My Mr. Rochester 1(7)

The Red Room was a chamber of death and sorrow.

Something did move beneath the grate. It couldn’t be smoke—more likely the wisp of a dark spirit.

I strained against my bonds to no joy. John Reed’s violent tyranny, his mother’s aversion to me, the servants’ partiality—all the insults of my days grew in my disturbed mind, a pile of resentments I’d been long collecting.

Why was I always suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, forever condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to even try to win anyone’s favor?

John Reed was the cruel one, and I was tied here to this chair. “Unjust! Unjust!” said reason within me. Send me to the workhouse, I thought. Anything would be better than this.

I was out of harmony at Gateshead. I was nobody. I might as well not exist. I had nothing in common with Mrs. Reed or her children. They did not love me. I did not love them. How could they feel affection for a Jezebel, as Mrs. Reed had so uncaringly called me?

The key turned in the lock, and Bessie came through the door. Hurray! She’d taken pity and had come to free me.

But no. John Reed was on her heels. He pushed past her and came directly at me, and I thought how his appearance, disgusting and ugly, so keenly matched his inner core.

As if he read the review on my face, all at once he struck me. The room spun, and Bessie shrank against the door.

“That was for speaking back to my mother,” he said.

He hit me again before I could regain my equilibrium. “And that was for your sneaky way of getting behind curtains.”

Again. “And that for the look in your eye just now, you rat!”

A warm, salty taste filled my mouth. I looked down and saw blood on my white dress.

“What were you doing behind the curtain?” he asked.

“Reading.”

“I don’t believe you. My mother was right. You’re a Jezebel. You’re a wanton. You were doing nasty things in there. Looking at yourself. Touching yourself.”

What was he talking about?

“Master Reed!” Bessie exclaimed.

Her utter shock stopped him a moment, as if he just took notice there was someone else in the room, witness to his manic ravings. “Get out.” His voice was like ice.

“But Master Reed, should you…” Bessie’s protest faded. She withered under his glare and did as she was told.

I was alone with the monster, and immobilized. He walked over to the corner, kicked my shoes away and pulled back the curtain. He stared out at the world, and I could see the wheels spinning in his brain. He turned back to me, his lip curled slightly as it did when he embarked on some new tease of his little sister or torture of an insect he’d caught.

“What are we to do with you, Jane Eyre?”

My hatred turned to fear. Instinctively, I strained against my bonds until the ropes burned my wrists and ankles.

“My aunt—”

“Never call my mother that!” He screamed at me.

Pain seared into my cheek. The room tilted again. He slapped me so hard! I wasn’t breathing, but there didn’t seem to be anything I could do about it.

“She is Mrs. Reed to you, and you should thank God every day she had the kindness to take you in and keep you off the streets.”

I choked and sputtered, desperately dragging air back into my lungs, as John Reed paced back and forth.

“Now Jane, you must never mind about that book.” His tone modulated, and his false reasonableness made my blood run cold. “I’m sure Georgiana’s motives were sincere and pure. She has no appreciation of your inherent wickedness. But no matter. I’ve taken care of it.”

“What? What have you done?”

“It’s gone,” he said. “The atlas. If you must know, I’ve burnt it.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“It’s in the kitchen ovens. They’re baking bread just now, and the flames are good and hot.”

“Oh, John Reed, I hate you. I hate you so!”

His hand was raised, poised to slam once again across my jaw. I closed my eyes and braced for the blow. But it didn’t come. Instead, his warm fat hand rested softly against my cheek.

“Oh, Jane,” he said. “Jane.”

Thick and moist lips pressed against mine. As my eyes popped open in shock, his tongue thrust into my mouth. I jerked my head back, repulsed.

“Jane.” He said my name urgently. “I'm sorry. I’m sorry about what I said before. I don’t think you’re plain.” He moaned with such agony, you’d think he was the tortured one. My heart raced with disgust and fear. He kissed me again, and his hand moved from my cheek to my throat.

He let go my throat and I relaxed slightly as he gripped my shoulder, but then his hand slid down to my breast and he squeezed me hard. Bessie’s lecture on womanhood crowded into my brain.