Page 22 of Fragile Wicked Things
"Can I assume you've forgiven me for my atrocious behavior up to this point? Perhaps we can work towards a friendship of sorts. Let’s begin with you calling me by my first name."
"That pleases me...Edward." A slight smile crept to my face.
He gazed at me and moved closer, his lips mere inches from mine. His hand reached out behind me, undid the clip that clasped my hair, and let my long layers cascade about my face and neck. He played with my hair, twisting a strand around his finger, and said, "Don't be so wound up."
* * *
Although the doctorsfound nothing troubling with Catherine's health, they adjusted her medication and recommended she continue with her bed rest. Catherine made Rochester promise not to go away again, and since the relationship between us improved, I was pleased that he would be around more. His manner towards me relaxed, and when I walked into a room, his face didn't scowl as it used to, so I wanted to escape him less. He called on me often, requesting that I join them in the drawing room. I suspected this newfound friendship pleased Catherine.
By the end of November, the days were shorter and colder. While I mourned the loss of the sun, Rochester seemed content in his nocturnal bliss. One evening, the cold was unbearable. The fire lay dying, but I had no more timber by the fireside to keep it going throughout the night and would have to rely on the extra blankets kept in the hall closet. The heavy door squeaked as I pulled on it, the musty, mothball smell hitting my nostrils, the wool blanket rough to the touch but warm. I carried it back towards my room, half dragging it on the floor.
The sound of a car door stopped me. When I looked out the window toward the driveway at the back of the house, I saw a woman exit a taxi. Even stranger, Auntie met her at that ridiculous hour. At first, I thought she was a nurse and wondered why they hadn't called me. Together, they entered the house through the back door, but only one set of footsteps walked up the back stairwell.
"Hello?" the stranger called out. Finally, she reached the top and stepped into the corridor. She had her coat flung over her arm, her sweater was tight and off one shoulder, and she wore a red scarf tied around her neck. Her clothes looked worn and cheap like someone's cast off. No, she wasn't a nurse. I remained invisible to her in the darkness, but the moon's ray illuminated her, and I scrutinized her every movement. She went to the door always kept under lock and key, the same one I had been warned about countless times, and held the knob in her hand. To my surprise, she pushed it wide open.
"Hello?" she called out again, but her demeanor changed when she looked in. Her body relaxed, her timidity now gone, replaced with a cockiness. "There you are." She giggled.
The door closed behind her, her stilettos clanking up the steps to the attic above, from which I would sometimes hear noises throughout the day. I snuck into my room, laid the blanket on my bed, and got underneath, shivering under the weight of the wool. My chattering drowned out the noises usually reserved for daytime.
Laughter came down through the bathroom pipes and into my room, as did music and footsteps, but when the record player came to a stop, there was absolute silence. For a moment, I could hear only the sound of the wind whistling against my window, but then the whistling became a moan—a woman's moan. When I heard a man's grunt mingle with the woman's, I ran to shut my bathroom door to deaden the sounds. It was no use.
I lay there for hours, listening, lost in my private torment, until the stilettoed footsteps came back down the staircase. She stumbled against the door, then fumbled with the handle a few times before it creaked open and, in a flash, I stood, peering out at her through a slight crack in my door. Her hair and clothes were disheveled, and she dragged her coat behind her as she walked forward unsteadily. She yanked at her red scarf until it fell off, revealing blood smeared on her neck, and then dabbed at the sweat on her pale cheek.
"There’s a taxi to take you home," Auntie said, her voice startling me.
I closed my door, crept back into bed, and pulled the covers over me. Still, I couldn't quell the memory of the music, her squeals of delight, groans and whimpering. I knew what transpired in their drunken stupor and can only assume their impairment led to an accident that left her bleeding. I despised her for coming into Thornfield Hall with her obscene behavior and cheap perfume, for disrespecting Catherine in her own home, and for affecting a recent friendship between Rochester and myself. The pattern repeated the following two nights, each time a different woman but the same cheap look and potent perfume. One smelled of fried chicken. And each time, the women stumbled down the stairs after a night fueled by alcohol and sex.
I wish he hadn’t promised Catherine he wouldn’t go away again, fearing she’d have a relapse in his absence. Now I understood why Rochester traveled each month and what he did during that time that wasn't "business" related, as Auntie told me. He was a man. At his age, with his status, he should have been looking for a wife. It wasn't any concern of mine, yet why did I feel I’d been spurned? My reaction astounded me, forcing me to reconsider how I saw Rochester in relation to me.
As the day wore on, I thought of nothing else, and although time was supposed to offer clarity, it did nothing of the sort. The more I replayed the sounds, the more it incensed me; the more I questioned it, the more I realized how foolish I was to think Rochester thought anything of me other than as his grandmother's caregiver. I was poor, uneducated beyond high school and inexperienced in all matters relating to life, yet knowledgeable in all matters relating to death and unhappiness. There lay the truth, and I had to admit that in my silliness, I sought out his simple acts of kindness and took pleasure whenever he called on me to read poetry to them. Culpability lay with me, and I knew it was not wise to believe I belonged in their world.
Byron!The poetry interfered with my good judgment and eliminated all reason. It was those nights by the fire, being treated as one of their fine friends, as a bright young lady, by Rochester enquiring as to my thoughts on current matters. Not once did he make me feel inadequate. On the contrary, he made me feel as though he sought me out as much for his pleasure as for my benefit. Now he slept all day, tired from his nights of excessive indulgence, and then he'd meet Catherine for dinner. I wondered if he cared about the shame he brought into her home.
The following night, Catherine remained in her room, and I had been summoned to join Rochester in the dining room. Auntie told me he didn't wish to dine alone. 'Then get one of his whores,' I felt like telling Auntie, but I would never utter such a word and to judge them as I did merely because I was taught that brought me shame. I could have pretended to have a headache to avoid him, yet part of me desired to see him. Still, I decided to change into a plain outfit, wrapped my hair into a bun, a hairpin holding it in place, and examined myself in the mirror. I looked nothing like his women. When I entered the dining room, he smiled, but soon afterwards, his smile diminished, and his bottom lip pushed forward into an expression of annoyance.
"You've put your hair back up. I liked it down."
"It gets in the way," I said as I sat at the table near him where a plate was set. Picking up the fork and knife, I played with my food, pushing it around on the plate. I felt his eyes on me.
"How was your day, Jane?"
"Uneventful."
"That's an odd way to describe it. Uneventful, implying that Thornfield is usually full of events." There he was, playing games, pretending not to be aware of the goings-on during the nights, unconcerned about my feelings. I remained quiet. "I had hoped—albeit undeservedly—that we had come to an understanding, forgiveness for my earlier behavior towards you. Over these last weeks, I thought I had redeemed myself in your eyes."
"For your earlier behavior, yes, but I can't..."
"Can't what?"
"Can't condone your behavior of the last three nights." Why did I say three, revealing I kept count?
"I haven't seen you for the past three nights. I've been...away from Thornfield."
"You think me a fool, Mr. Rochester?"
"Ah, we're back to Mr. now, are we? What has happened, Jane, that angers you?"
When I looked at him, I was confounded by his expression—or rather lack thereof—no color on his face betrayed his emotion or consciousness of guilt.
