Page 56 of Jane Deyre

D M. ochst:

Pls ccpt this s n officil ltt of signtion.

Gibberish! In frustration, I slam my right hand on the keyboard, causing the springy, cacophonous keys to go down all at once and tangle. I’ve probably destroyed the old typewriter.

On the verge of tears, I trudge back to my bedroom. I undress. Slowly lifting the exquisite rose-print dress over my head. I hang it in the closet, not sure if I’ll take it with me or leave it behind. And return it to Edwina or to Mr. Rochester. I’m left with just Edwina’s French lingerie clinging to my body. I gaze at myself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. It’s as if the sexy undergarments with their dainty little bows are encasing my privates like gift-wrapping. I trace my fingers over my lace-covered breasts, circling my nipples with my thumbs until they become animated little peaks that seem attached by silk threads to my sex and then glide one hand down my torso over my abdomen until it reaches the waistband of the sensuous silk and lace briefs. I slide it under the band, find my nub, and rub it with my fingers. In my mind’s eye, bringing myself to ecstasy with another—Mr. Rochester. A figment of my imagination. A fantasy. His body next to mine, his fingers my fingers. Rubbing me harder and harder. Whispering sweet nothings to me. Coaxing me to come.

I let go. My release brings me back to reality. My sad reality. Tomorrow morning, I will pack my bag. Say goodbye to Thornhill. Say goodbye to him and his sweet daughter.

With tears in my eyes, I move to the bureau and pin my Audrey Hepburn-like portrait to my vision board. Replacing the photo with my drawing.

My watering eyes stay on it. Whatever has happened between Mr. Rochester and me will stay behind.

My vision board will go with me wherever I go.

I climb into bed still in the sumptuous undergarments.

And cry myself to sleep. Oblivious to strange noises from the room next door.

A horrible dream awaits me. I’m a baby. Alone in my crib. Footsteps thud in my ears. Mama’s? I’m not sure because they’re louder and heavier than hers. Mama always wears slippers when she enters my room at night to check up on me. So she won’t wake me. The footsteps get closer, louder. I look up at the shadowy figure. He only has half of a face! With his one eye, he gazes down at me and gives me a wicked half grin.

“Do you know where bad babies go?” The specter, the voice, I recognize them. It’s John Reed! “They go to hell, little Jane Deyre.”

Fear consumes me. I begin to wail.

“Shut up, you little brat!” He snatches me. And with a single match, sets fire to my crib. It goes up in red-hot flames. They lick my skin; singe my hair. Then, he throws me back inside it. Oh the excruciating pain!

He chortles. “Burn in hell, Jane Deyre. For being born. For what you did!”

I awaken with a scream, covered in a cold sweat. I still hear a child crying.

Panic grips me.

Adele!

CHAPTER 28

Jane

Iforego the pebbled path and jog across the expansive lawn, still soaking wet from yesterday’s downpour. My feet squelch across the soggy ground and trample over fallen branches, making it difficult to move any faster. The vision-impairing fog doesn’t help.

Adele’s wails grow louder as I get closer to Thornhill. Something is wrong. Very wrong. Fear is pulsing in my blood. My heart is pounding.

When I get to the house, Adele is outside on the veranda in her pajamas crouched down on the pavers. She’s sobbing so hard I can see tears and snot watering the ground.

I squat down beside her and wrap an arm around her heaving shoulders. “Adele, honey, tell me what’s wrong?”

“Stripe,” she splutters. “Somebody stepped on him. He’s dead.” She points a finger at the snail.

My gaze follows her. My heart sinks to my stomach. Poor Stripe’s shell is crushed, his mangled body spilling through the deep cracks. He doesn’t move. Not even the tiniest millimeter.

“Jane, can you make Stripe come back to life?”

“Sweetie, I can’t.” I take her into my arms, but she’s inconsolable.

“What is all this commotion about?” comes another voice. I gaze skyward and Ms. Fairfax in her gray suit, with a cup of tea in her hand, hovers over me. Her steel-gray eyes are narrow as razor blades and her lips are pinched tight. She zeroes in on Adele.

“Mrs. Rochester needs her sleep and you’re going to wake her up, you sniveling brat!”

---