My Mr. Rochester 1(10)

“Oh, Dr. Lloyd!” I was more tragic than necessary, for I was embarrassed at being caught feeling sorry for myself. “I’ll never be happy again!”

“Tosh. You’ll be happy again today. Within the hour, I’ll wager.”

Now he was teasing me, and that was the cruelest thing of all.

“The Reeds aren’t here, if you’ve come to see them.” I pouted, but he would not let go of his smile. “They’re all gone for a ride in the carriage to take in the fresh air.”

“Not all. John and Eliza are upstairs in their rooms, still recovering,” Dr. Lloyd said. “Mrs. Reed and I had an agreeable discussion this morning. About you, as it happens. She’s gone out, but she told me she’ll return sometime after noon.” He pointedly looked at the clock on the mantel which was about to strike the hour.

My heart leapt to my throat.

Bessie understood. “Would you like to move to this chair by the fire, Miss Jane?”

“That’s precisely what I would like.” Dr. Lloyd had worked magic on Mrs. Reed, but not miracles. I had no intention of occupying her sofa when she returned.

I’d barely made it to my new station when the clock struck twelve and the lady swept into the morning room with a severe-looking man dressed all in black but for an overly large white cravat. Choker, I thought.

“Good day again, Mrs. Reed.” Dr. Lloyd’s smile vanished as he nodded to her companion. “Brocklehurst.”

“Lloyd.” The man took the chair beside the sofa.

I didn’t know the face, but I knew the tall man’s name. Bishop Brocklehurst, whose opinion Mrs. Reed doted upon so much. I’d always imagined him god-like, fair-haired and blue-eyed, stern but kind, driving a theoretical chariot of fiery justice.

This man was dark and rough-looking, larger physically and smaller psychically than the champion of my imagination. He had long thin brown hair that covered his shoulders like a wispy shawl.

“Jane Eyre, stand up,” Mrs. Reed said.

I did as she commanded. She examined me with a look of resignation and defeat, while Bishop Brocklehurst seemed to look right through me. The imp of self-pride grabbed hold of me. I waited them both out.

The bishop spoke first.

“Dr. Lloyd has told Mrs. Reed you wish to go to school,” he said.

“Oh!” I glanced at Dr. Lloyd. I wanted to show my gratitude, but he was staring at his feet.

“Perhaps Providence looks kindly on the wish,” the bishop continued. “Mrs. Reed and I had a prior engagement in New Bellefleur this morning to discuss John Reed’s educational plans. I’m not averse to considering her niece’s welfare at the same time.”

I expected Mrs. Reed to wince at the reference to our relationship, but she glowed as if he’d called her Lady Bountiful.

Bessie made a quick, silent curtsey and slipped out of the room. I think Dr. Lloyd would have joined her if he had been anywhere close to the door.

“How old are you, Jane Eyre?” Bishop Brocklehurst said.

“Thirteen, sir.”

“That much?” He stared me over, head to toe and back up again, lingering over my emerging breasts. “Hm.” My face burned as I remembered John Reed’s groping in the Red Room.

“And are you a good girl, Jane Eyre?” Bishop Brocklehurst said.

“Most assuredly not,” Mrs. Reed answered for me.

“You evil woman!” I cried involuntarily. “What would my uncle say to you if he were alive?”

I say I cried out involuntary because my tongue took over without my brain’s permission. I should have been submissive in front of this potential savior, a man who could ensure I was sent to school. But self-pride is a power. When constantly knocked about and disallowed all expression, though it may sleep awhile, it grows stronger. My pride had awakened. I wondered if it would ever sleep again.

“What did you say?” Mrs. Reed turned white, not with anger but with shock. She gazed at me as if she really wondered if a fiend possessed me.

The dam of self-control burst within. It was all or nothing.

“My Uncle Reed is in heaven and can see all you do and think,” I said. “And so can my father and mother. They know how cruelly you treat me, how you shut me up in the Red Room, and how you wish me dead.”

“Then you are not a good girl.” Bishop Brocklehurst affected a doleful manner, but I do believe he delighted in finding me bad rather than good. “Do you know where the wicked go after death?”

“They go to hell,” I said readily.

“And what is hell? Tell me that.”

“A pit full of fire.”

“And should you like to fall into that pit and burn there forever?”