Mrs. Rochester part 4

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.

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

If you missed it,

I thought I’d gotten away with my transgression. Grace said nothing about it, though I noticed she was much more careful with her keys. But one day, a few weeks later, Edward came to see me, to inform me that he had sent Teddy off to boarding school, earlier than planned.

“It’s not good for him to remain in this house. He’s dreamed of seeing you here,” he said, fixing me with a stare.

“Does he remember me?” I asked innocently. If he suspected me of anything, I would not give myself away.

“It’s not right,” he insisted. “He must forget you. He can do that more easily at school. You’ll soon agree. It’s better this way. You won’t be tempted to try to see him. I think it unsettles your mind to have him so close.”

“My mind is only unsettled because you keep me locked in here and won’t let me see him.”

He smiled grimly. “You will be less unsettled now that he’s gone.”

___________

And that was that. Arguing would only risk another visit from the doctor. I acquiesced, though it broke my heart to do so.

That night, when Grace brought me my warm milk, it smelled of cloves. “They mask the bitterness,” she said.

She’d not been putting the sleeping draught into my nighttime drink, I realized. Of her own volition or on Edward’s orders, I knew not.

“I thought, tonight, you might want to sleep.”

And for once, I did. I drank it down gratefully and thanked her.

The next morning, I slept late. I had no will to get out of bed, no desire to do anything.

“Your breakfast will go cold,” Grace warned me.

“Let it,” I said and turned towards the wall.

Grace sighed but left me. All that day, I lay in my bed, mourning. My son was gone. I felt his absence like a living, malevolent thing. Even though I hadn’t been able to see him or talk to him, I’d heard him. I’d known he was there and now he was gone. I thought I would never see him again.

When I was young, I had gone away to school and not returned to my home until my aunt was dying. What if my history repeated itself in him? I could not bear the thought. I lost the will to fight, nearly the will to live.

Grace would try, cajoling me to get up, get dressed, eat something “You’re wasting away,” she pleaded. “Please eat something!”

The sorrow in her voice touched me and so, for her sake, I would manage a few bites before returning to my bed and my study of the wall.

___________

I know I need to eat. I know I should keep fighting. But I can’t. I simply don’t care enough about myself. I don’t love myself enough. It goes round and round in my head! I can’t make myself do what I know is good for me. Why can’t I make myself do it? Staying in bed keeps me happy and quiet and I can ignore myself when I’m there. When I get up, the pain is too great to manage. It’s a ravenous beast. I don’t want to awaken whatever it is I’m afraid will wake up if I care enough to look after myself. To love myself and not just for the sake of my son and my lost daughter.

Leave it be. Let sleeping dogs lie. I’m treating myself like they treated her. Just doing enough to get by. Don’t try for better. What would be the point? There’s no escape from this attic. And besides, my son is gone.

But something stirs inside of me. I can feel it, deep inside. The neglect, the denying the hurt and the desire for better. Just leave it alone. Don’t try. Don’t get in trouble. You’ll cause yourself mischief if you try to make it better. You’ll wake her up and then you’ll be sorry. This death, this disease is keeping her quiet. Leave it be! Leave it be!

Why?

Don’t I deserve to be heard? Don’t I deserve to live and move and be happy? What if I don’t leave it be? What if I let it out?

This went on for days and weeks. I don’t know how long I lay there, mourning him. Wanting to die, wanting to fight, turning it over and over in my mind.

One night, Grace came up from the kitchen. “Right,” she said. “Get dressed. We’re going for a walk.”

“A walk? Where?”

“Just along the servants’ passage,” she said. “The Master is away for the night, and you need to get up. There’s talk of putting you in an asylum. You’d not be safe there. I can keep you safe, if you’re here. But you must trust me. You must try.”

We walked quietly along the passage. I was weak from my months of inactivity and lack of food.

There was a chill in the air, almost a breeze. It was as close to fresh air as I’d been since he locked me up. I breathed deeply, looked out of the window at the moon, and spread my arms wide in freedom.

“Thank you, Grace,” I said.

“You have to try,” she told me. “Nothing lasts forever. You must keep trying.”

Far too soon, it was time to go back to the attic.

I returned to bed, but this time merely to sleep. The churning in my head had ended. Thanks to Grace and her kindness, I was at peace.

___________

That night, I had a visitor.

I was jostled awake by someone. “Grace?” I called. “What is it?” Grace wasn’t there, but I was certainly not alone. I saw a woman, standing by the fire, watching me. She had long curling black hair, enormous brown eyes and golden skin. She was beautiful.

“Who are you?” I asked and she laughed.

“You know her,” she said. “You met her on your wedding day!”

“Bertha?” I asked. She looked nothing like the monstrous creature I had met that day.

She twirled in a pirouette, laughing as she turned. “She knows her,” she sang. “She knows her.”

Then, suddenly serious, “He called me Bertha,” she said. “My name is Antoinetta.”

“You’re beautiful,” I said, mesmerized by her.

“I was,” she asserted. “He took it away from me. He’s taken it away from you, too.”

“Oh, I was never…”

She held up a looking glass, and I stared in horror. The creature in the glass was gaunt, with wild hair and bulging eyes. Not me. Surely, she couldn’t be me!

“He took our beauty from us,” she said. “He took my life and brought me here. We got lost and then he brought me here. He locked me up with Gracey and told me I had to stay. I offered him everything I had if he would only let me go. But he said I had to stay. He said I was a danger and a scandal, and that’s why he brought me here. He liked my beauty when he thought he could own it, but when he found out that he couldn’t, he brought me here and made me stay. And then I burnt it down.

“Don’t let him do it to you! Don’t let him take your life away. You must be strong. We must fight him! He wants to hurt us. He wants to take our lives away from us. We must fight him. We three! We can bring down the oppressor!”

She laughed, bobbing her head in time to some unheard music. “We will win! We will bring him down! Antoinetta and Gracey and Jane.”

She turned those dazzling eyes on me and smiled. “Will you fight with me? Will you fight? I feel that we are sisters. Sisters who must stand against him. I couldn’t stop him, though I tried. With fire and with knives I fought. But I could not win. So I burnt it down. And now he’s brought you here. And you don’t fight. But you must. I know that if you fight, you will win.”

“I cannot,” I said. “Fire and knives…”

“Not with fire and knives! Those are Antoinetta’s weapons! You fight with silence. He cannot bear a silent woman. There’s nothing to argue with, no way to win. He feels lost and afraid when you are silent.

“Take up your weapon. Let’s fight him! Let’s win!” And she pirouetted around the room, laughing and singing.

And then, as though the sun had gone behind a cloud, she was suddenly serious. “You are so sad,” she said. “I hate to see you so sad. You must try to find joy.”

“Here?” I asked, incredulous. She knew what it was like. How could she ask that of me?

“I used to draw,” she said. “Just like you.”

“How can I draw? He only gives me one sheet of paper a week and I use that to write.”

She danced over to the fireplace and pulled out a burnt stick. “Charcoal!” she crowed. “I used it to draw on the walls.”

I glanced at the walls. They were dark and very rough. Antoinetta conceded the point. “But you have books! And a pen. Once you’ve read them, you can draw in them!” She opened a book and began drawing furiously while I tried in vain to stop her. Three figures appeared, women with wild hair and fierce expressions. Flames arose around them. “See?” She showed it to me. “Antoinetta and Gracey and Jane.” Laughing, she dropped the book on the table, pirouetted behind me and when I looked back, she was gone.

What a beautiful woman she was. How lovely and capricious. I could see why Edward feared her, why he felt he needed to control her. She was unpredictable, happy one moment, serious the next. He wouldn’t like that. He needed control. He needed to direct the course of events. Antoinetta would take no one’s direction. He should have let her go. Keeping her locked up was monstrous. She became what was done to her. As would I, I realized. If I didn’t fight, like Antoinetta and Grace advised, I truly would become mad. I needed to take hold of myself. I vowed I would.

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

Don’t forget, my book, Mrs. Rochester, is available on Kobo or Ko-fi. Your purchase helps to support an independent author.