by Amity Cross
I suppose things were going well for them, in the romantic sense. They were glued together at the hip—and I assumed in other ways also—and spent a great deal of time together, whispering and smiling.
Smiling.
I’d never seen such a carefree look pass across his features, and so the jealousy and rejection grew inside me, tangling around my heart like the roses that clung to the facade of Thornfield, cracking the mortar under their oppressive nature. The vines of my anguish strangled me until I was nothing but blackness in a sea of color. The waters crashed around me, pulling me down into its depths, and I went on with my duties as if they were a punishment.
I was drowning, and nobody saw me struggle.
But at least I had macaroons to soften the blow.
“Isn’t it just beautiful, Jane?”
Alice clapped her hands together as we stood at the top of the stone stairs looking down over Thornfield’s rear garden.
The sun was bright in the sky, its heat blistering on my pale shoulders, and not a trace of cloud broke up the vast blue that stretched along the horizon. The garden was awash with color—blue, yellow, red, and white—the grass a rich emerald green, and upon it sat jewels that sparkled even more now that daylight was showering down upon them.
All morning we’d toiled setting up the afternoon party that now sat upon the lawn. Ten tables with white linens, fine bone china, silver cutlery, and elegant centerpieces were arranged just so, the food and cocktails perfect in their construction. Sandwiches, fresh fruits, and pastries sat in generous helpings atop each table while waiters moved to and fro from the bar, delivering drinks to the guests.
It was decadent, as were the people feasting upon our handiwork. Diamonds set in gold, each one of them, but the many facets of a diamond shone differently depending on the light, impurities and all.
It was a page out of one of the novels I’d been devouring, The Great Gatsby, and the only thing missing was a sparkling champagne fountain.
Blanche sat apart from the main bulk of the group at a private little table with Mr. Rochester. They were sipping on champagne, ignoring the plates of fresh strawberries and sandwiches in front of them. They were talking earnestly about something, and their closeness drove a hot needle into my heart, just precisely enough to cause the most amount of pain.
Having suffered through many harsh realities from an early age, unrequited love was not something I was accustomed to. I was content with my solitary existence, for it kept the wolf from my door and my walls intact. It was what I wanted to return to, was it not?
Mr. Rochester leaned close and whispered something into Blanche’s ear, and she laughed loudly, placing her delicate hand over her mouth.
“Rocky!” she cried, swatting him when she’d recovered enough. “You’re positively wicked!”
Despite my resolve to put him out of my heart and mind, I wondered if he kissed her like he’d kissed me. With passionate longing. Had I imagined it? It felt like a specter in my memory the more time and space was placed between that night and my current position.
Perhaps he kissed her with a larger helping of passion since their match was more acceptable. At least I was sure he wouldn’t stop just as things were progressing and would take it all the way to his bedroom. My stomach twisted, and I felt a wave of nausea at the thought.
“I suppose they’ll announce their engagement soon,” Alice said dreamily.
No doubt she was imagining the wedding would take place on the back lawn before summer was over. Archways of red roses, rows of chairs with ribbons and sashes, a fine red carpet for Queen Bee to walk upon in her immaculate white dress, a thousand guests in fine suits and dresses, a twenty-piece string orchestra, and a ten-tiered wedding cake dusted with gold and Swiss chocolate.
“She has connections, wealth, and strong family ties with the Rochester family,” she went on. “And just look at them! Aren’t they perfect together?”
I didn’t answer her question, knowing anything I said would taste like razor blades.
I could just leave, I thought. If the sight of them is causing me so much pain, I could tender my resignation and find a new position far away from here.
But what would that achieve? I’d spent so much time and effort on the hotel, regardless of any praise I might have hoped to receive from Mr. Rochester. I couldn’t throw it all way.
Turning my attention back to Blanche, I disregarded the master of Thornfield and mulled over what I knew about her. I’d been privy to her whims as a member of the staff and had observed her in her natural habitat.
She was very showy, using her beauty and fine taste to set herself apart as Queen Bee of the pack, but she was not very genuine. She spoke about her dear friends like they were desperate hangers-on when their backs were turned, she belittled the staff, treating them like second-class citizens, and I had not once heard her pay a compliment which was not for her own benefit.
Her mind was poor, her heart cold, and she was not original in the slightest. With the way she pranced about, I wondered if a free thought had appeared in her mind at all. She repeated phrases and opinions like a parrot but had never once formed a complete judgment on any topic that was entirely her own.
No wonder Mr. Rochester was as unhappy as he seemed the night I first met him if this was the caliber of people he surrounded himself with. Perhaps it was arrogant of me to judge Blanche so harshly, but she hadn’t granted me any concessions in the slightest.
What goes around comes around, or so they say.
Turning away from the party, I took a step toward the house, but Alice called out to me, halting my stride.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To the office,” I replied, facing her. “I have work to do.”
She cast an inquisitive eye over me. “Are you feeling okay? You look a little pale.”
“The sun and my pale skin are at odds, I fear,” I lied. “I dare not stay out too long. Besides, while I have a spare moment, I have some work to complete on the retreat.”
“Good thinking,” she said, not picking up on my heartsickness. “Go while you have a moment to breathe!”
Knowing Alice loved to watch these fancy parties unfold and hear the gossip about who was on the outs with whom, I left her to gaze longingly at the finery and escaped into the office where I was at peace once more.
The guests were only staying for another fortnight, and then they would disperse and go their separate ways until summer came around again. Perhaps next year, they’d spend the entirety of their downtime in Morocco or Spain. Even Greece was a favorite with the rich and famous.
Once he was rid of them, I figured Mr. Rochester would go back to Europe—or wherever he spent his time tending to his business affairs—with Blanche on his arm and an impending wedding to plan. Then I would be left in blessed peace!
As you know, reader, it was a blow every time I saw them together, but if they were gone, then I could begin the rebuilding of my heart and the walls that housed it.
Please let them be married elsewhere.
“Jane, there you are.”
I glanced up from my work and trembled at the sight of Mr. Rochester, the sound of my name on his tongue reviving old wounds. He was addressing me?
He brought the sweet scent of summer with him, and I raised my eyes as I drew in a breath. I studied the lines of his chest through the white fabric of his shirt before turning away.
“Am I needed, sir?” I asked formally.
“I needed a reprieve,” he admitted, lingering in the doorway.
I didn’t reply, not that I knew what he wanted to hear, anyway.
He looked over his shoulder into the gallery before moving into the room. “May I ask you a question, Jane?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, not willing to deny my employer.
“I would ask your opinion of Blanche.”
He may as well have slapped me around the face. I hid my hands underneath my legs as they began to tremble violentl
y. If I had the nerve, I would scold him with all the vulgar worlds I could think of and throw his fickle attentions right back at him the way he’d thrown mine.
“Why would my opinion matter?” I managed to ask.
“I see your disdain, Jane. You are not so clever in hiding it. Not from me.” He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “I would have you tell me. Only you would dare say what I do not wish to see.”
I ground my teeth together, turning away from him. “I have no opinion to impart on you, sir.”
“Jane.”
His tone was clear. He knew how to control my movements and loosen my tongue. He knew I was helpless under the will of his strength. How dare he assert his command over me! If it was my opinion he wished to hear, then hear it he would.
Steeling my nerves, I glanced up at him and declared, “She is false.” It was the nicest and least offensive thing I could think of saying.
Mr. Rochester’s lips pulled up at the side, a cunning smile overtaking his usual gloomy expression. I had no idea what it meant, which was nothing new at all. Had I told him exactly what he wished to hear or what he expected me to say? What was the use of it if he already presumed to know all the thoughts and opinions in my head? I had neither the confidence nor conviction to ask him, and he didn’t offer.
And then just as abruptly as he appeared, he left me.
13
As the first week passed and the second began, Thornfield and its staff fell into a well-oiled rhythm.
The guests went about their holiday, just as demanding as always. They delighted in outdoor activities and traditional English life that harkened back to the Victorian era—not the provincial lifestyle but the pursuits of the nobility. Hunting, walking, playing games of badminton on the lawn, sitting for fancy portraits or the modern instances of photography, sunbathing, swimming, and reading on tablets in the sunshine.
Even when the weather changed and rain set in for days, no one seemed disappointed. Everyone moved indoors, much to Alice’s distress, and their activities became livelier because of it. Cocktail parties, movie nights, billiards tournaments, and high-roller card games, all played among a plume of cigar smoke from the men.
Even though I disliked most of the guests for their haughty view of the world, it was not my place to voice it but to do my job and make them happy. I served their orders on a silver platter and organized their whims and fancies with no complaint even though my patience was wearing thin under the surface. They’d be gone soon enough, and things would return to their usual pace with enough time to recuperate for the artist retreat in autumn.
Among all of this sat Mr. Rochester. I found myself studying him most of all when no one was looking, such was his presence to me. He was with them—betting the most money on the latest game of poker and winning it all back tenfold—but he was apart. I wasn’t sure how to describe the feeling that overcame me when I was beckoned close, only to fetch another drink or provide some information to settle whatever argument he was having at that precise moment. I watched him and thought I could unravel the meaning behind his actions.
One thing I’d fast learned was when one fell for another, it was nigh on impossible to un-fall and find your own two feet. I had lost my control over my disposition toward Mr. Rochester a long time ago.
I stood to one side of the sitting room, watching the rich amuse themselves, a silver tray in my hand. When I was beckoned, I circled the room and gathered empty glasses until it was full. I had nothing else that warranted my attention, so I was tasked with waitressing. For some reason, they felt larger when someone of importance among the staff cared for their whims. An on point person to direct all their grievances to, and today it was my turn.
Once my tray was full, I slipped into the dining room. The air was clearer out here, the weight of my desire waning the further I removed myself from his presence.
Turning to close the door behind me, I was startled to find Blanche Ingram glaring at me through the opening. She stepped forward, forcing me to retreat backward.
I could see the look of annoyance in her blue eyes, and I began to quake as she directed it upon me. With a flourish, she closed the door. Then we were alone, away from prying eyes and ears.
She had something to say, that much was clear, and I was going to hear it whether I wanted to or not.
“What is your game?” she demanded. “Do you think you’re so important that you can love that which is mine?”
I blinked, not knowing what else to do. I was shocked into a stupor. She thought I was going to attempt to steal Mr. Rochester from under her nose? What an absurd notion! I only wanted love if it was freely given because anything less was not worth the pain, which was probably why I kept my suffering in silence, willing my attraction to disappear.
“You think I cannot see the way you look at him?” Blanche asked, her lip curling. “It’s detestable!”
I kept my lips closed, and her perfect face contorted in annoyance. She was looking for a fight, which would give her ammunition to use in defaming me with Mr. Rochester. Either she was insecure in her standing with him or she simply delighted in tormenting those who were deemed easy targets in her eyes. It didn’t matter which was true. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction at all.
When I didn’t reply, she gave her own account of my person. “You have no confidence, and you’re ordinary looking at best.” She reached out and lifted a strand of my wild, brown hair, and curled her nose. “Do you own a hairbrush, or do you like looking like that?”
There was nothing wrong with my hair at all. It was wavy and long and saw a brush every morning and night. I just didn’t spend an hour each morning taming it with a straightening iron, sprays, and creams when I had work to attend. There was no crime being committed.
Now if my occupation were gold digging the young and wealthy, then I suppose I’d douse myself in sweet-smelling tonics.
“What are your accomplishments?” she demanded.
I frowned. “My accomplishments?”
“What can you offer him?” She rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue in annoyance. “A man like Edward needs more than just a woman.”
I thought love was enough, but obviously it wasn’t. Not in this world.
“Do you really think he would look at someone like you and prevail himself to marry? You are nothing.” Blanche laughed and shook her head, her black curls bouncing up and down with the movement. “Oh, darling. You’re a train wreck.” Her gaze dropped to the tray in my hands, and she smiled to herself. Moving closer, she raised her hand and deliberately knocked it from my grasp, the silver crashing to the floor. The sound of glass breaking echoed through the dining room, and her lips curved into a fake look of surprise. “Oops! You’d better clean that up. You servants are so clumsy. I think I shall have a word with your employer about this.”
I narrowed my eyes but didn’t fall for her line. She was fake, vindictive, and just plain mean. She didn’t deserve Mr. Rochester’s hand or anybody’s for that matter.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, once she had finished proclaiming her judgment. “I have duties to attend to.” I glanced at the floor, then back to her, my expression smooth and clear of the tears I knew would burst forth the moment I was alone.
Her mouth fell open in surprise as I turned away. Not biting when she poked was a small victory, but underneath my mask, I was a wreck. What I wouldn’t do to show her how I really felt about her petty attack, but what would it solve? I would be turned out of Thornfield—alone and adrift once more—so there was nothing to gain but a momentary feeling of victory that would soon fade.
I knew an empty fight when I saw one, so I turned my back and went into the kitchen to search for a cloth and dustpan, my nerves on edge. I shied away from confrontation on the best of days, and I’d usually feel sick after an event like that, and I’d expect it, but this felt much worse.
My feelings, which I thought I’d kept under tight control, were on show f
or all to see. Blanche Ingram knew of my secret love, and the thought made me sick with worry. Queen Bee herself would go straight to Mr. Rochester, and how they’d laugh.
“What was that noise?” one of the maids asked as I entered the kitchen totally flummoxed.
“I dropped a tray,” I explained as I began haphazardly opening drawers looking for something to clean up the mess with. Finally, I found a new packet of dishcloths, and I ripped open the bag, my hands shaking.
“You dropped a tray?” she inquired, looking confused.
My head cleared enough that I recognized Bessie before me.
“I dropped a tray,” I said, air-quoting and rolling my eyes.
“I see,” she said thinly, gesturing for the cloth. “Let me handle that. You go and get some fresh air.”
“It’s fine,” I said thinly. “I can do it.”
It was fine. Blanche had told me nothing I didn’t already know. Poor little plain Jane Doe.
Bessie didn’t want to hear my excuses, so I acquiesced as she forced the cloth from my hands. “Don’t let that piece of work get you down, Jane. We’re all in this together. Take a break, and I’ll cover for you.”
My shoulders sank, and I nodded. “Thank you, Bessie.”
“Here.” She fished around in her apron pocket and pulled out a little bottle of brown spirits. With a good-natured wink, she forced it into my hand. “Get that into you.”
With that, I was ushered out the back door and into the wild outdoors beyond. Crossing the graveled driveway, I lingered in the garden, working my way around the rear of the house. Everyone was inside, so I was left well enough alone, my footsteps quiet on the path through the manicured flowerbeds.