My Mr. Rochester 1(12)

Invigorating cold air burned into my lungs. I climbed into the carriage where Bessie set the foot warmer on the floor between us. She spread a blanket over our laps, and we were on our way.

“You look quite the young lady, Miss Jane,” she said.

There was a tear in her eye, but I couldn’t stop grinning. I felt quite sophisticated in my traveling clothes, ready for an adventure I never expected to have.

“You’ll forget your Bessie before the train takes you round the first bend,” she said. “You’ll never think of us again.”

“I’m glad to leave Gateshead Righteous,” I said. “But I’ll never forget you, Bessie. You and Dr. Lloyd were the only people ever kind to me in my life.”

“We’ll see you home again when you’ve finished your studies, I’m sure.”

“I’ll never go back to Gateshead!” I said, more violently than I meant to. “I’m going to be a teacher.”

“Oh, Miss Jane.”

I softened my voice. “Don’t cry, Bessie, please. Be happy for me.”

“Child, you would throw away comfort and security for a hard and lonely life.”

Comfort and security? No, prison! I thought.

“I’m lonely now, Bessie. I’m tired of not belonging. I’m no servant, but Abbot was right; I’m no mistress. At Gateshead I’m nothing. A charity case. I can’t bear it.”

She recoiled at the words charity case. We turned north off Gateshead Road onto Keystone Highway. It was quiet in the carriage until the blast of a train whistle sounded through the air. We were nearing Gateshead Halt. My heart soared. To my mind, the whistle shouted my triumph to high heaven.

Bessie dug my ticket out of her bag and handed it to the ticket master. A porter took my trunk, and we followed him through the train to my compartment. When he left us, Bessie let out a great sob and hugged me fiercely.

“Oh, Miss Jane. I’ve raised you from an infant. I feel like I’m losing my own dear girl.”

Right. Bessie was as likely as any to slap me for a clever remark or put me in the corner to contemplate my faults. And yet…she was the only one who ever seemed sorry to do it. I kissed her cheek and we said goodbye.

She stayed on the platform as the train pulled away, and as we waved to each other she grew smaller and smaller. Then the train rounded the bend and she was gone.

It was full dawn now. The trees showed distinctly against the brightening sky, and a storm approached from the east. The porter came by with a breakfast trolley and let me choose anything I liked. There was coffee, scrambled eggs with cheese, bacon, potatoes and onions, and toast. It all smelled wonderful, but I was too excited to eat.

“How long does it take to get to Lowood?” I said.

“Three to four hours to Lowood Halt—if the tracks are clear and stops aren’t delayed. Then another ten miles to the institution by carriage.” He lowered a tray on the seat across from me and left a small pot of coffee and some toast and marmalade. “You might want something.”

I chewed on half a piece of toast and watched the world go by. With the train’s subtle rocking I relaxed, shedding the fitful excitement which had kept me awake all night. We passed Lake Bellefleur, the farthest I’d ever been from Gateshead mansion. We stopped for half an hour in a real town with tall buildings lit up inside and out, and through the window I watched the workmen load coal onto the train.

The train continued on, and soon I yawned and lifted the dividers on the bench seat so I could lie down and close my eyes, just for a few minutes.

“Jane Eyre!” someone called out in my dream. “Jane Eyre for Lowood!”

But it wasn’t a dream. The train was stopped. Someone had truly called for me. “I’m here!” I cried, afraid he’d leave me.

Lowood Halt had no ticket house. It was no more than a rectangular platform with train tracks on one side and a cobblestone road on the other. At one end an iron bench sat beneath a three-sided rain shelter. Beyond the platform waited a one-horse cart.

“Well?” A man walked by with my trunk. A boy, really, not much older than John Reed. “Get in.”

I climbed into the back of the cart beside my trunk on the flat bed. The driver jumped up to his bench and urged his horse on. The sun was low in the west, hidden by clouds. What sights had I missed, sleeping the day away? My stomach growled. I wished I’d eaten more than two bites of toast.

“Go a little faster, please,” I told the driver. “I don’t want to miss supper at Lowood.”

He looked over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. I prepared for an insult, but his face changed. He had the same look as John Reed did when I was tied to the chair in the Red Room.