Mrs. Rochester part 2

This is part two of my novella, Mrs. Rochester. It’s a sequel to Jane Eyre. This time, it’s Jane who’s locked in the attic and there’s a new governess. It’s available on Kobo, where it’s been getting rave reviews, or as a PDF download on Ko-fi.

Here is Part One:

* * * * * * ** ** * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** ** * * ** * ** * ** * * ** ** * * * ** * ** * * * * * ** **

That was my mistake. If I had remained quiet, perhaps he would have left me my freedom. But drawing attention to what had happened, to my sorrow and rage, was a transgression he could not allow to go unpunished. He’s always been a proud man, damnably so.

The doctor was summoned. I was given a draught of something bitter and fell into a deep sleep. A long time later, I awoke in a daze. A glass was pushed against my lips, and I knew no more.

This was repeated I know not how many times. When I was finally allowed to be awake, I was in a windowless room, not ungenerous in size, but meagre of furnishings and barren of comfort. There were two beds. A table with two wooden chairs. A small chest. That was all. No rug upon the floor, no pictures on the wall. It is cold in the winter, stifling in the summer. Some days I feel I can barely breathe, so starved for fresh air am I.

I awoke here, and here I have remained.

“You’re awake, I see,” said a gruff, vaguely remembered voice.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“Somewhere you can be kept safe,” she answered. “There’s tea.”

It was only then that I fully saw her. Grace Poole. Older now. Haggard. Life had not been kind. “Aye,” she grunted. “I am returned.”

“But why?” I could not understand what was happening. How did I come to be in this place?

“The Master sent for me. It seems you need looking after. And I know how to do that.”

I stared in horror. She would look after me like she’d looked after her. He thought I was mad. This was my punishment for refusing him.

“No!” I shouted, flinging off the bed cover and flying to the door. It was, of course, locked tight. “Open this door!”

“I cannot,” she said impassively.

“I order you to open it!”

“I take my orders from the Master.”

“It’s a mistake,” I told her. “He’s made a mistake. I don’t belong here. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“The Master told me your mind was turned by grief over the loss of your bairn.”

Helen. My beautiful baby girl, named after my childhood friend. I had, since awakening and finding myself in this strange place, forgotten. It all came rushing back to me now. My legs buckled, and I sat. A handkerchief was pressed into my hands and a few moments later, a mug of strong, sweet tea.

“For the shock,” she muttered.

I didn’t see her leave, but awhile later, she returned with my breakfast: the thin gruel I have grown to hate. I refused it.

“You’re to try to sleep,” she told me.

“On whose orders?” I demanded, though I knew the answer.

“The Master, on recommendation from the doctor.”

“But I’m not ill. And I am certainly not mad!”

“The doctor concurs with your husband’s diagnosis.”

I could not fight the two of them. In cases of madness, a doctor’s word is final.

And so passed my first day in this room, by turns distressing and filled with boredom. Time was marked by the arrival of my meals, looked after by Grace Poole, of all people. Grace Poole!

Edward arrived after lunch. “How is she?” he asked as Grace let him in.

“As you find her,” Grace said, indicating where I sat.

“Quieter then,” he nodded. “Has she given you any trouble?”

“Oh, none at all, sir. None at all.”

“I am right here,” I said, “with all my faculties intact.”

“Jane,” he said.

“You must let me out of here,” I told him. “I’ve no need to be locked up.”

“This is what the doctor recommends,” he told me. “A period of quiet. A lack of stimulation to calm you, to keep you from becoming violent again as you were the other night.”

I shot to my feet, stung by the accusation. “I, violent?” I said. “I was not the one who…”

He glanced at Grace, watching us intently. I faltered. I did not want her to know what had occurred that night. Shame swept over me and I sat.

“The doctor recommends it,” he repeated, “for a time.” He set a book upon the table. “You are allowed to read, he says, if the books are not too stimulating. Something uplifting will do you good.”

I thought I saw a gleam of mischief in his eye, gone in a moment.

“These sermons should do nicely. My grandfather found them very inspiring.”

“I would wager you’ve never read them.”

“Now, Jane. Gambling isn’t allowed, either.”

Grace made a small sound, covered by a cough.

“Well,” he continued. “I take my leave of you. Look after her, Grace. She isn’t well. You must be vigilant.”

“I will sir. Yes.”

She let him out of the room and locked the door, pocketing the key. When she turned, I was seated quietly, reading the first sermon. It was dry as dust.

Over the course of the month, I read every word in that book.

Finally, at the end of the day, Grace brought me a mug of warm milk, sweetened with honey and cloves. “Good for your nerves,” she muttered.

I had been pacing for much of the day, roaming like a wild animal in a cage. If I was to convince anyone of my sanity, I would have to learn not to do that. But, oh! I was not built for sitting!

She must have put the sleeping draught in the milk, for my limbs grew heavy and my head turned woolly. She readied me for bed, and I knew nothing more until the next day.

Thus was set the pattern of our days. Endless hours of sitting, waiting for Edward to come to his senses and release me. The repetitive meals, the books of dull sermons. Grace is not unkind, and occasionally, we converse. Her allegiance is to Edward. Were she to cross him, she would be banished from Ferndean. Her sister doesn’t want her back; her house is small and poor. She has enough trouble feeding her family without the addition of a sister. “I send her what coin I can,” Grace has told me, “in thanks for the years she let me rest under her roof. But I must stay on here for as long as I can.”

Despite my own difficulties, I can understand her position. My freedom would mean her entrapment. My incarceration is her safekeeping. I remind myself of this when I am tempted to give in to despair. At least my situation is doing someone some good.

And so, the months have dragged on.

(to be continued)

* * * * * * ** ** * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** ** * * ** * ** * ** * * ** ** * * * ** * ** * * * * * ** **

This book, Mrs. Rochester, is available on Kobo or Ko-fi. Your purchase helps to support an independent author.