Page 15 of Fragile Wicked Things
One of his hands clasped my wrist, and his other held me at my waist, cold hands against my warm, bare skin. Or did I imagine him against my nakedness, owing in part to my flimsy nightgown, owing the other part to my cloistered life? Again, I gasped for air as he advanced towards me. His eyes were darker than most, and the longer I stared into them, the deeper I fell into that eternal abyss. I swayed a little. That made him smirk.
"You fear me."
"I do not," I lied.
"There is much to fear."
Rochester then let go, leaving me unsteady on my feet, and I had to lean against the doorjamb. He walked back to Catherine's room, never once looking back.
Five
For weeks, I awoke to tires crackling on gravel and gears screeching before the old '47 pickup slid to a stop and its squeaky doors opened and slammed shut. It was Lis and Katya who trudged to the house and entered. The maids were sisters. The older one had gone grey at too young an age; the younger had eyes so light they were almost transparent like glass, and she carried a look of disenchantment to her gaze, of failure and, much worse, acceptance of that failure. They kept to themselves, said little to me and spoke in Russian, the words lazily dragging out of them as they wiped down the furniture, whacked the carpets and curtains and washed dishes. By day's end, before the sun had set, they were gone.
Buddy was fired for taking Rochester's Cadillac instead of the old pickup truck. He argued with Auntie and begged to speak to Rochester, but she told him Rochester never changed his mind. No one visited the house, as though the outside world couldn't penetrate the walls surrounding Thornfield, and I fell into the rhythm of monotony.
Some days, I found time to myself and hid in my room, sitting on a chair by an open window. A breeze swept through. The floors above me creaked, then moments later, creaked again, soft at first and then louder. I looked up and listened. Silence. That first time I had heard it, I wasn't sure if it was the house settling or footsteps until it happened again. At first, the noises scared me; on occasion, music played, sometimes followed by the sound of furniture dragged across the floor, but when I asked Auntie about it one day, she told me some workmen were repairing a portion of the roof. I accepted her explanation, even though I never saw workmen. The sounds continued. Squirrels, she explained another time, had gotten in through the original hole in the roof, and now the hired men were working on getting them out. Before long, I realized Auntie was a terrible liar.
Early on, I discovered Catherine's inner clock was backwards, asleep most days and up most nights. I could hear her chatting with Rochester. Their voices reverberated from downstairs in different keys, his lyrical and hers soft. Some nights, when I awoke to get a glass of water from the kitchen, I saw them in the drawing room. Catherine stretched out on a chaise by the fire, while Rochester read to her in the semidarkness. There they would sit until the fire that had blazed earlier in the evening now hissed then popped, withering away to nothing more than glowing embers. By then, it was one, sometimes two o'clock in the morning, and once, when Catherine drifted off to sleep, I saw Rochester brush away the hair from her face, examining her, outlining her eyelids and cheekbones with his finger. He would then scoop his grandmother in his arms, effortless and gentle, and carry her upstairs to her room, where he would disappear with her.
For many nights, I watched them, writing in my "Catherine Journal," detailing her days and nights, administering her pills, preparing late snacks of prunes and raisins for her, and sometimes sneaking her a few nuts that I would soften in water.
It proved difficult to stay out of Rochester's way since he spent much time with Catherine. Most nights, he excused me and sent me to my room, and, like an obedient daughter, I obeyed. There, at the small desk in my room, I wrote lengthy letters to Mrs. Temple about my new life, my new friends, and how I had found happiness, but as I wrote this, I knew it to be a lie. Still, I reread the letter and signed my name to it, then the pen tip broke and ink blotted on the paper, bleeding through to the other side. I dabbed at it with my finger, then pressed a tissue to it and waved the paper to air dry. I had not been careful and touched my finger to my sleeve, leaving a blue stain. My other hand fumbled as it undid the buttons, pulling it off. I washed my shirt in the sink basin, rubbing hand soap on the ink before it stained. I worked hard at it, rubbing the cloth until nearly white and hung it on the shower rod.
There was a knock on the door, and Auntie told me Rochester had summoned me to the drawing room. This alarmed me. I looked down at myself, half-undressed, and threw on a dark brown dress I used to wear to church while at Lowood.
In the drawing room, Catherine sat in a chair, a blanket over her legs, while Rochester stood by the fire, his back to me, hands clasped behind him. The wind howled outside; a storm was coming.
"You called for me, Mr. Rochester?"
He spun around to face me. "I most definitely did not." The words blurted out of him as though what I had said sounded preposterous. He then picked up the blackened poker from a stand and stabbed the logs in the fireplace with such force it was as if he were killing something.
"I rang for you. Sit on the sofa there, Jane," Catherine said, pointing. "Edward, stop playing with the fire and sit beside her."
Rochester turned to Catherine, and his mouth fell open and twisted. He was prepared to argue but stopped and replaced the poker on its stand. He fell onto the sofa next to me with such a heaviness that I jumped, and then he turned his body away from me, legs crossed.
"Edward, pass the book to Jane for her to read."
The book in question sat on the oval mahogany table next to him, and he handed it to me, but when I took it from him, he grasped the book tighter, like a child made to give up a favorite toy. His behavior was absurd. I then yanked the book from him, opening it to a page with "Edward F. Rochester, 1905" written in a beautiful hand. I turned to the title page, "A Collection of Poems by Byron," slammed the book shut, and inspected the creased spine, confirming that it was indeed Byron's poetry I had to read aloud. Having never mastered poetry, the very thought unnerved me, and I saw a glint in his eyes as though this was a test that should please him if I failed. I took a deep breath, cracked open the book and flipped from one poem to another, contemplating which to read, flustered by all the choices. Was there one well-known poem considered superior, and would I make a fool of myself if I picked a lesser one?
"Shall I make a suggestion?The Bride of Abydos," he said.
My discomfort abated, and I felt grateful to Rochester for alleviating my anxiety. Yes, a poem about a bride would be a happy one, and I turned to the correct page.
"The Bride of Abydos," I began. "Canto The First.
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime?
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?"
Byron flowed out of me—a lyrical song, a love story, an appreciation for words—and I continued reading to his poem's rhythmic beat.
"Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
