Page 72 of Jane Deyre

Her eyes light up. “Auntie says I’m an excellent helper.”

“Can you keep it a secret?”

She bobs her head enthusiastically.

I make her do a pinky promise with me. Something my mother used to make me do. Especially when it came to her furtive nights with Edwina.

A half hour later, mission accomplished.

Jane’s present—or should I say presents—will be delivered in time.

For the first time since Edwina announced it, I’m looking forward to the dinner party.

CHAPTER 38

Jane

My legs feel like lead. It takes all I have to traverse the expansive lawn that separates Thornhill from the guesthouse. It feels like miles. Mist pricks my skin. The sky has darkened. It’s feeling more and more like rain.

I’m so damn tired. Weak limbed, blurry eyed, practically brain dead. To be honest, I’m not even excited about this dinner party. I don’t have the wherewithal to converse with a bunch of hifalutin strangers. I don’t even know what to wear. Despite receiving my first paycheck, I haven’t had a minute to go shopping. Let alone breathe. I suppose Edwina’s floral dress will have to do, though it seems way too casual for this formal event. I have no choice.

Breathless, worn out, I arrive at the guesthouse.

To my relief, the lights appear to be turned off as I left them.

To my surprise, a huge box awaits me at the front door. Addressed to me.

Confusion pours over me.

It must be some kind of mistake. I didn’t order anything. Bending down, I pick it up and unlock the door with my key. It now opens easily.

I slog over to the kitchen, grab some scissors, and open the box. There are three boxes inside, ranging in size, all elegantly wrapped in silver-gray paper and ribbon. Carefully, I tear off the wrapping of the largest, revealing a similarly colored box labeled Neiman Marcus. It’s a fancy store in Beverly Hills. I know of it only because I used to look at their dazzling Christmas catalogue after Mrs. Reed discarded it. In fact, there’s a torn page from one on my vision board. I’ve always dreamed of a sparkling Christmas, visions of sugarplum fairies dancing in my head. I was lucky if I got a pair of socks from my foster families. John Reed gave me coal. And a black eye.

I lift the lid off the box and unfold the layers of delicate white tissue paper. And then I gasp. Inside it is a stunning black dress. I remove the dress from the box and hold it up. It’s almost identical to the one Audrey Hepburn wore inBreakfast at Tiffany’s.There’s even a Givenchy label inside it with my size. Size 4. I notice a small gift card. Draping the little black dress over my arm, I read it:

Wear this tonight. ~WR

My eyes stay glued to the note. My heart’s almost beating out of my chest. Mr. Rochester bought me this dress?

Feverishly, I open the second box. I gasp again. A pair of shiny black leather pumps. With pointed toes and kitten heels. Manolo Blahniks. Size 5 AAA. No note. But I know they’re from Mr. Rochester, who must have learned of my shoe size from his godmother.

Finally, the third box. It’s considerably smaller. A book? With quivering fingers, I peel off the paper. A robin’s-egg-blue Tiffany box awaits me. Every nerve in my body tingling with excitement, I open it and almost faint. Before me is a strand of pearls and a pair of pearl earrings each dotted with a sparkling diamond. I’m in a state of shock; I feel lightheaded. Another note:

Wear your hair up. I want to see your ears. ~WR

My breath hitches in my throat. Reality sets in. It’s madness. I take out my phone and text Mr. Rochester because I know if I call him, I will make a total fool out of myself. Say things I’ll regret. I let him know I can’t accept these gifts and hit send.

He texts me right back.

You can and you will. Get ready.

Twenty manic minutes later, I’m showered and dressed in the little black dress, the shoes, and the pearls. All the Band-Aids peeled off from my fingers, the thorn pricks barely visible. My hair gathered into a messy bun. A little makeup adding color to my face. Edwina’s exquisite French lingerie beneath the sheath. Feeling invigorated, I head to my bedroom for a final look in the closet door mirror and get another shock. This one chilling.

My vision board. Someone has slashed a large red X over my Audrey Hepburn– inspired portrait. Bile rises to the back of my throat. I feel sick to my stomach. So violated. Who would do such a thing?

I swallow back the bile. There’s only one person who has access to the guesthouse. Only one person who hates me with a passion. Only one person who wants to see me fall apart. Tonight of all nights.

Alice Fairfax.

---