My Mr. Rochester 1(5)

“Jane, do be careful,” Eliza said.

She was right. I had no defense against him. He’d bamboozled his mother, and there was nothing anyone could do to correct him. The servants were terrified of him. I was too, but my contempt ran deeper than my terror.

He held out his hand, palm up, as if he really expected me to give him my book.

“It wasn’t Georgiana’s to give,” he said. “You know that, Jane. All the wealth of Gateshead flows from me. You have no business accepting this book. You’re my dependent. You have no money. Your father left you nothing. You ought to work in a factory or beg on the streets of a town before you live in this fine house with an anointed’s children. I can’t believe my mother lets you eat at the same table with us. All your fine clothes are at my expense.”

“Mrs. Reed buys my clothes.”

“From my inheritance. I'll teach you. Go face the wall, away from the windows.”

I glanced at the wall, but I didn’t move.

“In three months, I’ll be eighteen. Do you know what that means, Jane Eyre? My trustee will be gone, and things will change. All will be done according to my will. My mother’s good nature will protect you no longer. And if you persist in modeling such an evil example to my innocent sister, you’ll force me to have you removed to the workhouse.”

“John!” Eliza said.

“However reluctantly,” he added. He turned his palm downward and pointed to the spot he’d indicated before. “Now come here, Jane.”

“No.”

“You impudent girl!” Mrs. Reed was there in the center of the library. I never saw her come in. She was enraged and blundering toward me, her eyes bulging like a caricature of a human being. “You ingrate! You Lilith! You Jezebel!”

She raised her hand to strike, and I raised the atlas as a shield. She stole it away from me, crying aha!

Mrs. Reed ran to John and I chased after her. He grabbed the book and held it over my head, taunting me as I’d known he would if he got the chance. I charged at him and beat his chest with my fists.

“Help!” he cried. “She’s a wild animal!”

“Take her away,” Mrs. Reed told the servants, for Bessie and Abbot had come to see what all the noise was about. “Take her to the Red Room and secure her there.”

Four hands immediately seized me.

John Reed crowed triumphantly, my beautiful atlas clutched in his fat, teacake-smudged hands.

“No!” I screamed. “Not the Red Room. I didn’t do anything wrong!”

But Bessie and Abbot were strong working women, and I was a frail girl. Though I kicked and twisted, I was swept off my feet, helpless, and borne away.

“Not the Red Room!” I cried. “It’s not fair! Oh, it’s so not fair!”





« Chapter 3 »

The Red Room


Bessie let go of one of my legs, and my heel struck the hardwood floor.

“Ouch!”

She opened the door to the Red Room and dropped the chatelaine back into her apron pocket. She and Abbot dragged me over the threshold and flung me onto a hard-backed chair placed on the wood floor beyond the red Persian carpet. I immediately lunged forward, headed for the door.

“Stop now, Miss Jane.” Bessie grabbed me. “Don’t make us treat you harsher than need be.”

“Harsh is exactly what needs be with this one,” Abbot said.

I lunged again. They caught me again. I kicked Abbot in the shin.

“I’ll take down the bed stays,” she said. “We’ll have to truss her to the chair.”

“No, don’t! For God’s sake, have pity.” I broke down in tears, my shoulders shaking with my sobs.

Bessie sat on my lap to hold me on the chair while Abbot collected what cords she could find.

“For shame,” Abbot said. “You’re the one who should have pity.” She tied my ankles to the chair legs and removed my shoes, tossing them away to the corner. “What shocking conduct, Jane Eyre, to strike the young gentleman, your master.”

“Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?”

“You’re less than a servant.” Abbot yanked my arms behind the back of the chair and bound my wrists together. Bessie stood up then. She did nothing to prevent Abbot from tying a cord around my waist to the chair to bind me more securely. “You do nothing to earn your keep,” Abbot continued. “Sit there now and think about your wickedness.”

“Do you think I’m wicked?” I asked Bessie.

She looked down at her hands then at Abbot. “She’s never been wicked before.” At last somewhat of a defense, but too late. I was immobilized.

“It was always in her,” Abbot said. “I’ve told madam my opinion, and she agrees with me.”