Page 39 of Jane Deyre

“She was also sleeping. In her quarters.”

“Wasn’t there a security camera?”

“Regretfully, I never installed one.”

She sets the photo down and circles the room, reverently running her hand over the furnishings. “Alice has asked me over and over again to give away Charlotte’s things. Her layette and all this furniture. The room, she says, can be converted into a cedar closet for my furs, which I store in the basement. Or a small gym where I can do my physical therapy.”

I wonder what kind of physical therapy she gets? And for what?

“But I can’t. If I do, that means I’ve given up hope. I’ve always had hope my baby girl will come back to me. When you have nothing, hope is the only thing you can hold on to.”

Her words tug at my heartstrings. They’re true. Hope is the only thing I’ve clung to. The only thing that has gotten me through my darkest times.

Her tearful eyes pore over me. “Come, my dear Jane. Let’s get you into some clothes.” She links her arm with mine and escorts me out of the nursery back into her bedroom.

She leads me to another walk-in closet. This one is filled with all her everyday clothes and accessories, spanning decades.

She explains that it used to be her husband, Bertrand’s closet, but after he passed, she gave away his clothes to a men’s shelter; Ms. Fairfax convinced her to take it over. Especially since the closet with all her gowns was overflowing.

“Dear, pick out anything you like,” she tells me, her voice slightly tremulous.

I feel overwhelmed. There are so many beautiful things to choose from. John Reed’s mother never gave me a stitch of clothing. Most of the time I found my wardrobe in Lowood’s lost and found pile. Because I was so skinny, nothing ever fit. Junior year in high school, I was able to supplement my meager, ill-fitting wardrobe with some discounted basics from Target where I worked after school and some Goodwill finds. My last Christmas with the Reeds, John’s mother surprised me with a gift-wrapped box that had a bow. I was excited to open it. To my dismay, it was one of her old moth-eaten sweaters. The color a hideous shade of green and two sizes too big for me. She saw the look of disappointment on my face and sneered, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” Her hurtful words whirl around my head as I stare at all the stunning things in Edwina’s closet. I randomly grab the first dress that attracts my attention. A sleeveless, knee-length shirtwaist dress with vibrant roses all over the poplin fabric. It looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen it before.

A wistful smile plays on Edwina’s lips. “That dress is special. It was a gift from someone I loved.”

Her late husband? The sadness in Edwina’s eyes stops me from asking though it dissipates quickly.

“I wore it to the premier ofMother of the Bride.”

“I love that movie!” Edwina, in a rare romantic comedy role, played the feisty, headstrong daughter of a dowager who is planning the wedding of the century, not knowing the couple plans to elope.

“You’ve seen it?” the actress asks, her eyes wide with surprise. I tell her I’ve seen all her movies, some as many as a dozen times. She’s as delighted as she is humbled. A true star!

A giddy feeling sweeps over me. Just holding the dress in my hands has transformative powers. I feel like I have places to go. People to meet. Everything is within my reach. My heart inflated, I watch as Edwina reaches for an apricot-colored sweater neatly folded on one of the shelves.

“I always wore this sweater with the dress. With the inclement weather, it may be a little chilly inside the house today, so I want you to have it.” Unfolding it, she hands it to me. It’s as soft as the robe I’m wearing. Made of the finest cashmere.

Edwina glances down at my bare feet. “What size shoe do you wear, my dear?”

“A five... triple A.” Despite being five foot four, I’ve always had very small feet. Feet that belong to someone way more petite than I am. I should add, reader, that even with the odd bunion next to my right pinky toe, finding shoes narrow enough for my feet has always been a struggle.

Edwina clasps her hand. “Quelle coincidence!You’re in luck, my dear. We wear the same exact size. Pick out a pair of shoes.”

There are dozens of shoes, maybe close to two hundred pairs, lining the shelves. An assortment of heels, sandals, and flats in every color. Some that look like they’ve never been worn.

My eyes pan the dazzling array. I need something sensible as I may be chasing after rambunctious Adele all day. On the bottom shelf, I land on the perfect ones. A pair of black satin Ferragamo ballet flats. And they’ll look pretty with the dress. A thought flits into my head: Since when have I ever thought about looking pretty? Only since meeting the legendary Edwina Rochester. And her handsome, mysterious godson, Ward.

I bend down and retrieve them. “Can I borrow these?”

“My dear, you can have them. And both the dress and sweater.”

I’m at a loss for words. “I—I can’t accept them.”

“My dear, I positively insist... and remember, part of our agreement is that you must do as I ask. I no longer have any use for them. Besides, my waist is sadly no longer its infamous nineteen inches, and my doctor wants me to wear orthopedic shoes that will keep me from falling.”

“I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

“You already have. Now, come. I’m excited to see these garments come alive again on a beautiful, young lady.”

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