Resisting Mr Rochester

by Sharon Booth

  "Are you all right?" He sounded anxious. "Has something else happened?"

  What, apart from being kissed to within an inch of my life by you, you heartless wretch? "Your mother asked me to fetch you," I said coolly, thinking better to blame her than to admit I wanted his help, too. "There's something going on upstairs. In the attics, I mean. Something—or someone—is up there."

  As I said it, I felt a sudden chill, and the image of Antonia Rochester came to mind. The conversation between her cousin and Ethan that I'd overheard in the garden replayed, over and over again. Where was Antonia? Why was Ethan lying to her cousin? Who was the mysterious Faith who was taking care of her?

  I shivered, thinking about Bertha Rochester and Grace Poole, in spite of all my common sense, and as I peered up at the ceiling, my imagination ran riot.

  Was Antonia being held up there?

  I swallowed nervously. "Is someone living up there?"

  Ethan frowned. "Up where? In the attics?" He shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous."

  "But am I being ridiculous?" I persisted, because I wasn't sure anymore. Nothing seemed real, and no matter how much I told myself I was being irrational, I couldn't seem to help it. "You wouldn't be the first Mr Rochester to stick his mad wife in the attic, would you?"

  He stared at me as if I'd gone completely off my rocker, which I probably had. What was I thinking, talking to him like that? We were in the twenty-first century, and things like that didn't happen in real life, anyway. Did they? "Are you ill, Cara?" he said slowly.

  "Don't be so patronising!" I snapped. "There are noises in the attic. Mrs F said it's bats, but bats don't thud, and even your mother heard it just now. And where is your wife, anyway?"

  His expression darkened, and I realised that I shouldn't have spoken those thoughts out loud. It had nothing to do with me where his wife was. Of course it didn't. Besides, what exactly was I accusing him of?

  "Are you seriously telling me that you think I've got my wife prisoner up there?"

  Put like that, it sounded unlikely, I had to admit. "Well, no, not really," I squirmed. "I just—" I didn't know what else to say and looked at him in quiet desperation.

  To my astonishment, he burst out laughing. "That wretched book. Have you any idea how many times I've been asked what I've done with my mad wife? I've never actually been accused of keeping Antonia in the attics, until now, though. At least, not to my face. I wonder how many people have assumed the worst?"

  As the tension between us broke, I felt weak with relief, though a bit stupid. "There was a thud, though," I said feebly.

  "Then, let's go and investigate," he said and held out his hand.

  I looked at it, then took it, feeling a ripple of delight, in spite of myself, as his fingers folded around mine, and he led me up the stairs to where his mother hovered on the landing.

  "So, Mother," he said, "I understand there was a noise from above."

  "There was, you know," she said. "A distinct thud. Most unnerving. I do hope we haven't got rats, Ethan. I can't bear those nasty creatures."

  "Rats with hob-nailed boots," I muttered.

  "Cara and I are going to investigate," Ethan assured her. "Would you like to come with us?"

  She looked appalled. "You must be joking! Have a good look round, then report back to me when you're done."

  "Yes, sir," Ethan saluted her, and headed us towards the attic door, his other hand still in mine.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Jennifer give me a thumbs-up sign before ducking back into her room. I wondered what that was about, but didn't have time to worry about it, since Ethan had let go of my hand and began making his way up the stairs.

  "Come on, then," he said cheerfully, peering down at me. "You want to know, don't you?" He winked. "I promise, she's well restrained. I won't let her bite you."

  I scowled. All right, I'd been a bit overwrought, but he didn't have to make fun of me. Although, given my recent hysteria and extremely rude accusations, I couldn't really blame him.

  My stomach lurched when he murmured, "I'll be well restrained, too, Cara. Promise."

  Was I glad about that, or sorry?

  My heart was in my mouth as we reached the top of the stairs. What fiendish sight would greet my eyes? Well, not a lot, as it was quite dark on the landing, as it happened. However, as we moved forward, there was a sudden click, and I blinked as we were dazzled with light.

  "Electric light switch," Ethan said cheerfully. "Always helps."

  I felt so foolish. Whatever I'd been expecting, it hadn’t been that. "Are you okay?" he asked.

  He was probably wondering what kind of madness had possessed me. Maybe I was the lunatic who should be locked in an attic, rather than his wife. Not that any person with a mental illness should be locked in an attic, of course. I certainly wasn’t condoning such behaviour, but still.

  "I'm fine," I said. "I'm sorry for what I said down there. I didn't really think you'd locked your wife up in the attic."

  "Didn't you?" He smiled at me. "I'm very relieved to hear it."

  "Just that, it's not the first time I've heard noises up there," I added, in some small attempt at justification.

  "What sort of noises?"

  "Sort of scraping noises, and scratches. It definitely wasn't bats," I said defiantly. "I don't care what Mrs F says."

  "No, it wouldn't have been bats," he said gravely. "They don't tend to scrape along the floor."

  "I wasn't imagining it!" I snapped.

  "I don't doubt you heard those noises, Cara. It was more than likely me."

  "You? What would you be doing up here in the attics?" Crikey, did I really want to know? He could have been up to anything, and there I was, all alone with him. Of course, Jennifer knew I was up here, too, but then again, she could’ve been in on it.

  In on what? There I went again, letting my imagination run away with me. I'd clearly read far too many books.

  "Perhaps it's easier if I show you," he said, after a moment's hesitation. "Though, I have to say, it's a bit embarrassing."

  Oh-oh! What was he about to show me? The image of Seth's stash of sordid magazines sprang into my mind, and I pushed it away. Ethan wasn't Seth, and even if he did have sordid magazines of his own, he surely wouldn't want to show them to me. Would he?

  I followed him, a bit reluctantly, as we made our way along a narrow corridor, and I stared around me in surprise. The attics were huge—a whole third floor full of rooms leading off the central passageway.

  As we passed a dozen, or more, closed doors, he said, "These were the servants' rooms, back in the days of my great-grandfather. Shoved up here under the eaves, poor things. Thankfully, things are a bit more civilised now. I can imagine what Mrs Fairweather would say if I tried to make her live up here, can't you?"

  I thought of Mrs F's cosy self-contained flat downstairs and grinned to myself. She'd soon tell him where to go if he tried.

  We reached the end of the corridor, and Ethan opened a door and ushered me inside. "This is roughly above your room, I think," he said, "so whatever made that noise was probably in here."

  I stepped inside, keeping close to him in case he decided to shove me in and lock the door behind me, but seeming to sense how worried I was, he took my hand again. It almost made the ordeal of standing in a dark room bearable.

  There was a sudden click. "Let there be light," Ethan said.

  My mouth dropped open when I saw easels, canvases in various stages of completion, pots of paint, jars of brushes, and shelves full of artistic paraphernalia. Studying some of the canvases, I recognised the style immediately.

  "It's you!" I gasped. "You're the artist who painted those Yorkshire landscapes in the dining room."

  "Guilty as charged," he said, lowering his eyes as if embarrassed.

  "Not guilty at all," I said, meaning it. "They're so good! I told you, didn't I? No wonder your mother made you put them on display. But why don't you have them all over the house? What a waste!"


  He seemed uncertain. "Do you really like them?"

  "They're wonderful. Honestly. I had no idea. Why didn't you tell me you painted them?"

  "I don't talk about it much," he admitted. "Not many people know I paint. It's a frivolous waste of time—according to my father, anyway. I wanted to go to art school, you see," he said with a shrug. "I loved art, loved painting. It was what I wanted to do. But the die was already cast. I had a business to learn, and that was my destiny. Father said painting was a hobby, nothing more, and I had my duty to do, so I did it."

  "That's terrible. You have a talent. A real talent. You shouldn't waste it."

  "But it's not good enough. It's not a real job, is it? I have to carry on the family business, the stores. That's my job. I always knew that was my reason for coming into the world."

  "If you don't mind me saying so," I said, "that's bloody terrible. Your father sounds awful." God, I'd done it again! I seemed to make a habit of overstepping the mark. "I mean," I added quickly, "I'm sure he was a very decent man, but he lacked understanding, didn't he?"

  He grinned. "I know what you mean. He was, indeed, a very decent man, but he had a strong sense of duty, and he expected the same from me. Which is fair enough. We have a lot of people relying on us. Art is all very well and good, but I have to think about all those employees whose jobs depend on me pulling my weight and concentrating on the stores. It's as simple as that."

  So, he'd sacrificed his own wishes for the good of others. I quite forgot that I'd been angry with him earlier on, because my heart just melted, and for that moment, all thoughts of the missing wife vanished.

  "Do you paint in London?" I asked, imagining a state of the art studio in his luxurious town house.

  He shook his head. "London is where I work. It was always here that I painted. Even when the house was a gothic monstrosity and I hated it, I still used to wander over the moors, sketching. I could spend hours out there. Then I took over the business and there was never the time, really. But coming back here, I've rediscovered how much I love it all. I've been getting up early, going out to sketch, and working up here. Not as often as I'd like to, of course, but it's something."

  I caught sight of some sketches on the table and exclaimed in delight. "The ewe and lamb! That's what you were doing on the moors!"

  "Ah, yes. You almost caught me," he admitted.

  "Have to say, I'm quite relieved. Thought maybe you had an unhealthy obsession with sheep."

  He grinned. "They make very good subjects. They don't interfere, and they never demand that I capture their best side."

  I picked up the drawing and shook my head. "It's brilliant. Oh, wow!" I put it down and snatched up another drawing that caught my eye. "That's Mrs F! You paint portraits, too!"

  "I try," he said, pulling a face. "I'm not terribly good at it, but—"

  "Why would you say that?" I demanded. "Stop being so modest. You've caught her expression perfectly. I love it." I sighed. "You know, this is such a shame. There's more to life than making money. You have such a talent, you should spend more time doing what you love. You need a better work-life balance. I mean, even when you're here, you spend a lot of time on the phone, or the computer. You don't switch off much, do you?" I looked around at all the evidence of his obvious gift. "This house should be somewhere that you completely escape to. Where the business and duty and responsibility is left behind. You should come here regularly and walk the moors and paint and spend time with your family."

  "That sounds wonderful," he said wistfully. "But—"

  "No buts," I said. "You have people around you who can run that business, I'm sure. And you're not exactly cut off from the world, are you? Not these days. You have broadband and a phone line. If there was an emergency, you could always be contacted. I just think that you should make the effort to come here regularly, and when you do, you're no longer Mr Rochester, of Rochester's Department Stores, but Ethan, son, big brother and artist. Doesn't that sound like a plan?"

  He nodded, his lips curving gently. "It does," he agreed.

  We stared at each other, and my heart thudded against my ribs. That wasn't good. I had to break the intensity of the moment somehow.

  I cleared my throat. "Having said all that," I said briskly, "that doesn't explain the noises, does it?"

  He blinked, then shrugged. "The scrapings would have been me, moving my easel around probably."

  "At night?" I frowned. "You wouldn't have been painting at night?"

  "No, but I did come up here a couple of times, just to look at what I'd done, or clear up. Mind you," he admitted, "it doesn't explain the thud you heard earlier."

  He looked around, then walked across the room. "But that might," he said, nodding at a large canvas lying face down on the floor. "That was propped up against the bench yesterday," he said, lifting it up and checking it over. "Must have blown over."

  "Blown over? How? The window's shut." I shivered.

  "Maybe it wasn't balanced properly when I left it." He seemed more bothered about the state of the canvas than he was about the noises, and, looking at the beautiful painting as he stood it back against the wall, I wasn't surprised. It was of the cottage garden—a riot of colours on canvas.

  "So, that's why the gate was locked that day!" I exclaimed. "You go in there to paint sometimes, and you didn't want to be found out."

  "It's not that I didn't want to be found out," he said, laughing. "Mrs F, Michael and Mother know I paint, anyway. I just don't like being watched, that's all. It's easier to keep people out."

  "But it's always open these days," I said. "Don't you paint in there now?"

  "Sometimes. But I know how much you like the garden and the swing. It would be most unfair to keep you out of there."

  I swallowed. He knew? "That's … very thoughtful of you."

  "Cara, would you let me paint you?" His words tumbled out in a rush, as if he was saying them quickly before he could change his mind.

  "Why would you want to paint me?" I said, blushing furiously. "I'm hardly a fascinating subject."

  "Oh, but you are," he insisted. "Those sea-green eyes, that rose-gold hair. Such beautiful colours."

  "Rose gold?" I spluttered. "I've never had it described that way before."

  "But that's what it is." He lifted a hand and stroked a strand of my hair between his fingers. "I would love to paint it. You have such an interesting face."

  Interesting face! Was that artist-speak for pig-ugly? I scowled, and he laughed.

  "Don't look like that! It's not an insult."

  "Isn't it?" I said doubtfully.

  "Far from it," he said softly, still holding my hair. I gulped, and he let go of the hair at last. "If you let me do some preliminary drawings tomorrow, that would be wonderful. I'd be so grateful."

  "Not tomorrow," I said. "We're going out, remember? With your mother and Adele."

  "So we are."

  "I'm not sure where we're going," I added, desperate to make casual conversation. "But I expect we'll think of somewhere."

  "I expect we will. I'm looking forward to it.”

  "And Adele will be so happy to see her mother again." Aware that I was starting to gabble, I backed out of the room. "So, now that's sorted out, shall we go back downstairs?"

  The way he was looking at me, I felt I wasn't safe up there any longer. It wasn't him that was scaring me, though, but myself. My stomach was jigging up and down alarmingly, and there were tremors and tingles happening all over the place—places I'd quite forgotten could tremor and tingle. It was a bit disturbing, to be honest.

  He nodded. "Of course. Unless you want to check on the other rooms, just to make sure that Antonia isn't in a padded cell somewhere up here?"

  "Very funny," I said. "You can't blame me for wondering. Especially after what you said to—" I broke off, horrified. My face burned and I stared at him helplessly.

  He frowned. "What I said to ...?"

  "I'm sorry," I muttered. "I really am. I overheard you
talking to someone called Marcus. You said you didn't know where Antonia was, but then you ..."

  "Called Faith." He wasn't smiling or twinkly any more. He looked ashen. "I'm sorry you heard that, Cara."

  Oh, God! What was he going to do? Kill me to shut me up? Lock me up there?

  "Come on. Let's go downstairs."

  Heaving a sigh of relief, I practically fell out of the room and rushed downstairs before he could change his mind. As we reached the landing, I took a deep breath and leaned against the wall, comforted by the knowledge that Jennifer was just a few doors away.

  "I would tell you if I could," he said, looming up behind me and closing the door to the attic staircase. "Right now, I can't. I hope—I hope, one day, I can."

  "It's none of my business," I said breathlessly. "Seriously. I shouldn't have said anything."

  "You must have been thinking all sorts. No wonder you accused me of locking her up there." His mouth twitched, and for a moment he looked like his old self. "You're safe with me, Cara. You don't have to be afraid."

  I looked into those dark eyes, and the reassurance I found in them made me wonder what on earth I'd been thinking. My imagination had always been too wild. Look how I'd cast Seth as Heathcliff, for goodness sake. And I was casting the hard-working, decent man before me as some sort of maniac who locked up his own wife. That was what I got for reading gothic romances. I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself, and rather embarrassed. "I know that," I said quietly, staring at the floor. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be sorry. It's me who should be sorry. What I did earlier—kissing you like that—was unforgiveable. It seems ridiculous to say it, given what I did, but please know that you can trust me. Will you? I know it's a big ask, but I swear, there's nothing sinister going on. Antonia's fine." He sighed. "Well, that's not strictly true, if I'm being totally honest with you, but it's nothing to do with me, I assure you." He smiled. "Not being very convincing here, am I? Come on. Let's go and reassure my mother that we're not overrun with vermin."

  Chapter Twenty-One