Page 7 of Fragile Wicked Things
At first, I thought he had spoken to the older girl, then realized he had addressed me. I did as I was instructed, but a darkness grew inside me. I struggled for control, taking measured breaths. Mr. Brocklehurst stared at me; his grey eyes colorless against his reddened face. I had to look away, and my eyes rested on Helen, who stared at me, eyes wide. Then she smiled as if to pass me some of her courage. I knew then that I would endure whatever cruelty Mr.Brockleworsthad in store for me and remain stoic.
"This girl is a liar—a girl of weak character. The Reeds warned me of a darkness well inside her, and you should all take my warning. Watch her closely for she will lie, cheat, and bring dishonor to Lowood. She will contaminate the pure and on such a Holy day, I will not allow her to. She is to stand here until after the girls have eaten their Christmas dinners."
"She's a child. It's much too harsh a punishment," Mrs. Temple said.
"She will do as I say, and you will see to it. Is that understood, Mrs. Temple?"
Silence followed, and she looked down for a few seconds before whispering, "Yes." This seemed to satisfy Mr.Brockleworst, who looked straight at me. He let out a "humph" and walked out of the room.
I remained on the stool while the girls looked on, believing me a liar, a cheater, and an impure person. My character had been attacked, and I did nothing to defend myself. I endured that lie at Lowood and hoped it did not represent the world outside and that justice reigned.
Three
Astorm rattled the windows during the night and I tossed about, pulled the blanket up to my chin for warmth, shivering under its thinness. Exhaustion overtook me, but I heard scraping against glass somewhere in the distance. I looked at the window and saw them in the semi-darkness—fingers! They were dark, pointy, and crooked, and cast a shadow inside the room. I ducked underneath the bedspread for safety. "If I don't look at them, they will go away," I whispered the mantra repeatedly, gasping for breath in between.
Silence quieted me, and after much consideration, I lifted the bedspread. The fingers were gone, having abandoned their resolve to frighten me. My breath returned to normal; the exhale visible in the cold room. I crept out of bed towards the window and in the sliver of moonlight, I could see nothing there. Edging closer, I peered beyond the window frame—the fingers were still there! I jumped back. What if it tried to open the window? The lock had been left open, and I could reach over, turn the knob and run back to my bed, but when I stepped forward, I realized they weren't fingers but a small tree branch, naked from the winter months. Relief overcame me, and I let out a little laugh. How stupid of me to let myself be frightened by this old house.
The full moon lit the snowy grounds below. The trees swayed in the wind, and I could see a figure, part man, part creature, behind them. He'd returned. He dared to turn my way, his face hidden under his cloaked hood. Then he moved away, dragging the body of a young blond girl behind him. Helen.
A bell rang. A desperate gasp for air escaped me, shattering my nightmare, only I awoke to discover myself in another.
Hours dragged into days, which became weeks, and weeks became months. Soon, I found myself two years older and still at Lowood. During that time, I received three letters from my father, written in a hand I did not recognize and in a sweet language I did not know. The words danced on the page to a musical tune. I knew the Reverend wrote those letters, but I longed for it to be my father, to show that he did love me enough to write.
After dinner one spring night, some of the girls sat in the living room, sipping tea, knitting, or idly flipping pages of textbooks. Helen sat near me, looking a little pale and staring at a page of a book. When I asked her if she felt well, she returned a small smile. I never told her what I knew, what I had seen all those nights when the creature tormented her. Helen would tell me I had a wild imagination.
We heard the sound of a vehicle pull into the driveway, which was familiar because of Mr. Brocklehurst's rattling engine. The car door slammed. Heavy footsteps pounded the gravel, followed by the muffled sounds of Mr. Brocklehurst speaking to a woman. He drowned her out, eventually silencing her.
The front door flew open, and Mrs. Temple entered, eyes averted, with Mr. Brocklehurst behind her. He whispered something to her, then went into his office, and shut the door on her. Mrs. Temple stood there for a moment, head down, the nape of her neck exposed under her hair that gathered into a tiny bun. Her shoulders sunk, and she sniffled, wiping her eyes before turning to face us. What could Mr.Brockleworsthave said to her to upset her so? She pulled her shoulders back, trying to compose herself before entering the room, but they seemed to sink again when her eyes fell on me. Her voice almost broke when she spoke to me. "Jane, Mr. Brocklehurst would like to have a word with you."
I nodded and smiled to assure her that I would be fine with Mr. Brocklehurst, that he couldn't harm me any more than he already had. Mrs. Temple held my hand, something I thought odd. Although she had always been kind to the girls, she was never affectionate to the point of physical touch. Her hand felt soft, warm and pleasing, like my mother's. Mrs. Temple took a deep breath, then led me to Mr. Brocklehurst's office, knocking on the heavy, wooden door.
"Come in," he called. Mr. Brocklehurst sat at his desk, looking over some papers and waved for me to sit down. "That will be all, Mrs. Temple."
"It's best that I stay."
"Your presence won't change Jane's situation."
What situation could that be?
"Jane, I'll be right outside," she told me before leaving.
I felt awkward sitting in the chair opposite Mr. Brocklehurst, my feet not yet touching the floor. I had the urge to swing them but knew he would disapprove of my impropriety, of which, according to him, I had a great deal of. At least I excelled at something.
He remained silent and continued to peruse his papers, leaving me to wait in silence as though my presence bothered him. The clock tick-tocked. A mound of paper was stacked high in his in-tray, the key to his filing cabinet sat next to it, and a kerchief of blotted ink lay crumpled nearby. I stared at the numbers on the big, black phone and wondered whom I would call if allowed—Helen—only that would be absurd because she sat in the next room. Quite by accident, I let out a sigh.
Mr. Brocklehurst looked at me and removed his glasses, cleaning them as he leaned back in his chair. "Do I bore you, Jane?"
"No, Mr. Brocklehurst."
"Are you happy here?"
This question surprised me. While I believed he had no interest in an answer, did he not see Lowood as a prison for poor girls?
"No, sir."
Mr. Brocklehurst clenched his jaw, put his glasses back on and stared at me, the better to see me with, as the fairytale went. "Insolent reply from an insolent girl. Your two years here at Lowood have been wasteful. I have tried as much as I could to mold you into an agreeable young woman, but all is lost. You have proven to be a liar and a cheater, yet it is your character that displeases me most. You have been ungrateful for all the goodness provided to you."
"There's no goodness here, Mr. Brocklehurst."
