My Mr. Rochester 1(31)

“Good evening, Miss Eyre.” A housemaid carrying a kerosene lamp greeted me. “Mrs. Fairfax sends her apologies for not meeting you personally. She’s gone to bed. I’m to show you to your room.”

She led me over the threshold into a square foyer and up a wide staircase. As with the carriage, the house wasn’t ornate, but all was of good quality and well cared for.

The maid showed me to a room in the middle of a long corridor, and the driver followed us in with my trunk. He left it on a bench at the end of the bed. He tipped his hat again, not in subservience but as a friendly gesture, and said goodnight.

“The bathroom is there.” The maid gestured toward a door. “And the closet and sitting area.”

“How many am I to share with?” There was only one bed but a rather large one. Three could sleep in it without running into each other, though I didn’t savor the prospect.

“No one shares a room at Thornfield.” The maid practically sniffed with indignation. She opened a drawer in the bedside table and withdrew a fat beeswax candle. “These are yours.” She put the candle in a lamp, lit it with a match, and returned the matches to the drawer. “The supply will be replenished when you begin to run low.”

“Thank you. I can put away—”

“We’re not stingy with candles and matches either,” she hastened to add. “If you need a candle through the night—for any reason—no one will mind.”

“I’ve kept you up late enough,” I said. “I’ll take care of my things.”

The room was wonderful. There was indeed an adjoining sitting room, and the bathroom had a deep claw foot tub. I changed into my nightgown and put away my clothes. The closet could have housed all Georgiana’s dresses—if she still wore them. My four looked forlorn hanging in a place so grand.

Transferring incidentals from my purse to a dresser drawer, I pulled out a cardboard card with four pop-outs. The pills! Georgiana must have slipped them in. I looked around with the sudden feeling I was being watched. Good lord, Georgiana. What were you thinking?

The drugs were as illegal in Jefferson as they were in Idaho, and Jefferson was notoriously fervent about the EDLs. I couldn’t throw them away—they could be found and traced to me. I had to hide them where they wouldn’t be discovered during cleaning.

Someone ran through the hallway outside my door, and I froze in place until all was silent again. My gaze landed on the bed, and I thrust the contraband between the mattresses, as far in as I could. I crawled in under the covers and hoped they’d be safe until I came up with a better plan.

The bed was heavenly. Firm and soft at the same time. I had an abundance of pillows, a down comforter and a lovely quilted coverlet. I leaned over and blew out my candle. The crackle and pop of the dying fire serenaded me to deep sleep, and I dreamed.

In my dream I heard an insistent pounding, pounding, of an approaching monster. A magnificent black horse burst into my presence, ridden by a cloaked stranger. Horse and rider passed me by and metamorphosed into a thundering train. Its whistle blasted, and the train’s scream became a woman’s tortured wail.





« Chapter 12 »

Thornfield Righteous Estate


I awoke nearer to lunch than breakfast time. Someone had lit a fire on the grate and opened the chintz curtains. I sat up in the oh-so-comfortable bed with a smile on my face. My little chamber was the picture of coziness.

Late autumn sunshine poured in over the floral pattern on the papered walls and the thick Persian carpet on the buffed cherry wood floor. I wasn’t in Lowood anymore!

I rose and dressed, eager for the day. I felt my life was embarking upon a new and better epoch, one with flowers among the thorns. Thank you, I said silently to my guardian angel.

To meet my new employer and pupil, I chose one of my navy teacher’s dresses and a medium-sized linen collar with lace trim that covered my shoulders. Georgiana had called me plain, and the description fit.

I am no martyr, titillated by a hair shirt. I wish I were pretty, with rosy cheeks and a pert nose. That my lips were full and dark—or at least more than a mere horizontal line above my chin. I’d like to be tall and stately. It was a mistake of my genes that I’m so little and so plain. A sparrow without, a cockatiel within.

No. That is waxing on.

In truth I’m comfortable as a little bird, as Georgiana called me, a sparrow. I only resent being unremarkable when I’m not marked and wish to be. A contradiction in my nature I have never resolved.

The hall, the gallery, the staircase—all of Thornfield looked different in the daytime—less foreboding. Everywhere parted curtains let in the late October sun. There were good pictures on the walls, serigraphs and giclees as well as signed paintings and prints.