My Mr. Rochester 1(29)

“A surgeon.” My brain twisted into a pretzel, trying to reconcile its template of a doctor with this picture of Georgiana.

“Surgeon.” She smiled. “Is that what Bessie said?”

I certainly remembered that ironic smile, a sign of Georgiana taking private amusement in notions that escaped me.

“Now, where are you going, Jane? Mother told me it’s somewhere in Jefferson, but I don’t recall the name.” She picked up a hard flat device from the table and touched it, repeating my answer, “Thornfield Righteous Estate.”

I noticed then the other Americans in the dining car—identifiable by their clothes—all had similar tablets which drew their attention from their dinner companions. The aura of disconnection floated about them—as Georgiana was distracted from me now, looking at her instrument.

“This is the internet,” I said. “But it’s not supposed to work in New Judah.”

“It’s the Zephyr,” Georgiana said. A map appeared on the device. “All transcontinentals have satellite links to provide a signal local to the train.”

She touched the tablet again, and the map changed to a photograph. She spread her fingers over it, and a spot at the center grew until it showed a mansion in the center of rolling fields of corn and wheat.

What a wonder. What else could the device show?

“Impressive estate.” She examined me again. I felt somewhat violated, like being looked at by Gideon Blackstone. Her gaze lingered on my collar. “The governess,” she said. “No doubt you’ll attract the attentions of the young master—or worse, the old one.”

I looked away and took another drink of wine.

“How will you stop yourself, Jane? Hot blood has always run beneath your cold surface.”

What did she mean? Had her brother told her the same lies he told Bishop Brocklehurst? I was saved from responding by the dinner trolley’s approach. Georgiana chose something called lamb curry. I wanted to appear sophisticated and chose the same.

What had I done? Not about the curry, but about Thornfield. I’d cut myself off from the only life I knew—and for what? Georgiana had a point about masters and servants. The hoped-for something else could well turn out to be something worse.

“Oh, that’s good.” The lamb brought back my courage. The meat was tender and the spices exotic and delicious. Yes, Jane. Something new can be something good. “This is wonderful, Georgiana.”

She ignored her food, digging through the bag on the chair beside her. “Here, take these.” She pulled out a paper card with four tablets sealed in little pop-outs and put it by my plate. “It’s a year’s supply. One every three months.”

“Good lord. Put those away.”

“You’re in America now, little bird. No worries. The Zephyr is sovereign to the United States. Birth control is legal here.”

She didn’t lower her voice. She showed no shame because she felt none.

“I won’t have my cousin end up somewhere like Bethany House. Yes, I know all about that place. I gave Mother hell when she told me where she’d sent you. Brocklehurst is a piece of work, helping his fellow lords hide their dirty work.”

“But they’re dangerous. The pills affect a woman’s body.”

“And pregnancy doesn’t?” Georgiana said. “The lies you Judeans tell yourselves to justify the bondage of women.”

“You’re New Judean.” But was she still? She’d adapted the American habit of saying our name wrong, with an added sneer.

“Look, you may never need them.” She avoided the question in my statement. “You say your boss is a woman. You might encounter no man at Thornfield—how sad would that be? But if temptation comes, take the first pill within forty-eight hours after you surrender and the others three months apart.”

I stared at the packet, afraid to touch it. Afraid to admit the potential need. And anyway, I’d taken care of the threat. Every hour put more distance between me and Gideon Blackstone.

“Are you going to California to see John?” I needed a change of subject. “Bessie said he’s become an actor.”

“So Mother believes.” Georgiana lost her crusading tone. “If only that was the worst of it. I’ve heard from friends he’s becoming an alzhead.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Of course you don’t.” She filled her glass again. “Alz is a street drug. They say the high is better than any opiate and more addictive. I see alzheads all the time at the hospital. The drug eats away at the brain, destroys the personality. Judgment goes first—though John never had much of that. Self-control, curiosity. It steals away the civilized human being and leaves a violent creature in its place.”