Page 35 of Fragile Wicked Things
I shook my head. "Nothing."
"I doubt a moment goes by that you're not thinking of something. You may be quiet, but thoughts race in your mind."
"I'd be too embarrassed to tell you."
"Is it about me, then? I could tell by your smile that I was correct. Shall I share my thoughts? I must tell you how grateful I am that you came to Thornfield, that despite my being a brute at times, I've come to understand Catherine was right to bring you here."
A hand grabbed me, but when I realized it wasn't Rochester's, I looked down in surprise to find Auntie holding my wrist. Auntie's body shuddered, her face marked by an expression of horror and determination, her lips contorted, trying to release something. The sounds she sputtered were incoherent.
Then she uttered, "Devil." Her pupils rolled back, her mouth fell open, and her breathing stopped.
"Auntie! Auntie!" I shook her.
"Quick, get a doctor," Rochester said.
I ran down the hall, turned a corner, and, finding no doctor, pleaded for a nurse. Moments later, I returned with her. Rochester stood over Auntie, and a memory from my childhood flashed—the image of the creature hovering over Helen shook me. The nurse brushed past me, and when Rochester lowered Auntie’s eyelids, I knew she was gone. He turned to me. There was a darkness in him.
* * *
Auntie was buriedat Saint Louis cemetery among the Catholics and voodoo worshippers, the former slaves and politicians, the wealthy pioneers and voodoo priestesses. Many were entombed in vaults, known as City of the Dead, owing to the density of the tombs that looked like a sprawling, urban city. The funeral procession traveled along the disjointed alleys and passed several tombs ranging from white to tan, yellow to terracotta and rich grays. Scores were in a ruinous state. Bricks crumbled, weathered and aged. Death surrounded me.
"My friend is gone," Catherine had cried at the burial, placing a flower on Auntie's grave next to the bouquet Thomas and his mother had put down. Catherine hugged him, and we turned away, leaving him and other family members alone with Auntie. I assisted Catherine who walked with her cane, and struggled to guide her along the alleys, lost among dead ends and retraced my steps for a way out. Rochester did not attend.
Auntie's daughter and other family members came down from Chicago, and when they returned home a few short days afterwards, it was without Thomas. The previous night, I overheard Rochester speaking to Catherine about a new "handler," at least that's the word he had used to describe the strange responsibilities Auntie had. So, he offered Thomas a job at a considerable wage. In the end, what Auntie feared the most—that Thomas would stay at Thornfield—became a matter of cause and effect; Auntie's death led to the opportunity for Thomas to stay. And all that she had warned me against was forgotten.
January turned into February, and February into March. The frozen ground soon became a mud pit as an early rainy season began, and, with branches still bare, Thornfield appeared gloomier in its isolation. Thomas spent more time with Rochester and less time with me, and I began to notice a change in him. It seemed subtle at first. He spoke less, grew colder, and finally when I caught him avoiding me, I knew things would never be as they once were. Thomas went out of town without mentioning anything to me, something he would have shared in the past. The reason for his absence remained a secret as did the date of his return. Catherine's health deteriorated, and she took to her room where Rochester joined her constantly, and she requested no visitors be allowed at Thornfield. Lis and Katya were the only people I saw each week. I felt so alone.
My days were spent reading to Catherine, preparing her meals, administering her medicine and cataloguing her decline in a journal. She spoke of me staying on after she died, that there would always be a place for me at Thornfield if I wanted it and oh, how she wished I would stay because evil would no longer visit Thornfield. On some days, when she had the energy, she dictated letters to me and sent me off to post them straight away. Even in her worsening state, she preoccupied herself with the New Orleans Women's Auxiliary, who were in the midst of planning a fundraiser.
On an evening when Catherine had fallen asleep early while I read to her, Rochester requested that I meet him in the drawing room. The fire in the hearth blazed and crackled. Rochester sat near it, reading and pointed for me to take the empty chair opposite, which I did. A book of poetry lay open on the small mahogany side table next to me, and I reached for it, flipping through the pages before settling on one. My attraction to the strange Rochester, his darkness and light, no longer unnerved me, and I found myself at ease with my heart. This was quite a change from Lowood that had taught me one thing: to quell my passion and my thirst for happiness. Sitting near Rochester by the fire, in a somewhat domestic situation, made me happy.
"I see a change in you, Miss Jane E."
"And I in you."
Rochester crossed his legs, closed the book he was reading, and placed it on his thigh. "Are you happy here, Jane? Will you stay when…?" Rochester didn't finish the thought, and I understood why. We were in a waiting game, waiting for Catherine to worsen, waiting for Catherine to let go, but I felt Rochester would be unable to release her.
"I have no desire to leave."
Uncrossing his legs, he leaned forward, looked at me in a serious manner and said, "I wonder, would you answer the same if you knew my darkness?"
Here, I knew he spoke of his loss, of his family, and I had already assumed that he felt somehow responsible for their deaths and couldn't forgive himself. Reaching out, I took his hand in mine. "I understand your darkness."
"One day, it will be tested, and only then will I know for certain."
I squeezed his hand to reassure him that I would pass that test when the day came and let go, each of us returning to our reading. "I nearly forgot, your grandmother asked that I attend the fundraiser tomorrow night in her absence. Will you be attending?"
Rochester looked up from his book and knotted his eyebrows, considering it for a moment. "Tomorrow night? No, I'm previously engaged. The fundraiser usually runs quite late, and with Thomas away for the next two days, I don't feel comfortable having you drive back from New Orleans late at night. I'll arrange for you to stay at a hotel."
The matter settled, and I had a room arranged for myself the following night. At least now I knew when Thomas would return to Thornfield. I checked into the hotel at noon and had no time to unpack, unwind or explore as I had to meet the New Orleans Women's Auxiliary board members. I was already late, and Shirley, the young pregnant woman to whom I was assigned, sighed when I introduced myself to her. She barked orders and ticked items off sheets of paper on her clipboard, then, after misplacing it, began to heave. I sat her down, poured her a glass of water and noticed her clipboard on the table, peeking out from under a tablecloth. I didn't dare tell her I had put it there. Most of the manual work was done by hotel staff, Black women in waiting uniforms of navy blue with white collars. Shirley had no trouble speaking to the older Black men like they were children; it appeared she felt they were incapable of understanding how she wanted the tables set up. Each time I sat to take a five-minute break, her eyes were on me, and she would shake her head, reminding me that I was a poor substitute for Catherine.
Guests began to trickle in for the dinner and silent auction; ladies walked arm in arm while their spouses trailed behind, their spring coats flung over in their husbands' arms. The scents of gardenia and lilies filled the room, and each time Shirley passed by a bouquet on the front hall table by the entrance, she would let out a half sneeze. I saw so much from that front hall table since I had been relegated to the more mundane tasks like checking names off the guest list, ensuring every auction item had a functioning pen and pointing out the ladies' room. Before long, my feet ached, and I slid off my shoes, stretching out my legs that were hidden under the table.
"You must be Jane. E. I make it my business to get to know everyone in our circle."
I looked up from my guest list at a man hunched over me, leaning against the table with a hat in his hand. He looked to be in his mid-50s, his hair greased back, his mustache unkempt, and he appeared to be alone and not a husband to any of the women at the auxiliary. The man spoke quickly, like a salesman at a carnival passing through town. He wore a suit of poor-quality and a flashy tie, and constantly wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Name's Sydney Story," he said. His hand stretched out towards me.
