by Luccia Gray
He kicked open a heavy iron door and threw me inside. “Would you prefer to stay here?”
I glimpsed around the stone cell. Water trickled down the moss-covered walls, and muddy earth and straw covered the floor. There was a long wooden board fixed to a wall, which I supposed would be the bed. Shackles dangled above it. I wondered where the wind came from, as there was no window to be seen. I remembered Bertha’s windowless room where Annette, her unwanted baby, had inhaled her first breath.
He pulled me out of the room and pushed me back up the stairs. “I’ll give you another day to ponder on your future.”
When he returned, I had made my decision. I couldn’t bring myself to submit willingly. I preferred to live with a bruised body than with a broken soul.
The following day, a short scrawny man with jerking limbs caught me by my hair and kicked me into the dungeon. I was too weak and frightened to protest as he tied a belt around my waist with which I was secured to a chair. A woman I had never seen before, dressed in rags, cut my hair as she laughed hysterically. They ripped off my dress and covered me with a torn and filthy uniform, which must have been worn by someone else. Probably someone who had been fortunate enough to die and end her misery, as I was sure I would shortly.
When I refused to take the medicine or eat and they held me back and poured soup down my throat.
****
He’s coming back. I can hear him outside my cell. What does he want now? They’ve stripped me, cut my hair, hosed me with cold water, dressed me in a stiff, flannel sack which prickles my skin as if it were made of needles, and tied me with manacles to the bed. I won’t survive. I’m sure I’ll die here. Michael survived in the dungeon for almost three months. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, perhaps no more than two days, but I don’t think I can survive much longer, not after what happened yesterday.
I don’t even know why I’m here. Poole told me I had to pay for my sins, because I had wronged his family, but I had never seen him before. He’s a monster. I don’t want to think about what he tried to do to me, and the dreadful words he spat at me.
I keep thinking it’s a nightmare and that I’ll wake up soon, but I can’t wake up. I’ve been pulling my hands against the chains, until they are bruised, but every time I open my eyes, I’m back in this hell.
Michael, where are you? Help me. Speak to me.
“Jane, think about good things. Think about the plans we made on the ship on the way home from Jamaica.”
I closed my eyes.
“Think about the wonderful months we spent at Eyre Hall, while we planned out wedding and our life together.”
Yes, Michael, so many days and nights together.
“Think about our journey to London, William’s christening and the evening we went to hear Mr. Dickens read Oliver Twist.”
We had stayed at Brown’s Hotel, because we wanted privacy, in separate but adjoining rooms. It was a waste because we only used one, but Mr. Dickens advised us it was not wise to provoke a scandal.
Michael, speak to me, I begged and I heard his voice once again through the thick walls.
“Jane, remember Dante’s exhibition at the Royal Academy.”
Yes, darling, we bought some beautiful landscapes for our new wing at Eyre Hall.
I tried to remember the colours, but I could only see blackness.
Michael, keep talking to me. Don’t leave me.
“Jane, think about Helen, how happy and cheerful she is in her new rooms, and her plans to go to a finishing school and travel to France to learn French.”
Yes, Michael, I’m thinking about Helen and I’m so worried about her.
“Think about our trip to the theatre with Mr. Dickens and Miss Ternan.”
Yes, we had a wonderful evening, but Michael, where are you? They could have killed you. Is that why you haven’t come to take me away from this place? Is that why you are talking to me through these walls?”
Michael didn’t reply and I cried in desperation. The monster was coming back.
****
Poole tied a handkerchief over my mouth so that I could not bite him as I had done the first time he had tried to assault me. Yesterday I had pierced the dragon tattoo on his thigh with the butterfly hairpin Michael had asked me to wear. Blood had poured down his leg, but even so, he easily crushed me. That’s why my wrists were wrapped in iron hand-cuffs and my hands swollen and purple, as if they were ready to burst.
His brutality was devastating. I closed my eyes and tried to take my mind away from my wrecked body, but his tainted breath and groping hands reminded me that I was at his mercy.
He shouted at me with offensive insults and pushed me with his foot to rise up. “You are no more than an infested beast. Who will want you now that you have no beauty and no money? Where is your champion now? Your young lover has gone, probably looking for another rich widow to swindle.”
I never wanted Michael, or anyone else, to see me in this bottomless pit where I had fallen. I prayed for death to unlock the doors of this prison and free me from more degradation.
****
Chapter V – The Worst of Times
It was a raw and chill December morning when I was told to dress, dragged out of my warm and cosy bedroom, and taken to a hostile place. Cook cried in the kitchen as she watched me drink a glass of warm milk and eat some dry bread. “Be sure to do as you’re told, Helen, and pray for your mother to get well and collect you soon.”
“Where’s Mummy?” I asked.
“Come on,” said Fred. “You’re leaving.”
“Where’s Annette?”
I hadn’t seen Michael, Annette or my mother since the archbishop had arrived and locked me in my room, three days ago. The only person I had seen until this morning was a new maid, who had brought me my food, but refused to speak to me when I asked her who she was or where the others were.
“Stop asking questions. The carriage is ready. Move,” Fred said.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll soon find out.” He pushed me towards the door.
I kissed Cook goodbye and walked out to the drive. Joseph bid me good morning and said, “Poor child,” under his breath. It was dark and the moon was nowhere in sight. I spoke not a word in the carriage, avoiding Fred’s spiteful smirk. “You’re going to learn some manners, little Miss Hoity-Toity.”
Joseph drove for a long time and we eventually descended into a dark, wooded valley. The wind made wild noises as it blew amongst the trees and I wondered if I’d be abandoned in the forest and eaten by a wolf. Rain, wind and darkness filled the air as the carriage stopped outside a sturdy brick wall and an ornate iron gate.
A very tall woman with a sallow face and small beady black eyes greeted us at the entrance. “We’ll take her from here,” she said to Fred, whose fingers were ruthlessly clasping my upper arm.
I saw a young girl at her side. She looked older than me and wore a black stuff dress with a starched linen collar and carried a lantern. Her russet hair was combed away from her pretty face, and her large green eyes scrutinised my clothes curiously.
“Where do you think you’re going, wearing those extravagant clothes?” said the woman with a smirk.
I was wearing my new red coat and bonnet and red patent shoes. The archbishop had told me I was going somewhere special and that I should wear my Sunday clothes. I thought it best not to reply, so I looked down to the muddy ground.
“I can see why the archbishop says you have no manners. Look at me when I’m speaking to you and answer my question, Miss Rosset.”
Mrs. Rosset was the name of the woman who kidnapped me when I was a baby. Nobody called me by her surname any more. My mother and Michael had told me my real name and nobody was going to take it away from me. I looked up.
“My name is Helen Eyre Rochester.”
Joseph was holding the reins on the carriage. He looked at me and shook his head. “Follow orders, Miss Helen,” he called. “It’s for your own good.”
/>
Fred burst out laughing. “Mrs. Rochester is at Grimsby Retreat, and she has only one son. This little tramp, the daughter of a seamstress at Eyre Hall, is under the delusion that she is her daughter. You have your work cut out for you, madam.”
The woman raised her eyebrows and nodded at me, pursing her lips. “Miss Rosset, my name is Miss Heath. We’ll soon show you your place.”
“I suggest you keep a strict eye on her,” said Fred, nodding towards me. “She has a tendency to deceit.”
“Deceit is, indeed, a grave fault in a child so young,’ said Miss Heath. “Liars will be purged in the lake, burning with fire and brimstone.”
“She’s all yours to purge,” said Fred with a smile, as he dropped my trunk on the floor and left.
“Pick up your case Miss Rosset. You have no servants here, and you will have no use for the clothes in your trunk.”
My teeth chattered and tears welled as I struggled to repress a sob. I couldn’t lift the heavy trunk, so I pulled it along the muddy floor, as I looked down at my soiled shoes and stockings. Mummy would be so upset if she saw me crying. I wiped my tears and looked up to the imposing, old grey building with its latticed windows. I shivered. A stone tablet over the door bore the inscription, Lowood Orphan Asylum.
Inside the house, I was led along various silent passages until I heard the hum of quiet voices and we came to a large room with long tables and candles and benches on either side. There were dozens of girls, of all ages, a few younger than me, but most were older, all wearing the same brown stuff frocks and long pinafores. They were having breakfast, which looked like porridge.
Miss Heath turned to the girl who had held the lantern as we walked along the path and was now standing beside me. “Miss McKenzie, show Miss Rosset to her room and make sure she knows the rules.”
I dragged my heavy trunk up the stairs and the girl spoke for the first time. “Let me help you.”
“I can manage,” I answered stubbornly.
“Please let me help you, Helen,” she said softly.
I put the trunk down, swiped away my tears with my sleeve, looking firmly at the wooden floorboards.
“I’ll pull the handle and you stand behind me and lift the back.”
I did as she asked. When we reached the top of the stairs, we dropped the trunk on the floor with a thump.
“My name’s Catherine,” she said.
“Thank you, Catherine.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome.” She had a sprinkling of freckles over her nose, rosy cheeks and dimples.
I followed her into the bedroom, which had long rows of beds on either side. There were two lamps and two washbasins on two wooden stands, one for each row of beds. It was a bitterly cold room with small windows so high on the wall it would be impossible to see the stars at night.
She pointed to the end of the row. “That’s your bed. Put your uniform on and your clothes in the trunk. I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.” I looked at the long grey pinafore and sighed.
I didn’t know why I was in an orphanage, where my mother and Michael were, or what was happening at Eyre Hall, but I did know I had to fit into this ominous place and survive until Michael rescued me again.
Catherine was waiting for me downstairs in the hall. “You’re one of us now,” she said and I shivered.
She smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s not that bad here, but you’ll have to get used to it and follow the rules. Every morning we are woken by a bell before dawn. We have to get up at once, get dressed and line up to wash. Then we go downstairs for prayers, which Miss Heath reads every day before breakfast.” She waited for me to say something, but I just nodded.
“Breakfast is porridge. Sometimes it’s lumpy, sometimes it’s cold, other times it’s warm and smooth. It doesn’t matter. You have to eat it every day, otherwise you’ll get ill, and the gruel can be horrible, but the doctor’s medicine is much worse.” She waited again and I nodded.
“After breakfast, we clear the bowls and spoons, sweep the floor and rearrange the tables, and the dining room becomes the schoolroom.” She paused. “I suppose you can read and write well enough?” I nodded once more.
“How old are you, Helen?”
“Eleven,” I whispered.
“Second table on the left.” She pointed to a long table, where ten silent girls sat, then to another table in the corner. “I’m fourteen, so I sit over there.”
Three teachers came into the room; each sat at a different table. I soon learned that each one taught a different subject. Mrs. Watts, who was tall, slim and sullen, wore a scarf and a pair of gloves while she taught geography. Miss Norton, who was shorter, stouter, and quick to use the ruler on our knuckles, taught us history. The nicest was Miss James who taught grammar and spelling with a patient smile and soft voice.
We stopped lessons when the clock struck twelve and rearranged the tables for lunch, which was usually bread, stew and an apple. After lunch, we put on our coats and hats and were allowed some fresh air in the garden.
The garden was a wide expanse with broad walks surrounded by high walls. There was a space in one corner assigned for pupils to cultivate. There were no flowers when I arrived, but a few months later, the flowers began to bloom and it was a pretty sight. Some of the girls liked to walk around briskly or engage in active games such as catch or hopscotch, while others sat on the benches playing twenty questions.
Catherine was one of the prefects, so she was usually busy during the breaks, making sure there were no fights. At first, I spoke to no one, and nobody seemed interested in talking to me, which was a relief because I preferred to sit on my own.
“Why don’t you play with the other girls?” asked Catherine one day while I was sitting on the steps by the pond.
“I don’t want to talk to anyone, thank you.”
She sat beside me. “Who are you missing?”
“My mother and Michael. I don’t know where they are.”
“Is Michael your brother?”
“My father died. Michael is my mother’s betrothed.”
“Have you got any brothers or sisters?”
“I have an older brother who hates me, but I want to go home with my mummy.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll go home eventually if you have a mother.” Catherine was quiet. I watched her smile fade as she looked into the still water.
“And you?” I asked her.
“My mother died and my father remarried. That’s why I was sent here. I’ll never go back home.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll stay here and be a teacher. I’d like to be married one day and have children and a house of my own.” She smiled as if she were sure she would be happy.
“What do you do when you’re sad, Catherine?”
“I write poems and stories about animals and I draw pictures. They’re like picture books for children.”
“What kind of animals?”
“I’ve written about the hairy hippopotamus, the greedy giraffe, or the angry ant, for example.”
“You write fables?”
“Well, they’re like fables because the animals have a problem and someone helps them, or they find a solution or a moral in the event, but unlike fables, they always have a happy ending, and there’s a bit of nonsense.”
“Nonsense?”
“Yes, you know like hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle…” We both laughed and sang the song.
“Look, I’ve got some pictures of the angry ant here.” She took out a little pocket book with illustrations of the ant in the jungle hiding from a lion, up a tree avoiding a snake, and in a storm on a whale’s back. They were beautiful drawings with humorous captions.
“What happens to the ant in the end?”
“I haven’t finished the story yet, but the ant will survive. There’s always a happy ending after a long struggle.”
She showed me all her nonsense rhymes and pictures and we made up lots of other stories together. Catherine made
my stay less miserable and even happy at times. I knew she would be the only person I would miss when I left. I hoped she would be my friend for life. I was sure my mother would love Catherine and her fascinating storybooks.
In the afternoons, after our lunch break, Miss Brook taught arithmetic, Miss Norton returned to teach us music, and Miss Watts taught us drawing. After supper, which was usually soup or cheese and oaten bread, we were allowed an hour to read, do some schoolwork, or write letters in the schoolroom. Finally, we were assembled for prayers again before bedtime, which was at eight o’clock.
Miss Heath was the headmistress. I soon learnt that all the girls were terrified of her. I was relieved that she didn’t teach us lessons. She led the prayers every morning and lectured at our weekly assembly. Catherine had warned me to keep out of her way and make sure I was never in trouble. I agreed to be called Miss Rosset and learned to lower my head and curtsey every time I saw Miss Heath. It worked, because she seemed to ignore me. Much later, I learned that Annette had given her some of my mother’s jewellery in exchange for treating me kindly. She was never kind, but at least she didn’t pick on me.
I enjoyed the lessons because they kept my mind busy. I followed Catherine’s instructions and learned not to complain and to work hard, so I was always the first to finish the exercises and raise my hand to answer the teachers’ questions.
I hated the nights, and usually cried myself to sleep because I missed my mother, Michael, Annette, and everyone and everything at Eyre Hall.
Annette visited me for the first time on Christmas Day, with Harry. She told me that Mummy and Michael hadn’t abandoned me. They had been taken to a boarding school like me, against their wishes, so they couldn’t visit me, at the moment. I knew they couldn’t be at a boarding school, so I imagined they were confined. Annette gave me a Christmas present. It was a beautiful porcelain doll, with green eyes and curly auburn hair like my mother. “Whenever you’re sad, hug the doll and remember Mummy loves you more than anyone, and she’ll come back for you as soon as she can.”
I loved my mother more than I loved anyone in the whole world, but I knew full well that Mummy loved Michael more than she loved me. I didn’t mind, because I knew that one day I’d love someone the way she loved Michael, and she wouldn’t mind if I loved him more than her.