Page 12 of Fragile Wicked Things
Lowood had no Black students, and there were few in Liberal, where I lived with my parents, making Auntie the first Black person I had spoken with. I stared at the folds on the back of her neck, the shine of her sweat, and listened as she huffed down the hall, ushering me into the kitchen. There, Auntie took leftovers from the icebox, cut some bread and put cold turkey slices between them. The teakettle whistled, and she poured the boiling water into a cup, spilling some on the counter. She motioned for me to sit down, served me the lunch plate, and then plopped into a chair opposite me, her chest heaving. My arrival at Thornfield Hall had differed from that dark, wet night when I had arrived at Lowood, that I took it in faith as a sign of good things to come.
"Miss Jane, you been to Nawlins before?"
I shook my head and swallowed the piece of dry bread in my mouth, wishing for water but making do with the hot tea. I detected a slight accent. Her vernacular was sometimes similar to Buddy’s and yet not. "Are you the housekeeper?"
"Yes, though Thornfield Hall looks a bit run down lately. I’ve been takin’ care of Mr. Rochester for some forty-five years now."
"Oh," I said, mulling it over. "If I remember correctly, you wrote in your letter that Mr. Rochester is in his thirties."
Auntie got up from her chair, picked up a washcloth, and wiped down a clean counter, her back to me. "I took care of his father before him," she said.
"The senior Mr. Rochester lives here, too?"
She stopped in mid-wipe; her shoulders tensed before she spoke. "It's best not to ask too many questions." Her voice sounded somber, but when she looked at me, she chuckled to show me she wasn't serious. My uneasiness wasn't soothed, and I felt like a stupid girl. Of course, asking many questions wasn't polite, especially in someone's home. This I had learned at Lowood—to keep quiet and observe, to hide away—and I swore never to forget my lessons again.
After lunch, Auntie escorted me up the oak staircase, stopping to take a deep breath. We continued, reached the landing, and walked along a corridor with several closed doors. She pointed to a set of double doors.
"That’s Mizzez's room. You’re at the end."
My room was apart from the others at the darkest end of the corridor. There were two doors next to each other, and when I jumped ahead of Auntie and reached for the first handle, I found it locked.
"That’s not yours," she spat out.
My mistake was a small one, and her tone astonished me.
"You mustn’t go there. This here is you," Auntie said, pointing to the other door and left me.
The room was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a dresser and mismatched night tables, and a reading chair nestled near the fireplace. I let out an incredulous gasp at having my own bathroom and fiddled with the taps, gawking at the hot water pouring out. Later, as I ran my fingers across the layer of dust on the bookcase, I guessed that it had been a long time since someone had stayed there. The shelves were lined with hardcover books, bringing to mind Auntie's letter I had received two weeks prior advising me that Mrs. Cousins liked to be read to. Auntie asked if I could read. Had I not responded by letter, she would have heard my joyous "yes."
Rochester (much to my chagrin, I picked up Buddy's habit of dropping the "Mr.") went out of town several days a month, and my arrival coincided with his absence. He was to return the following day, but in the meantime, I would meet Mrs. Cousins that afternoon. When the clock struck four, I grabbed a book from the shelf, clutched it to my waist and ambled down to her room. I knocked, too loudly it seemed, and was taken aback by the high spirit of the female voice that invited me in. Mrs. Cousins sat upright in her bed, her grey hair cascading in braids on either side, her smile pleasant, her freckled hands shaking. She was not the frail elderly woman I had envisioned. Her bedroom was larger than mine, the four-poster bed carved in a foreign land with markings of palm trees, mountains and long-legged men and women carrying bundles on their heads. There were three other doors on the opposite side of the room. Beside her on a night table were portraits of men, some in black and white, some sepia-tinged, with a strong resemblance between the men.
"Jane, come closer so I can have a look."
I stepped closer. Throughout my childhood, I had been made to stand as people examined me, commenting on my tiny frame and plainness.
"Lovely girl," she said.
"Lovely" had never been used to describe me. "Plain" was the description most often attributed to my appearance, and once I overheard Mr. Brocklehurst tell Mrs. Temple he thought I lacked "refinement." She pointed out I had many fine qualities, and although I strained to eavesdrop on their conversation some more, she never went on to list them. Still, if I was deficient in physical attractiveness, I certainly made up for it in intelligence.
"Sit by me."
"Would you like me to read to you, Mrs. Cousins?"
"Not now, but I'm delighted to have someone who can read to me. My eyes get very tired. Auntie will only read recipes and tabloid magazines. Edward will only read poetry and nothing else. He's a romantic. I'd like to get to know you. How old are you, Jane?"
"Eighteen."
"Have you any family?"
"Orphaned, Mrs. Cousins."
"No relations at all? No husband, I understand."
"I have an aunt and uncle, but I've never met them. I'm alone."
The spark on her face disappeared for a moment. Her eyes drifted away, lost in another place, another time, and a sadness came over her. Then, she smiled and reached out for my hand.
"We have much in common. I, too, was orphaned, but not alone. I can tell by your eyes that you are clever. I'm correct, am I not?"
