My Mr. Rochester 1(6)

“You’re just mad because Georgiana went away and didn’t take you with her,” I said. “It’s not my fault you’re a housemaid now. Don’t take it out on me.”

Abbot’s face reddened, but I wasn’t sorry for saying it.

“You ought to be mindful, Miss Jane,” Bessie said. “Think of your obligation to Mrs. Reed. She keeps you in kindness. If she were to turn you out, you’d have to go to the workhouse just as Master Reed said.”

I could say nothing. The words weren’t new to me. I’d heard similar whisperings all my days. This litany of my dependence had become a vague sing-song in my ear, painful and soul-crushing.

Abbot joined in. “And don’t think yourself equal in rank with the Reeds, even if you are above me and Bessie. Mrs. Reed kindly allows you to be brought up with her children, but they will have a great deal of money, and you will have none. You should be humble. You should try to make yourself agreeable to them.”

“We tell you this for your good.” Bessie’s voice softened. “If you were useful and pleasant, you’d have a home here all your days. But if you’re passionate and rude, you’ll be sent away. I’m sure of it.”

“Good,” I said. I thought of how rudely John Reed had spoken to me, how he’d taunted me and hurt me all my life. I might be poor and plain and insignificant, but I was a human being. The prospect of living out my life in this cruel manner, with people who hated me, was insufferable. “I desire it above all things.”

I wished I could be sent to Millcote—to my Hamlet 1-3-78.

“You don’t mean that, Miss Jane,” Bessie said.

“Never mind,” said Abbot. “God will punish you. He might strike you dead in the midst of a tantrum, and then where would you go? To the pit of everlasting fire.”

I hadn’t thought of that.

I hadn’t thought of ever dying. Which was odd, considering how so many had died all around me.

“Come, Bessie,” Abbot said. “Let’s leave her. Say your prayers, Miss Eyre. Repent.”

They left. I started to be nervous when Abbot popped her head in for one last piece of advice. “Repent or something bad might come down the chimney and fetch you away.”

“No, no,” I said. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me here alone.”

The key turned in the lock, and I was alone in the Red Room. Couldn’t they hear my beating heart? I wanted to run to the door and pound on it, but I was tied to the chair.

Abbot’s last admonition rang in my ear, and I glanced at the fireplace. All my fancied bravery slipped away. The cold hearth was quite large. I could fit in it. Something could come down the chimney and fetch me away.

It struck me then that I’d been entirely obtuse in my relationship with God. If brutally honest, I had to admit I’d offended more than pleased him.

But it wasn’t my fault! I never meant to insult God, but only to rail against injustice. I had believed the world and heaven too loved justice. I suddenly saw all with new eyes.

I looked around at my prison, a square bedchamber, the largest and stateliest in the mansion but never slept in. The bed’s massive mahogany pillars were hung with deep red damask curtains, now hanging loose for lack of binders. The bed stood in the room’s center like the stage of a theater in the round.

It was a corner room. Red curtains shrouded four large windows in two walls. The Persian carpet had a red, burgundy, and maroon design. The cedar trunk at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth. The wallpaper was a soft pink blush color. The wardrobe, dressing table and upholstered chairs were of dark polished mahogany.

The room was cold. There was never a fire here, and the natural gas vents used in the morning room (and, I suspected, in the Reeds’ bedrooms) on the bleakest days of winter were never opened here. The housemaids came only on Saturdays to dust and clean the mirrors and interior windows.

I started to go a little crazy, convinced a ghost or some sort of specter watched me from under the barren fireplace grate. I very nearly swooned. I made myself recall the time I’d secretly followed Mrs. Reed when she came in here. She’d survived the experience, and I had too.

I’d tracked her so quietly, half terrified she’d turn and discover me and half thrilled by the adventure. She unlocked a drawer in the wardrobe and rifled through several rolled-up parchments then withdrew her jewelry box and a miniature of her deceased husband, my dear uncle (with all my heart I believe he was dear).

And that’s why the Red Room was so terrifying to me. That great bed, center stage, was my uncle’s deathbed. There he died. There he lay in state. For some reason, it had taken Mrs. Reed three days to find an undertaker to bring a coffin and bear away the body.