking myself free of my own mind, I ladle helpings of stew into a bowl. I hope it tastes half as good as it smells.
Emm offers me a spoon, which I take with thanks, then she sets to filling her own bowl. “I want to apologize.”
“For?”
“For my less-than-pleasant manner when I greeted you earlier. I was in the middle of cooking and no one else bothered to answer the bloody door, so I admit I was a bit short. Uncalled for.”
Relief plays through me, and I fairly feel faint with it. I’d begun to fear I wouldn’t find a friendly soul within these walls. “Oh, I understand. No apologies necessary, really.”
“Maybe not, but I give them anyway.” She motions toward the table with a hunk of bread.
“I appreciate the gesture.” I take the offered loaf to slice and butter enough for the both of us and Adèle, who I’ve noticed stealing glances in my direction. “You can make it up to me by telling me just who else I can expect to run into here at Thornfield.”
Emm titters softly. “Well, I assume you’ve met Marsters, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. You’ve met Grace and my lovely self. All that’s left is Devin, the stable hand, though I doubt you’ll run into him lest you venture outdoors at some point. He tends to prefer the open sky to a roof.”
