I instinctively clutched my cloak at my throat. He grinned—not nicely—and turned back to his horse. “Git, Daisy,” he said with a chuckle. “Walk along sprightly there now. Madam don’t want to miss her supper.”
We traveled miles and miles through remote foothill country. Occasionally we’d pass a private lane, and I might spot a grand house set up the hill well away from the road. The clouds followed us, and a few sprinkles came down. We stopped at an iron gate in a stone fence at a turnaround where the cobblestone road ended. Without ceremony the driver dropped my trunk at the gate then pushed a button recessed in the wall.
I climbed out of the cart, stiff from the jolting ride. Beyond the gate, a long drive led to a cottage, and behind the cottage two mansions faced each other, each as big as Gateshead.
“How marvelous!” I stuck my head through the gate’s bars, hardly believing my eyes. At the end of the drive near the cottage was a powered limousine automobile.
My Uncle Reed had owned an automobile, though not one so large. I never saw it—Mrs. Reed sold it after he died. But John Reed had its picture. I believe the only reason he wanted Anointed status was for the privilege of owning and driving such a vehicle.
“Droppin’ off.” The cart driver spoke to the wall. “I got one Jane Eyre here for you.”
“Why do we stop here?” I said. “The drive is plenty wide enough for the cart.” I blinked away a single fat drop of rain.
“No man is allowed past this point.” He absently pulled his hat brim forward to shield his eyes from the rain. “Not if he ain’t a choker.”
I smiled inwardly. How it would irritate John Reed to hear this driver of low rank using his same slang.
The driver walked over to me and leaned close, his moist warm breath on my neck. “I could come to you the back way, if it gives you pleasure.”
I wanted to slap him, though he was twice my size. We were interrupted by the sound of locks turning, and the gate began to open of its own accord, a wonderful remote mechanical trick.
The driver uttered a nasty laugh and jumped into his cart. “Git, Daisy,” he said to his horse. “You don’t want to miss your supper.”
From somewhere near the gate, a disembodied female voice said, ‘Enter, Jane Eyre!”
« Chapter 6 »
A Bishop’s Charity
Dusk descended suddenly as the sun dipped behind the trees. In the intensifying rain, I ran up the drive with my trunk. I couldn’t resist looking at the limousine, but its windows were darkly tinted and covered with beading raindrops. I couldn’t see inside. While I debated which building to enter, the voice from the gate again called out to me.
“Come, Jane Eyre.”
This time the voice was contained within a human being, a stout dark-haired woman. She beckoned to me from the cottage door. I followed her inside to a small parlor where there was a fire. “Take off your hat and cloak and wait here.”
I draped my cloak over my trunk along with my hat and scarf. While removing my gloves a strange, unnatural sound startled me. It had to be the limousine’s engine. I ran to the window and pulled back the curtain to see the vehicle drive away, red lamps glowing.
The woman returned with a tray and left it on a small table set for two people near the fireplace. The smell of stew and fresh bread made my stomach growl. I dearly hoped I was intended to be one of the two, but she left the room without speaking to me.
The door reopened, and in came a woman of maybe thirty with thick dark hair pulled back in a French braid. An old-fashioned light brown frock was draped over her arm as well as a white pinafore-like apron. She set aside the clothes and greeted me.
“Hello, Jane. What a pretty dress.” Her smile was a little sad, as if she felt pity for me. “I’m Miss Temple, headmistress of Lowood. You’ve arrived too late to eat with the other girls, so you’d better share with me.”
We sat down together, and I put my napkin over my lap. As she cut a piece of bread for me, I set her mind at ease. “I’m very glad to have come to Lowood. I never thought I’d be allowed to go to school.”
“Why do you want to go to school, Jane?” Miss Temple ladled out a lamb stew with potatoes and carrots and leeks and a wonderful spice I didn’t recognize. There was butter and honey for the bread and a big glass of milk.
There was no point in telling her how unhappy I was at Gateshead, about the Red Room, John Reed’s bullying, that I couldn’t bear to live there another day. Bishop Brocklehurst must have already told the people at Lowood I was an ungrateful child, so why would she believe me? My complaints would only reinforce such an indictment.