JANE DEYRE: A Contemporary Retelling, page 10
My heart clangs with fear. Every sense is on high alert. I’m too scared to leave my room. I reach for the lamp on my night table and flip the switch, but the light doesn’t turn on. It was working before. Is the bulb out or is there a power outage? There’s only one way to find out. Hugging myself, I crawl out of the bed and pad over to the window. I fling the curtains apart. A gust of wind and spray of water assaults me. I didn’t check the window before I climbed into bed. I’m positive it was closed when I settled in earlier today. Did Grace come back here and open it? To air out the room? Or did someone pry it open? An intruder?
Except for the dimly lit Hollywood sign and streaks of lightning, all I see is blackness. Not a single light in sight. I slam the window shut, the action making me wince. Curse under my breath. I’ve exacerbated my tattered finger.
Leaving the curtains open, I stagger back to my bed. I don’t hear footsteps, but those rattling and banging sounds persist. I’m more and more convinced there’s someone in the house. A robber? A rapist? A serial killer? John Reed could be all three, if you count the number of birds he killed with his BB gun. Any way you look at it, given the number of times he assaulted me, he’s a sociopath.
Did he follow me here?
Paranoia clings to me like cold sweat. I need to protect myself. How? I run to the bedroom door. Thank God, the knob has a lock. I push the button. But, will it be enough? In all the TV shows and movies I’ve seen, the bad guy can kick the door down.
Maybe I should move the bureau in front of the door. A barricade. I make my way over to it. With both hands and a grunt, I attempt to push it away from the wall; it only moves a smidgeon. The clunky piece of wood furniture weighs a ton. And moving it across the carpet will be impossible. I give up. Impulsively, I yank my vision board off the wall and lean it against the door. I hurry back to my bed and grab the lamp, pulling the cord out of the socket, and fling it onto my bed. Then, manage to carry the night table to the door and place it against my board. As if that’s really going to help.
I sit back down on the edge of the mattress, now armed with what is my only weapon. The lamp. That and my guitar, which is by my feet.
I count the seconds. Waiting for footsteps. A turn of the knob.
He’s coming for me.
Like all the other times.
CHAPTER 20
Jane
I lift my head and blink my eyes open to the sound of a relentless pitter-patter.
I’m sitting upright against my headboard, and there’s a lamp dangling from my hand. My guitar is next to me.
My vision board and the night table are stacked against the door.
I massage the back of my achy neck. It takes me a few moments to get my bearings.
I’m at Thornhill. The famous estate of legendary actress Edwina Rochester.
The nanny of her godchild, Adele.
The events of last night come at me randomly.
Fainting after hammering my finger.
Sharing wine with Adele’s father, Ward Rochester.
Growing tipsy.
Discovering the locked room.
The storm.
The lightning, the thunder, the weird percussion sounds.
The fear.
They’re all gone now except for the pounding rain on the roof.
I survived the night.
There was no slasher.
No John Reed.
It must have all been my imagination.
Reality sets in.
I’m alive. I’m safe.
I have a job to do.
I need to get myself together.
After a quick shower, I get dressed. In my jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. And my Converse. I have nothing appropriate for the rain. Maybe I can find an umbrella. I search my bedroom, the small storage closet, and the living room. Nada.
I bet there’s one in that locked room, but that’s not going to help.
Grabbing my backpack, I venture outside and am immediately assaulted by the fierce drops of falling water. I pull my hood over my head and hold my canvas bag on top of it. My only protection from the rain.
I jog down the winding path to the main house, hoping I won’t trip on the slippery pebbles. And take a tumble. The rain is cold against my skin and comes with a wind that rouses the rosebushes into a frenzied dance. If I were wearing proper raingear, I might enjoy the freshness of the rain, the glow of the emerald lawn, and the spectacle of the roses. But the rain crashes over me so vehemently that it feels as though I’m in the throes of a river and am going to drown. My only goal is to seek shelter. To get to Thornhill as quickly as possible. It feels like an eternity, but at last the house is in my line of vision. Looking so much more foreboding engulfed in the dark, storming sky. As if it’s straight out of a gothic romance novel.
Dripping wet, I pound on the French doors that open onto the veranda. First with one fisted hand, then with both. So hard my knuckles hurt. A rivulet of red pours down my middle finger. All the banging has opened up my torn cuticle. The bandage having fallen off, it’s bleeding again, the blood seeping onto the cuff of my hoodie.
“Hello!” I yell at the top of my lungs. “Can someone open the door?”
With the pounding rain, I don’t think anyone hears me. I hurry around the side of the house to the front door. Pilote is surprisingly standing in front of it, as drenched as I am. He meows madly. The poor cat looks like he’s gone for a swim. Or is having a really bad hair day. Either way he’s a fright with his long white fur matted like spikes. Silently, I tell him to hang in there and jab the doorbell. Except it doesn’t ring. That’s because the damn power is still out. Shivering, I slam the old brass lion head knocker against the door as hard as I can. The brittle sound echoes in my ears. Hot tears begin to pour from my eyes and mingle with the cold raindrops. Why won’t someone answer? Come to the door?
A memory flares in my head. The Reeds made me take the garbage out. It was one of my many chores that should have been John Reed’s. But the bastard passed the buck to me. One time while I was outside, he locked all the doors. No matter how much I yelled, rang the bell, or banged on the doors, no one came. Mrs. Reed was passed out and Mr. Reed had the TV on so loud he didn’t hear me. I heard John cackle from his bedroom window. Call me a loser. A piece of garbage. Another one of his cruel pranks. I spent the night outside on the stoop, too afraid to go to sleep. Shivering. The howl of coyotes mingling with the wail of sirens. And pop of gunshots. The temperature dipping to almost freezing.
The chilling memory is cut short when from behind me, I feel two firm hands on my shoulders. With a start, I whirl around. Hovering above me is a tall, gorgeous man clad in all black like the Phantom—a fedora hat, a calf-length cape-coat, and tall shiny boots. Holding an enormous umbrella over his head. The black canopy is so wide it shields the two of us along with Pilote from the downpour.
Mr. Rochester!
“Jesus Christ, Jane! What in God’s name are you doing out here?”
My teeth are chattering so badly I can’t form words.
He gives the doorknob a forceful twist and shoves the door open. It was unlocked all this time! The cat dashes inside. Lowering his umbrella, Mr. Rochester ushers me across the threshold. He slams the door shut and throws the dripping wet umbrella into an ornate stand. The kind of thing rich people have in their homes.
Throwing his hat onto the console and wasting no time, he shrugs off his cape and puts it over my shoulders. Made for a man his size, it dwarfs me and hangs to the floor. Though it warms me, I’m still a sopping wet mess. Chilled and drenched to the bone. A puddle of rainwater gathers around me. Mixing with the mud from the soles of my soaked Converse. I hope I haven’t ruined the antique floor.
I can’t stop shivering. And hug myself. Mr. Rochester eyes my bleeding-again finger. The blood snaking down my wrist, it looks worse than it did last night. The name he gave me plays in my head. Calamity Jane. I’m more like a train wreck. I don’t know why he doesn’t fire my sorry ass right here and now.
Lumbered footsteps thud in my ears. I turn my head. It’s Grace Poole, dressed in her prim and proper maid’s uniform. I can almost hear her gasp when she sets her eyes on me. Soaking wet and bleeding, I’m a sight for sore eyes.
“Grace,” says Mr. Rochester, his tone urgent, “go get some towels to dry off Miss Deyre and to clean up the floor. And find a couple of Band-Aids. Please hurry.”
Before she can oblige, another set of footsteps reaches my ears. These a sharp, rapid click-clack.
Ms. Fairfax. Dressed in a stiff gray suit identical to the one she wore yesterday, she marches up to us. A fearful, uncertain look falls over Grace. The timid woman seems unsure if she should tend to Mr. Rochester’s orders or bend to her superior’s.
Mr. Rochester narrows his eyes at her. “Grace, what are you waiting for? Do as I’ve asked. Now!” His gruff, commanding voice is back in play. She scuttles off like a frightened mouse.
Ms. Fairfax stares at me. Something between a frown and a smirk crosses her lips. She snorts.
“Well, well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in!”
As if on cue, Pilote prances back into the grand entrance and meows. He circles around me, avoiding the dirty puddle of water.
“Actually, Ms. Fairfax, I found him outside and let him in.”
She makes a disgusted face. “Whatever. The mess you’ve made is unacceptable.”
Grace returns, holding a mug of piping hot tea, with two towels draped over her other arm. I gratefully take the tea from her and take a small sip. It tastes like chamomile, my favorite. Though it burns my mouth, it warms me as it goes down my throat. While I take another sip, she reaches into the pocket of her apron and retrieves the Band-Aids. Mr. Rochester plucks them from her and peels them open. He throws the wrappers into the umbrella stand.
“Give me your left hand,” he orders after Grace bends down to wipe the floor.
I do as he asks and he re-bandages my finger. The touch of his warm hand on my icy cold one sends a spark of electricity down my backbone.
I feel Ms. Fairfax’s contemptuous eyes on us. “Miss Deyre, in the future, please use the side door. It’s intended for servants.”
Her words sting me. My whole life I’ve wanted to be treated as a person, not a servant. A single tear rolls down my face. Then another.
Ms. Fairfax rolls her eyes. “Spare me the tears.”
Mr. Rochester fires a look back at her. “For your information, Miss Deyre is not a servant. She can use whatever the fuck door she wants.”
Ms. Fairfax’s jaw drops to the floor.
Another voice joins us before she can lash back.
“Pilote! There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”
Edwina. Decked out in a crushed velvet fuchsia caftan and matching turban. She scoops up the soaked cat in her arms. “My poor darling!”
My teeth no longer chattering, I tell her, “I found him outside.”
“Thank goodness! I wonder—how on earth did he escape?”
Ward pipes in. “He must have leaped out of the house when I went outside to check on the sump pump, which is fine, by the way.”
“That’s good to hear.” Her gaze returns to me. “Dear, why on earth are you wearing my godson’s cape? And why are you shaking?”
Mr. Rochester answers for me. “She got caught in the rain. She didn’t have an umbrella and is soaked to the bone.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I should have brought a change of clothing.”
Ms. Fairfax glares at me. “You should be sorry. Look at all the trouble you’ve caused.” She casts her eyes down at Grace, who’s still cleaning up the muddied floor. “Grace, please get a mop and bucket and clean this mess up properly.”
Grace staggers to her feet. Edwina holds her back by planting her hand on the housekeeper’s arm.
“No, Grace. Before you do that, I’d like you to show Jane to the guest bathroom and help her out of her wet clothes . . . before the poor girl catches pneumonia. Draw her a hot bath and fetch her one of my robes. And be sure to make her some more hot tea. Then have her meet me upstairs in my quarters so that she can get into some dry clothes while you launder hers.”
Grace nods with understanding and scurries off.
“B-but I should be taking care of Adele,” I stammer.
“Precisely,” bites out Ms. Fairfax, crossing her arms. “That’s what you’re being paid to do, not wasting time luxuriating in hot baths.” She glances down at her watch. “You’re already a half hour late, and I, for one, cannot be bothered by that child.”
Mr. Rochester looks at her coldly. “I’m sure my daughter won’t be a bother. She can occupy herself just fine.”
Without another word, Ms. Fairfax stomps off. Her lips pressed tight. Her hands clenched by her sides. Leaving behind a cloud of toxicity and hate.
CHAPTER 21
Jane
“Hello, dear. How are you feeling?” Edwina stands before her dresser mirror, adjusting her turban. “There’s nothing like a hot bath to take a chill away. Well, except for a hot toddy. Or a lovely shot of Cointreau. I’m sorry . . . I should have offered you some instead of that god-awful medicinal tea.”
“Please don’t apologize. The tea was so nice and the bath was wonderful.” The latter is an understatement, thinking back to my soak in the deep porcelain tub with its fragrant, rose petal–filled water. Relaxing, invigorating, warming every muscle of my body. I can’t remember the last time I had a bath. Well, at least like the one I just experienced. The baths I took when I was a child were far from relaxing; I dreaded them. The tubs lined with mold and other stains. The surface rough, cutting my flesh. Often I had to share it with two other kids. Other times, when I was older, wait for the younger ones to get done. So, when it was my turn, the water was always dirty. And there was no hot water left to refill it.
I tighten the belt of the floor-length cashmere robe she’s lent me. Cocooning me, its super-soft warmth against my skin feels delicious. I’ve never worn anything as luxurious before. Let alone touched the likes of it.
I take in Edwina’s expansive quarters. More of the same. A tasteful, bohemian blend of antiques, art, and travel mementos. Shiny, dark hardwood floors, the walls painted a deep burgundy, and a carved marble fireplace. I note on the mantel, there’s a tall urn in the center. Simple and elegant with a halo of golden roses around the rim. And the initials GW. I wonder what they stand for. Goodwill? I don’t think so.
My eyes swing to the majestic four-poster bed. The frame a dark rich wood, fit for royalty with its mountain of plump pillows and super-thick comforter. A gold-threaded coverlet is folded over it. I bet a king or queen once slept in this bed. Edwina Rochester belongs in it too. She’s, after all, Hollywood royalty. The stuff legends are made of.
Pilote is curled up in the center of the bed as if he owns it. Holding a mother-of-pearl brush, Edwina moves to the bed, lowering herself on the edge, and tends to his long white coat. The cat looks more gorgeous than ever. Like it could be entered into one of those “best in show” contests.
“Your timing is perfect, my dear,” she says. “I just finished bathing Pilote and blow drying his coat.” She lovingly gazes down at the feline. “My darling, be a good boy and wait for me here. I’m going to give Jane a little tour.”
She pushes herself off the bed. “Follow me, dear.” Silently, I trail her, eager to see more of her quarters. Of course, Pilote jumps off the bed, not wanting to be left behind. He accompanies us every step of the way. As if he wants to be my tour guide.
Our first stop: a chandelier-lit room with a mirrored vanity, dainty gold-leaf chair, and velvet settee. On top of the vanity there are crystal bowls overflowing with glittering jewels. And strewn on the surface are gold makeup cases and enameled brushes. It’s exactly how I’d imagine a big movie star’s dressing room to look. Straight out of a 1930s Preston Sturges movie. There’s also a single framed photo—a close-up of the blond woman I saw in the photo on the console downstairs. She’s mesmerizingly stunning. Her platinum hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders, her scarlet lips pouty and seductive, her azure eyes smoldering. She looks like a screen siren. I wonder who she is.
Edwina leads me away from the vanity to a door. She curls her fingers around the sparkling crystal knob and swings it open. I follow her into a walk-in closet twice the size of my bedroom.
I stand inside it in awe. My mouth agape. Taking in the rows of shimmering gowns that hang like jewels from padded hangers. Some enveloped in protective plastic. I spot the famous ruby-red gown—the one in the portrait—among them.
A melancholy expression washes over Edwina’s face as she takes stock of them and the jewel-toned shoes and bags swarming the built-in shelves. Perhaps a sad remembrance of things past. “I have no use for these gowns and accessories anymore. I’m donating a few to the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures and the rest will be auctioned off at my tribute. Raise money for my foundation.”
“Gone Baby, right?”
She cocks her head. “How did you know that, my dear?”
“Your godson mentioned it.”
She gives a small smile. “It’s a cause near and dear to me.”
Without elaborating, she leads me out of the closet to another room adjacent to her bedroom. The connecting door is partly open. I gasp at what I glimpse inside.
“Please, Jane, follow me.” She opens the door all the way and I do as she’s asked. Moving beside her, I stop and absorb the room.
Like the rest of the house, it’s frozen in time. Like out of a fairy tale. A sugarplum-pink and white vision. There’s a canopied crib, vintage rocker, and an armoire with hand-painted roses. My eyes gravitate to a matching bureau that’s filled with photos of a beautiful baby girl, many with a radiant younger Edwina.
