My Mr. Rochester 1(14)

“I want to be a teacher,” I said. “I want to be an independent woman.”

Miss Temple’s eyes twinkled a little. “That’s an achievable goal. If you study hard and pass your exams, you could become a licensed governess.”

“Oh.” I stared at my bowl. That’s not what I meant. Not a governess. The opposite of independence. Georgiana and Eliza had been horrid to our governess. Mrs. Reed never would defend the poor woman.

“Or you might stay on here,” Miss Temple added. “Many of Lowood’s teachers are former pupils. For instance, Miss Miller who greeted you came to Lowood when she was eleven years old.”

“That’s exactly what I would like, Miss Temple.”

Her smile, still tinged with sadness, faded. “How old are you, Jane?”

“Fourteen,” I answered—with a start. I had forgotten it was my birthday.

I glanced at the lovely slouch hat and scarf on my trunk. Bessie must have made them as a birthday present. If so, she’d likely purchased the yarn from her own savings.

My heart ached. I would miss Bessie. I regretted not being kinder to her, and it was a novel sensation. I always felt so abused and downtrodden, so often falsely accused of wickedness—it never occurred to me I might have actual faults. I vowed to be a better person from then on.

I was ravenous, and everything tasted like heaven, but I didn’t get to finish my meal for at that point we were interrupted by another person.

“Bishop Brocklehurst. I thought you’d left, sir.” Miss Temple rose hurriedly to her feet, and I followed her lead.

“I had.”

At the sight of my nemesis my spirits sank. His expression was as sour as I remembered. I knew his opinion of me, and I didn’t want him to share it with Miss Temple.

“I saw the cart boy on the road. He told me he’d just delivered this girl.” He turned his eye on me.

Against my will, I shivered.

“I spoke with your benefactor not three hours ago, Jane Eyre. I was afraid of this.” He rubbed my velvet collar between his fingers. “Mrs. Reed no doubt meant a kindness, outfitting you thusly. It’s no kindness to encourage a girl to put herself above her station. Is that not so, Miss Temple?”

“Most certainly, bishop.” Miss Temple answered out of duty, but not with the bishop’s fervor. “A girl or any person.”

“Remove the dress.”

I gasped, and my hand flew to my throat. I must have heard him incorrectly, for Miss Temple showed no sign of anything being out of order.

“You have a uniform,” he said to her.

“Yes, bishop.” Miss Temple retrieved the dress and pinafore she’d laid aside.

“Take off that dress, Jane Eyre. I’ll return it to Mrs. Reed.”

“Sir, perhaps she could change in my—”

“Miss Temple, I have no time for false modesty or girlish pride. Jane Eyre, do as I say. You were there when your good aunt pleaded with me to teach you humility. From the pride you now take in material frippery, I can see she was right.”

My face went hot with embarrassment and fury. How dare he! My fingers trembled as I unfastened the top button at my collar. Miss Temple stared at her hands, her expression indecipherable.

I faltered at the second button, and the bishop brushed my hands away and began to do the work for me. I trembled with rage as he proceeded to undress me—rage and some fear, I admit. He fumbled with the buttons at my sternum, and the knuckles of his hands pressed against my breasts. When he’d opened the garment past my waist, he pushed it back over my shoulders. His gaze lingered at the swell of my breasts at the top of my chemise. For a horrible moment, I thought he was going to touch me.

He stepped away. “You may complete the task. Those boots too. Far too unsuitable.” He addressed Miss Temple. “The box?”

I handed Bishop Brocklehurst my dress and quickly bent down to unlace my boots. Miss Temple dropped a box of secondhand shoes at my feet. I kept my head down to hide my tears. I’d give him no satisfaction. I tossed my boots in Brocklehurst’s direction and turned away toward the fire, surreptitiously wiping my eyes.

Miss Temple was at me in a flash with the uniform. She gently wrapped it around me and found the hole for its inset belt. “It’s a little big now, Jane,” she murmured, “but you’ll grow into it.”

There were no buttons, no hooks, not even a zipper. The dress was made for no one in particular, designed to wrap and tie in order to expand or contract to a wearer’s growing frame. Miss Temple helped me with the pinafore. It felt like she was a dresser in a theater, and I’d been cast the part of a ten-year-old child in a play.