Mrs. Rochester part 3

If you’re new here, welcome! I’m Barbara Ellen McMahon, author of the 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.

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If you missed it,

Grace says there is a new governess; a slip of a thing not yet twenty. Orphaned. Destitute, but for him. She is falling under his spell, sorry for his diminished sight, his maimed arm, his poor motherless boy. She doesn’t know about me.

Teddy requires little teaching. He is not yet seven, but he is quick to learn, eager to know everything there is to know. Much of his day is spent with his nurse, except for an hour or two in the morning, learning to count and to say his prayers. He already knows how to read. In the afternoons, he is learning to ride and to hunt; pursuits his father deems more worthy than sitting indoors with a book. He wants to toughen him. He will be sent to boarding school when he is eight. “There will be plenty of time for books and music then,” says Edward. “I wish to spend time with him while I can.”

This cuts me to the heart, as he knew it would. What about my wish to spend time with him? But my wishes amount to nothing. My love holds no sway, for he has deemed me mad and therefore not worthy of consideration.

Aside from those brief hours in the morning, the new girl’s time is free. She has the freedom to read what she likes, and however much. The freedom to write to whomever she pleases. She plays the piano. I hear it sometimes, when Teddy has gone to bed and the rest of the house is quiet. Edward loves to sit and listen to her play, Grace tells me. Grace tells me everything. I think she wishes to add to my anguish. They are falling in love, she insinuates, history repeating itself.

He calls her Ann, though her real name is Cecile. He likes Ann better and so that is what she answers to.

“He likes a good plain name on a woman,” says Grace. “His first wife’s name were Bertha, but she went by another. He thought it too fancy. Gave her airs and graces she did not deserve. Lucky for you your real name were Jane, or he’d have given it you.”

This is her first attempt at humour. I give her a weak smile.

I must warn Ann! Locked up as I am, I must find a way.

Oh, Bertha! What did you suffer at his hands? Were your visits to my room meant as a warning? Did you see my future laid out as I see hers?

I have tried to learn from your mistakes. I do not wander, or pace, except when I cannot stay still. I was not meant for confinement. I do my best to remain docile when he deigns to visit me, though I want to rail at him and scream for my son. But that would only convince him further of my madness. If I remain quiet, if I acquiesce, perhaps he will lower his guard, perhaps I can escape.

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That cold midwinter, Grace informed me that there was going to be a ball.

“Here?” I asked, incredulous. Edward was not one for entertainment and gaiety. “Has he run mad?”

She gave the ghost of a smile and shrugged. “It will be of modest size, they say. But there will be music and dancing and a midnight supper.”

In the weeks leading up to the ball, there was a hum, an excitement in the air. I could sense it, even in my isolation. The servants banged around, cleaning everything, preparing rooms for the overnight guests. Grace would return from the kitchen with tales of the cook, flustering over new recipes. I found myself caught up in the excitement, looking forward to the ball, even though I could go nowhere near it.

The night of the ball, Grace fell asleep beside the fire, her keys on the table in plain sight, as if to say I might leave the attic if I wished.

And I did wish it! My curiosity was overwhelming. I left quietly, tiptoeing down the stairs. As I walked along the upper hall, I spied a young woman watching from the lower stairs. She was so young! Not pretty, except in the way all young women are. Plainly dressed, leaning forward with a look of longing on her countenance.

I dared go no further. My position allowed me to see only her and a small portion of the hall downstairs, but it was enough. It was more than enough.

Edward appeared at the foot of the stairs, looking austere in his formal wear. He had never been a handsome man, but his clothes set him off well enough this evening. Looking up, he spied the young lady on the stairs and beckoned her to join him, his hand held up to her imperiously.

“Oh! I couldn’t!” she stammered. “I’m not properly dressed. I mustn’t.”

He gestured to her again. “Come down, Ann. I command it.”

She flew down the stairs and into his arms. They began to dance together, right there in the hall.

I heard the sound of a door opening and little feet on the carpet. It was my son.

“Mama?” he asked.

I fled in panic to the shadows. If Edward were to hear! If he were to find me there!

There was a movement beside me. It was Grace. She had woken up and came looking for me. I have never been so glad to see her as I was at that moment.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” she said to Teddy. “You’ve been having a dream.”

“I saw Mama,” he said uncertainly.

“Aye and Father Christmas, too, I’ve no doubt.”

“Did I?”

She ushered him back to his room and I fled to the attic.

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If you’d like to read the rest, Mrs. Rochester is available on Kobo or Ko-fi. Your purchase helps to support an independent author.