Page 29 of Fragile Wicked Things
"Why?"
"Do you mean to embarrass me like some circus monkey for your amusement?"
Rochester's face softened and his demeanor lost its aggression. "No," he said.
The clock struck one, and Rochester grew quiet. He looked around, confused by his surroundings, then sat down at the piano, and hummed along as he played a few keys. He stopped midway, struggling to strike the correct key, and continued with a melancholic melody.
"Will you sit next to me? I could teach you to play. Every woman should be accomplished. Catherine played every day since the age of five. For seventy-five years, I heard her, and now there's silence."
I had grown accustomed to the inaccuracies Catherine made from time to time, but this I considered strange. Surely, he meant he’d been listening to Catherine play since he was a child and not the duration of her life.
I sat on the bench next to him. "You're heartbroken, Mr. Rochester. Her playing used to comfort you when you were a child and now..."
"I'm losing her, Jane. I'm losing my Catherine."
I understood his torment, that when Catherine passed away, he would become orphaned like me. It wasn't right to be alone, and although Rochester's motivations weren't always clear, I knew his greatest burden was watching someone he loved die.
"Teach me to play," I said to lift him from the despair I found him in.
"Now?"
"Just a few notes. The night is young."
"The night is always young. Lesson the first."
Rochester took my hand into his and spread my fingers across a number of keys. He was cold to the touch but gentle. Playing alongside me, he showed me the correct fingering, and how to count and while I fumbled and laughed, an unexpected thing happened. Rochester laughed too.
When the clock struck two, I said, "I should go."
Rochester jumped up, folded the dress, and handed it to me. "Good night," he said.
"Good night."
He leaned forward, his face inches from mine, his thumb stroking my lips, turned his head and kissed my cheek. "Thank you for entertaining a drunken fool."
I turned away, unable to suppress the flush to my cheeks and the smile on my lips.
By the time I reached my bedroom, I was exhausted and fumbled with the door handle until it gave. In the darkness, I placed the dress on my bed and tossed my coat next to it. Something stirred—a figure sat on the chair by the foot of my bed. I gasped and, in a flash, turned on the switch, hoping that the ghostly image would disappear at the first sign of light.
"Auntie! You gave me such a fright."
She sat there motionless, quiet, too quiet that I thought for a moment her dead. A strange sound came from her. She had been crying.
"I’ve been caring for the Rochesters going on forty-five years since my own baby girl was small. It was just me taking care of my baby. Mr. Rochester offered me a job, so I took it. The money was good, but I didn't know. I didn't know it was the devil I made a deal with. He wore a mask to hide his true face. No, I didn't know. I was planning to leave, but Mr. Rochester...It was too late, I sold my soul, but it wasn’t too late for my baby girl. I sent her away to my sister in Chicago, so she raised her and kept her away from this place. And oh, Lord, then he shows up here." She turned her face upwards, pleading with the Lord above and then looked down, shaking her head from side to side. "Lord. Oh Lord, Jesus." Auntie stopped crying, took a deep breath and looked straight at me, penetrating me. "My grandbaby stays here because of you. Leave this place, and reason with my boy to go back to Chicago. Save his soul. It isn't safe here. For neither of you."
Nine
Icame undone. For days leading up to the ball, my nerves were on edge and, incapable of eating, I had lost weight. The moment Rochester and I stepped into the entranceway at the ball, I excused myself and hurried to the ladies' room. The attendant, an older woman with wavy hair and silver-framed glasses, opened up her sewing kit, assuring me she'd tighten the strap that had come loose. The red dress was slightly off the shoulder, but a strap along the inside kept the short sleeves from falling too low down my arms. She pinned me, and as I stared at my image reflected in the mirror, I couldn’t recognize myself.
When the attendant had finished, I lifted the white-feathered mask to my face. Just breathe. Deep. First in. Then out. I found Rochester waiting for me in the corridor.
"Are you all right?" he said.
"Nervous."
"Come. I won't leave your side." He gave me his arm and led me to the grand ballroom.
The New Year's Eve ball was held at the Old Dance Hall in the center of town. Rooted deep within the history of New Orleans' high society, it had been reinvigorated by the women's auxiliary a few years before. The hall, paneled in a mahogany wood, housed several tables and chairs where people gathered, chatted, drank and adjusted their masks. Did they know I pretended to be upper class, costumed to look like them? Oh, how I wish Catherine had been there that night, but she had been too ill to attend.
