Page 28 of Fragile Wicked Things
"What is this?" I asked.
"Strolling."
The first couple strolled down the line, executing their own dance steps, paving the way for the next couple. Some gyrated down, enthused by the wild cheers of others. One dancer walked on his hands.
"Our turn." Thomas reached out and held my hand as we strolled, performing a freestyle dance move as we made our way down. The line was long and the song ended before my time came up again.
The music slowed, men and women reached out to one another; the women placed their arms around the men, legs entwined as they grooved together. Thomas looked to the dancers around us, and I thought he would suggest we sit, but then he grabbed my hand and put it on his shoulder; his arm reached around me, and he told me to sway closer. We did the moves without all the grinding and gyrating. I tried not to look at the others; all arms and legs and bodies twisted together like Titian's painting of Diana and Actaeon, but when I looked at Thomas, I found him staring at me. We swayed to the music, our bodies fitting together. He held one arm around my waist, tight, the other hung casually to his side. I had never been that close to a man before and it gave me a strange, warm feeling. A shortness of breath. A quickened heartbeat. I had felt this way before with Rochester.
I pulled myself away, telling Thomas I was thirsty and smiled so that he wouldn't sense the truth. It wasn't long after we returned to our table that some friends came and spoke to Thomas, but I couldn't hear above the loud music. Thomas hadn’t been in New Orleans long but making friends came easy to him. He introduced them by their nicknames—Easy, Sly and just plain Alan, then their girlfriends joined us and we crowded around the small table, pulling chairs up from all around. Sly managed to light the cigarette dangling from his dry lips and open a whiskey bottle at the same time. The bottle passed around, from Sly to Alan to his girlfriend, who then gave it to me. It was automatic for me to reach for it, but she didn't let go, her lips formed into an "o" when she realized her mistake. There was a shift in atmosphere, and Sly said I didn't have to drink from it. I brought the bottle to my lips and drank.
* * *
Thomas droppedme off past midnight. I hummed a tune as I turned the key in the door and entered the dark entranceway with a little twirl; the exuberance of the evening possessed me. Never had I experienced such freedom, and it had been a while since I felt joy, the true kind that comes with learning something new about yourself.
"Jane." Rochester's voice startled me. He called me into the drawing room where he sat in a wing chair, his back to me so I couldn't see his face. The fireplace before him blazed and crackled, its glow illuminated the drink in his hand. "You're home late. It's not an appropriate hour for a lady."
Tempted to say something clever about the nights he kept and the women he kept them with, I bit my tongue and said nothing instead.
"Were you with Thomas?"
Oh, how the tables have turned."Yes. Catherine gave me the evening off."
"What were you doing at this late hour?"
"Dancing."
"Dancing?" He stood to face me, and a shudder jolted through my body. On his face, he wore a black horned mask with a nefarious smile permanently etched on it. He swayed a little from the drink. "With Thomas?"
I nodded my head.
"Oh, that's grand."
I turned away. "Please take that off. It's hideous in the dark."
He moved close to me, and I looked at him, staring at that wicked smile taunting me.
"I'm a demon in human form. I don't belong in your world," Rochester said, his voice low yet powerful.
"Please, stop," I said.
"Is it the mask you fear or me?"
"I'm not afraid of you."
He leaned in, took a gentle sniff, and whispered into my ear. "I can smell your fear. How do you think I found you in the maze that night?"
"I can smell your drink, Mr. Rochester."
He pulled back. "I've had plenty. Plenty of scotch. Plenty of time in which to drink it. Waiting for you to return home so that I could give you this."
Rochester gestured with his hand to the sofa. A red satin ballgown was haphazardly discarded atop the remnants of a gift box, the cardboard ripped to shreds in anger. Rochester lifted the mask, unveiling his face, twisted in agony. "I waited, but you were with him tonight."
"He was teaching me to dance, for you, for the ball tomorrow."
"Show me."
"I can't."
