by Amity Cross
“He’s going to marry Blanche Ingram, Alice,” I exclaimed. “The only reason he came back was because he feels some kind of remorse. He made no attempt to reconcile.”
“But…”
“There’s no going back,” I said, sinking back in my chair. “There’s only forward.”
“I wished so hard for it,” she whispered.
“He’s promised himself to another. I must respect it and myself. To cry and claim I hated him would be empty and nothing but a lie. One can love with their whole heart, Alice, and even then, it mightn’t be enough.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, and this time, I was open to hearing the sincerity of her words. Her intent had been noble but misplaced.
Hate, love, desire. What was so different about those feelings? In my current situation, they all seemed to be the same, all mixed together to make one blur of intense feeling I could scarcely contain within my walls. Should I love, hate, or desire Edward? I was composed of all of these things.
Staring blankly at the computer screen before me, my mind wandered. To where, I was uncertain, but something had triggered a vision, which appeared to me as clear as I saw Alice sitting beside me, her face ashen with remorse.
I could see myself at Gateshead, nothing but a small child, hiding in the window seat with a hardcover book squished again my chest. Jane Austin’s Pride & Prejudice.
“Jane! Where are you?”
Glad I’d drawn the curtain closed, I hoped my cousin John didn’t find my hiding spot. I could hear the delight in the chase twisted in his voice, and if he came upon me, I would be set upon. Clutching the book tighter against my chest, I held my breath and listened.
I was eight, and he was thirteen, and he had considerably more strength in his arm than mine, though he was overweight and ugly. He was a vapid human being, a bully in all senses of the word. Poisoned and coddled from a young age, he could do no wrong even when he was the cause of violence. Violence he delighted in to the point it became disturbing.
He punished me every chance he got, and every nerve in my body feared him. I’d already lost count of the ways he’d tormented me so frequent and varied were his ministrations. I’d been locked in closets, tied to trees outside, slapped, punched, and bitten. He even turned me in to Aunt Sarah for crimes I did not commit. John punished me through his mother and came out the other end shining like polished gold. She never saw him strike me, and for all intents and purposes, he was innocent as they came.
John’s footsteps were muffled on the carpet, so I couldn’t hear his approach, though I knew he was in the room. I was much too young to understand or believe in God, but I prayed nonetheless.
Without warning, the curtain swept back, and John stood over me with a look of triumph on his pudgy face.
“Ah-ha!” he cried. “What are you doing behind the curtain?”
“Reading.”
“Show me the book.”
I clutched it tighter, but this only served to enlighten him to my treasure. Snatching it from me, he lifted it high into the air and brought it down on my temple. The spine cracked against my skull, the force of the blow knocking my head back into the wall beside me.
He laughed mercilessly as I blinked, my thoughts scrambled. Feeling a warm trickle on my forehead, I lifted my hand and wiped, my fingers coming back red with blood.
“You have no right to take our books,” he declared. “You have no money, no say, and no permission. Mother says you should have been left on the street to beg like the dog your father was, not living here in our house stealing our food and sleeping in our bed! It’ll all be mine one day, and I’ll make sure you’re sent back to where you belong. You are a sneak, hiding behind curtains. A common thief!”
His words were not new to me, though, after a lifetime of hearing them, I had reached my limit all at once, and I lost control of my faculties. My head hurt, my heart ached, and I could suffer his oppression no more.
“You… You are wicked and cruel!” I exclaimed, my tiny fists shaking. “Bully!”
“What?” John asked, his eyeballs bulging. “What did you say to me?”
“You’re a pig!” I screeched.
He ran at me, his hands grasping my hair and my shoulder, and with a cry, he shoved me into the wall. I was sure I’d never forget the look in his eyes the moment I finally had enough strength to stand up to him. He had the wild look of a tyrant, a murderer, a violent sociopath, and it was terrifying to me.
I felt a few drops of blood from the cut on my temple drip down my neck and was somewhat aware of pain tearing through my scalp, but they were dulled by the fear I now felt. At first, I didn’t know what I did with my hands, but I became free of his grasp, all the while he called me horrible names, which should never be repeated.
In a fit of pure passion, I raised my little fist and punched with all the strength I could muster. My knuckles connected with John’s face, and a look of shock overcame him as he stumbled back. I hardly felt the pain of the blow as I watched tears well in his eyes. I only felt elation. Blood began pouring from his nose, and my chest swelled in triumph. For the first time in my life, I had bested John Reed, but it would be a short-lived victory.
“Mother!” he yelled, running from the room like the little weasel he was. “Mother!”
Aunt Sarah emerged and came upon the scene, followed by the maid and John himself.
She took one look at me, her expression pure thunder, and exclaimed, “Dear God! The monster!” She gestured to the maid. “Take her to the closet, and lock her inside at once! I cannot have a beast roaming free in my home!”
The woman grasped my shoulders, fisting her hand into the back of my jumper, and dragged me from the room. Aunt Sarah followed close behind, jangling the keys she kept in her dress pocket, and John brought up the rear, a smirk on triumph on his pudgy face.
I resisted all the way, which was a new thing for me, and the maid had a hell of a time trying to keep me under control.
“All I ever wanted was to be loved!” I cried as I was dragged through the house. “I tried so hard to be nice, to do what you say, and still, I am punished! He attacked me for fun! He always does! He deserved worse!”
“You deceitful little child!” Aunt Sarah bellowed.
“I am not! If I were a liar, I would say I loved you! I dislike you the worst of all, except for John! You have hated me from the first!”
“Shut up, you ungrateful child, lest I beat you before locking you in the closet!”
“You think I have no feelings, that I can do without one bit of love or kindness, but I can’t!”
“Lock her inside this instant,” Aunt Sarah instructed the maid, her cheeks red with rage.
“No!” I screeched as I beheld the maw of the open closet. “Let me go!”
I was shoved into the small space, my back colliding with the wall behind me. I was a mess of arms and legs and couldn’t right myself in time to force my way out. The door slammed closed, and darkness enveloped me, total in its blackness. The key turned in the lock, and still, I beat against the solid wood, working myself up into a frenzy. I beat so hard and for so long I passed out from exhaustion, my throat raw and my head throbbing.
The next thing I remembered was a sudden burst of light and hands dragging me from my prison, only to deliver me to another.
Children can feel, that is sure, but they can’t discern their feelings and make sense of them. I hated Aunt Sarah and my cousin John more than I’d ever had at that moment. I hated without remorse, and it wasn’t until I’d grown and learned about suffering and forgiveness that my contempt faded.
To move forward, one had to make peace with their past, no matter how terrifying it had been. It was a circumstance I was facing in my life for not the first or second time but the third.
They said the third time was the charm…
“Jane?” I heard a voice echo from faraway, pulling me back from my vision. “Jane, are you okay?”
I blinked once, wettin
g my tired eyes, then furiously as I came back to myself. Alice was still sitting beside me, her expression one of concern.
“Where did you go just then?” she asked.
“Nowhere,” I replied, turning back to the computer. “Just a daydream.”
“Some dream,” she muttered in reply, but I was too unsettled to explain further.
If magic were real, then Thornfield was alive with it. I was constantly having visions of my past as if the old house never wanted me to be free of the events that had shaped my quiet and hard exterior. Perhaps it had something to teach me, or it was just taunting. Either way, I had no choice but to watch and listen.
Perhaps I was succumbing to the same curse that had befallen Edward Rochester, the man I could not shake—or stop hoping would come back to me—despite my best efforts.
It was the curse of complete and utter madness.
9
Edward was back in residence at Thornfield fully now.
How long was I going to stay considering the impending nuptials? Not long, that was for sure, but where would I go? That was still unknown.
Looking for new employment seemed furthest from my mind as I whiled away the days in the hotel’s reception. I searched half-heartedly for job listings, something inside me blocking my earlier desire to escape as fast as I was able. I hadn’t expected to see Edward again, and when I did, I found myself holding onto the things I’d felt while we were embroiled in our secret affair.
Was it a vain attempt at hope? Reality was a different beast to the fictional worlds of the books I devoured. The author was master of all the characters’ destinies, but here, things rarely went the way one wanted them to. My hopes were futile, but I still held onto them.
I hadn’t seen him since that night in the library. I knew he’d been prowling the halls of Thornfield, but I’d been careful not to let our paths cross. I’d developed a longing and a fantasy that his heart would change, and he’d surrender to me. Even though I knew it was foolish, I allowed myself to wallow in hope even when I knew there wasn’t any.
A few days after we’d argued in the library, he’d gone to London and left word he wouldn’t be back for some time. I assumed he’d departed to conduct some business and to make preparations for the wedding. It was the talk of the hotel, and the staff walked around on eggshells whenever I was present, afraid I would fall apart at any given moment, though they didn’t have to make concessions. I was beyond my breaking point, and the only thing left for me to do was to come to terms with my circumstances.
Edward chose Blanche, and I had to move on.
I continued to dream of Queen Bee and her contempt, tossing and turning in my bed until the morning hours, visions of her turning me out and closing the gates of Thornfield in my face taunting me at every turn. It was only natural I dwelled on the thought of their intimacy, and jealousy overcame me. To think he took pleasure in her body as he did mine! I didn’t like the feeling it sent through my heart, and I attempted to close myself off to all thoughts of him in a vapid human being like her.
I took to sitting on the outer fence of the manor grounds, my legs dangling over the edge and my boots tapping against the bluestone as I watched the village and the lane with its border of hedges and fences cutting through the moor. From my perch, I would take quite a tumble if I fell, but I liked the feeling of being up high and viewing the world.
Every so often, a car or a small lorry would pass, whooshing by in a gust of wind, and still, I sat. I scarcely knew what I was waiting for, and perhaps deep down I was waiting for the return of a certain brooding gentleman, but I couldn’t tear myself away from my roost. Ah, to look upon his face once more without the oppressive presence of his wife to be.
Be with him while you may, for before long, Blanche Ingram will descend upon Thornfield as his wife—in a few days or weeks—and then you shall be parted from him forever.
Cradling my book in my lap, I flipped through the pages, idly studying the blank lines. The artist retreat had kindled something inside me, something I wasn’t sure of, but my will to try to master my words had fallen upon me, bestowing a great desire to be heard. I was fairly sure it was called inspiration, but distraction had taken root in my heart, and I hadn’t picked up a notebook and pen until now.
What should I write? Anything, I suppose, but anything was awfully intimidating. Glancing up at the sky, I watched a lone bird wheeling and soaring, its wings rising and dipping with the wind. Soon, it would depart the moor for warmer climates, and I hoped I would, too.
The sound of an engine began to hum at the edges of my hearing, and I turned toward the source of the sound. All at once, I remembered the dark lane, a patch of black ice on the road, and a certain brooding gentleman falling from his motorcycle. Shivering, I discarded the vision and listened to the approaching vehicle as it wound its way down the lane from the village.
It was hidden for some time among the hedges and hills, the sound bouncing off the rocks around me. The moor had a strange way about it in these parts. Sometimes, noises from the village would carry for miles, and one would hear them as if they were standing in the center of town—an announcement from the train station, a car horn, a slamming door, the rumble of the motorway, which sat beyond the horizon. It was a strange and magical place despite its bleak appearance, so it was no wonder I’d been accused of being a spirit that night.
When the approaching vehicle finally appeared, I recognized the beast at once. It was Edward’s motorcycle.
Knowing he’d seen me, I held my blank book close as the beast slowed and came to a stop. Well, he wasn’t a ghost, but every nerve in my body was shivering as if his spirit addressed mine from beyond the grave. What did it mean? I didn’t think I would tremble in this way when I saw him again or lose my voice or wits. He needn’t stop and speak to me, for I would make a fool out of myself, but it was too late to wave him on.
He turned off the engine, and the air was still, the sounds of nature returning around us. Removing his helmet and nestling it before him, he sat astride the magnificent black machine and stared up at me, looking quite perplexed.
“Is this Jane Doe I see?” he asked. “Is this one of your tricks, spirit? It reminds me of a time long past. A lonely road, a beautiful nymph lying in wait…only this time, I see her clearly.”
“It’s Jane who is sitting here just like this,” I replied. “And no one else.”
“What a very Jane-like thing to say.”
“I suppose it is.”
“What are you doing up there?” he asked. “Are you waiting for me?”
“I fear I cannot answer you,” I replied, thankful he couldn’t reach me on my perch. “You might twist my words to boost your ego, sir.”
He considered me, and if he found my reply irksome, he didn’t show it. “If I dared, I’d touch you and see if you were flesh and bone and not a mere shadow.”
I knew there’d be pleasure at seeing him again, and with the circumstance being so similar to our first meeting, my heart soared. I couldn’t help it even knowing I would be destroyed in the end. I was nothing but plain Jane Doe to him, and any love or endearment we once shared was but a distant memory. Neither of us could go back.
Unlike our last encounter, which had been bitter at best, this one had an eerie civility about it.
“I scarcely know what to talk to you about,” he said.
“You don’t have to talk to me at all,” I replied.
His brow creased, and his fingers tightened around his helmet. I’d said the wrong thing, but it was the right one to me. I couldn’t foster hope even as the notion went round and round in my mind, the thought popping to the forefront every other minute, forcing me to ponder it.
“You do not owe me anything, Edward,” I said. “What’s done is done.”
“I owe you a great deal, Jane,” he replied sharply.
“Perhaps once,” I shot back without thinking. “But no longer.”
His lip curled. “If only I’d met
you ten years ago. What a picture we could have painted.”
I wasn’t entirely sure he was being hurtful, but his words sliced deep anyway. My fingers loosened their grip on my journal, and my heart stopped as the book hit the ground with a thwack, both our gazes falling to it. Edward threw his leg over his motorcycle and stood tall, walking around the beast to retrieve the little brown journal. Bending, I stilled as his fingers curled around it, and when it rested fully in his palm, I held my breath.
It was empty. No words marked its pages, no swashes of ink or secrets had been committed, but I felt as if he could see inside my heart and soul by merely touching the leather cover. When he opened it, I almost bit out an insult at his prying.
He glanced at the pages, flipping through the entire book, his eyebrow raising the further he went. When he glanced up at me, he said, “It’s blank. Another of your tricks?”
“I have no tricks,” I replied hastily. “I haven’t found the right words to put inside it, is all. Besides, it’s impolite to pry.”
Closing the journal with a snap, he said, “I’m sorry, Jane. I am a hypocrite of the highest order.”
I knew he was apologizing for more than looking through the pages that were supposed to hold my words, and I merely nodded my acceptance.
“How did you get up there?” he asked. “Come, let me help you down.”
I didn’t reply. Instead, I threw my legs over the fence and scurried down the way I’d come up, placing my feet in the hollows and cracks in the old fence. It only took a minute, and my feet thudded as they connected with the earth below.
Handing me my book, he said, “All in one piece. Was there any doubt?”
I shook my head, my gaze dropping as I took the journal out of his hand. My fingertips brushed against his, and before I realized what was happening, the book fell again, hitting the ground as his hand curled around my wrist. He pulled me so roughly the movement almost sent me tumbling against his chest.