My Mr. Rochester 1(2)

It was true. I have always been plain. My hair is a mystery color, neither brown nor blond. My eyes are hazel, neither blue nor green. My complexion is clear but unremarkable. I was thin even then, not from lack of good food but from lack of appetite.

I was, however, beginning to develop a figure. I’d recently started my courses, to Mrs. Reed’s disgust. She sent me to Bessie, the housekeeper, for instruction on becoming a woman. As Bessie described the business, it all sounded like a lot of mess and bother and humiliation without much reward.

Bessie said it proved God meant women for service and not for authority. I asked her why then did we have authority to run households and care for children and manage so much hard and dirty work? For which cleverness my reward was a slap across the face.

“Jane has her own virtues.” Eliza looked at me kindly. Some innate goodness remained in her—though her brother did his best to drive it out. “But no one’s as pretty as Georgiana. I can’t wait for her to come home.”

Eliza was right about Georgiana. The oldest Reed child was unlike any of her family. I fancied she favored my uncle and not her mother.

Georgiana Reed was quick and clever, and she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. She had thick raven hair that followed any pattern Abbot, her lady’s maid, tried with it. Her blue eyes twinkled with fun and mischief. Her complexion was like rose-tinged porcelain, and her lips were a perfect shape and color. (She used rouge and lipstick, but Mrs. Reed seemed to believe her daughter’s features were struck upon her at birth by angel kisses.)

Georgiana was never cruel to me, and sometimes she was actively kind. Only one thing could explain it. As an infant she must have been switched out of her crib by goblins. I chuckled at the picture of it. Were the goblins disappointed or happy with the sour and mean child they brought back to their kingdom in Georgiana’s stead?

Such philosophical questions sustained me in my loneliness.

“Your sister will be home for the Christmas holiday, my pet.” Mrs. Reed took the pot from Eliza to refill her own cup. “My youngest child is correct, Mr. Fleming. Georgiana’s become quite the beauty.”

“Curves enough to tempt but not so much as to intoxicate,” Mr. Fleming said genially.

I thought the coarse remark was shocking. Eliza standing next to him appeared not to hear it, and John grinned and nodded.

Mrs. Reed took no offense. “She gives me no worries. She’ll make a wonderful match.”

“And yet… Harvard?” Mr. Fleming said in honest perplexity. “Curious giving a daughter such an expensive education—and in the United States.”

It was bad enough New Judah was forced to send its sons out to the heathen old country for their degrees. Most good families kept their daughters close to home until marriage. A degree from a local college was sufficient.

It wasn’t as if Georgiana would become a physician or engineer or anything so unsuited to a lady of her rank.

“Those dreadful last instructions.” Mrs. Reed gave the vicar a sharp look. “I’ve carried out my husband’s wishes, even those which cause me grief, as you well know.”

“Yes, Mrs. Reed. Of course, Mrs. Reed.”

“Vaccinations, evolution…” Mrs. Reed grumbled under her breath.

“Troubling things,” Mr. Fleming said. “But Mr. Reed was an Anointed Elder. His authority can’t be questioned.”

I turned again to the window, relieved I wasn’t mentioned in the list of Mrs. Reed’s painful obligations. Once I caught her notice, it never turned out well. Georgiana was so lucky.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t envy my cousin’s beauty or rank. I envied her freedom and her education—though I wouldn’t like to go to the heathen old country, as we all called the United States. Not even for an education.

“Georgiana doesn’t complain,” Mrs. Reed said. “She makes the best of things, as usual. She’s met what decent people she can find in Cambridge. Useful connections for the future.”

“Perhaps she’ll marry a diplomat.” Mr. Fleming frowned at his tea as if searching his cup for a pleasanter response.

“I did consult Bishop Brocklehurst,” Mrs. Reed added. “He found no fault in Harvard.”

“Well done, Mrs. Reed.” A smile broke out like sunshine over Mr. Fleming’s face. “The bishop always knows what’s best.”

Mrs. Reed loved to be caught out at being clever. She drank in everyone’s approving looks until she came to me. All the pleasure drained from her expression.

“As to Jane Eyre. I don’t know what to do with her, vicar. Truly.” She sighed her martyr’s sigh. “It’s so unfair. The daughter of my dead husband’s dead sister. Hardly a real relation.” It irked her so to be bound to me.