My Mr. Rochester 1 (Jane Eyre Retold)

by Rigel, LK

  “What is this vanity?” Bishop Brocklehurst lifted a lock of the beautiful hair. “Miss Temple?”

  “Her hair is naturally curly, bishop,” Miss Temple said. “She keeps it under her scarf.”

  “To hide vanity doesn’t make it virtue. Miss Scatcherd, do you have scissors?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Bring them out at once, and remove these undignified curls.”

  Miss Scatcherd fetched the scissors from the desk drawer and trimmed the greatest offender, the curl that always fell in Helen’s face when she read. Helen stared into another world, bearing the indignity with characteristic grace.

  “Not like that.” Bishop Brocklehurst took the instrument from Miss Scatcherd and went to work himself. When he was finished, Helen’s head was as bare as the shorn lamb. She remained stoic through the process. She didn’t cry, but to me she looked very ill.

  “Jane Eyre, get back on that stool—no. Return it to the corner and stand there for an hour.” Bishop Brocklehurst said to Miss Temple, “Let no one speak to her until sunrise tomorrow.”

  He ushered his children from the silent, stunned room. I climbed up on the stool, glad to face the corner instead of my fellows. Everyone was so quiet. Miss Temple told Helen to go lie down until supper, and I heard Brocklehurst’s limousine drive away.

  Miss Temple was not pleased. After this “burnt porridge,” our consolation was more than bread and cheese.

  Miss Temple’s answer to Bishop Brocklehurst came the next day. Lunch was delayed, and we were sent outside to work in our gardens while we waited. I was glad because I shared my plot with Helen, and I hadn’t spoken to her since Brocklehurst’s horrible visit.

  We set to work weeding the yellow squash. I waited for her to speak, but she was even quieter than usual. She was pale, yet her face seemed flushed to me. “How are you feeling, Helen?”

  “Fine.”

  “You can’t even tell about your hair,” I said. “Not with your scarf. And it will grow back.” Everything I said made it worse, so I changed the subject. “What Brocklehurst said about me wasn’t true. I’m not…like them.” I nodded toward Bethany House, the building where the fallen girls lived. “I could never.”

  “I didn’t believe the bishop.” Helen stopped and sat back on her heels. “But you’re wrong to judge the Bethany girls, Jane. Maybe they thought they were in love. Maybe they were forced. I’m sure not one of them meant to end up in her condition with no husband.”

  Contraception was banned by the EDLs, and at Gateshead parish the vicar delivered regular sermons on the evils of birth control. He said condoning it was like condoning sin. Made sense to me! Why make it easier to follow the wrong path?

  But what if Helen was right? What if those girls had been forced? Lucky for me John Reed was an even bigger coward than he was a bully. The thought of bearing his child made me ill. Good lord. I could have been a Bethany girl at this very moment.

  “I’m ashamed of myself,” I said. “Those poor girls.”

  I first heard their cheerful chattering, and then they were there, walking two-by-two through the rows of garden beds. They were like flowers themselves in their lovely floral patterned dresses. Poor girls wasn’t quiet apropos.

  “Hello,” a Bethany girl said sweetly to the gaping Lowood girl across from our plot.

  What a bout of cognitive dissonance! We were supposed to loathe and judge them, but they were so pretty, so relaxed—so happy. I envied them.

  They crossed the garden, and as they disappeared into our building the damned bell rang, calling us in to lunch. I was on my feet in an instant, ready to run with the others, hoping to catch another glimpse of the Bethany girls.

  “Helen, let’s go.” I looked back, and my friend was still on her knees. I rushed to her and helped her stand. “Are you ill, Helen?”

  “I’m a little weak, that’s all,” she said. “I’ll feel better when I eat something.”

  If only lunch is edible, I thought. Then we entered the building, and I thought I must be hallucinating. The tantalizing aroma of stew and fresh bread floated out to us like we were in the little princess’s dream—but that wasn’t the amazing thing.

  The Bethany girls were in our dining hall seated at a newly added table near the front of the room, chattering like birds while servers poured milk into large glasses before each of them.

  “Be sure to eat all your food today,” I said to Helen.

  Miss Temple glowed with triumph. We’d suffered an injustice; now would come the consolation. Whether to soothe our spirits or her own, I never knew.

  “Ladies, I’ve invited our neighbors from across the garden to join us for our afternoon meal today.” It was her way of signaling her disapproval of Bishop Brocklehurst’s behavior the day before. He condemned Jezebels. We would break bread with them.

  The stew was delicious, and there was butter and honey for the bread. But there was more. The Movie Man came! I should say the Movie Lady. The operator of the projector was a woman. She set up a screen behind the teachers’ table. A bunch of us drew the curtains closed, and Miss Scatcherd turned off the infernal fluorescent lights.

  The movie was an epic story set over two hundred years ago during the first attempt to separate from the heathen old country, about a girl blinded to true love by her passion for a married man.

  In the scene where Rhett made Scarlett wear a sexy red dress to a birthday party, I felt her pain and humiliation. But Melanie defended her and gave her precedence over the gossiping biddies.

  As the scene played, I caught Miss Temple watching me. She gave me a smile as beatific as Melanie’s. I wanted to hug her and tell her thank you. Thank you for not believing Bishop Brocklehurst. In my youthful self-centeredness, I believed Miss Temple chose the movie with me in mind.

  I realize now she meant it as a kindness to the Bethany girls and a lesson for all of us. The story showed how passion can drive a good person to bad choices. Scarlett learned too late. When Rhett Butler left her and disappeared into the mist, the girls at the Bethany table broke down in tears.

  I helped open the curtains, and as my eyes adjusted to the light I spotted a girl sprawled on the floor. “Miss Temple, help!” I cried. “Helen Burns is truly sick!”

  The few who could go home did, and the dormitory was turned into an extended infirmary. Those without sign of illness were sent to Bethany House.

  All too late. The measles had come to Lowood, and the only thing that could save anyone—vaccination—had either been done or rejected years ago.

  I was sent to Bethany House with the asymptomatics, but I couldn’t stand to wait idle without knowing if Helen was all right. I slipped away from the others, determined to find out for myself.

  “Jane Eyre, stop.” Miss Scatcherd stood sentry at the front door. “You can’t break the quarantine.”

  “Please, Miss Scatcherd, let me go,” I said. “I’ve been vaccinated. I can help.”

  Once more my uncle proved his worth to me. Despite Mrs. Reed’s aversion to the practice, he’d insisted everyone at Gateshead undertake a full course of vaccinations.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Miss Scatcherd muttered under her breath. But she relented. “Go. Do what good you can.” As I crossed the threshold, her habitual hard expression softened somewhat and she grabbed my arm. “You’re a brave girl, Jane Eyre.”

  I wasn’t brave. I was desperate to see Helen. After explaining to Miss Temple why I’d left quarantine, I went to the only friend I’d ever had.

  “The doctor’s coming,” I said. A rash covered her face and throat. I placed a cool cloth on her forehead and pressed her hand to my cheek. She was burning up. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not afraid, Jane. I’m not like you, so eager for life.” Her voice was soft and small, barely there. “I’m ready.”

  “Oh, Helen. Please don’t leave me.”

  “I want to go. I want to be with my father in heaven.”

  I couldn’t tell if she meant Go
d or her actual father. “Do you really believe?” I said.

  I’d called on my uncle in heaven to send his wrath down on Mrs. Reed. I’d warned her of my parents watching her cruelty from above. But my belief in heaven was more habitual than substantial. Unlike gravity, I’d never tested heaven as an operating force. Now I faced losing someone real to death, not an idea of someone out of a gifted memory.

  “God wouldn’t destroy what he’s created,” Helen said. “There’s a home with him for all of us.”

  “Will I see you again when I die?”

  She didn’t answer. Our little bit of talk had worn her out, and she was asleep. I lay down beside her and held her in my arms. When I awoke hours later, she was gone.

  The disease spread like fire through dry hay. More than half Lowood’s inmates followed Helen, their bodies already weak from the constant dragging down of near starvation. Several who survived went blind. Many of the Bethany girls miscarried. I thought of Bishop Brocklehurst’s words the day I met him: I buried a mother and her infant only yesterday. Would he show more feeling for these mothers?

  He delivered a memorial sermon at Lowood Chapel. I was in the second pew behind Miss Temple who sat between Miss Scatcherd and Miss Miller.

  It felt good to know Miss Temple was there. She was my ideal. After so much death and sorrow, I needed her to be a touchstone, brave, resolute, ultra competent, and ready to meet any foe with strength and grace. Her French braid hung loosely down her back, and her shoulders were hunched forward. Her head was bent, but not in prayer. She seemed defeated, and it broke my heart.

  The bishop stood above us in the pulpit, hatless, his long thin hair spread like a shawl of hay sticks over his shoulders. An ornate white cravat sprouted at his throat and spilled over his black robe down to his waist.

  “This scourge of your unfortunate schoolmates is a reminder of the inevitability of holy judgment.”

  I expected no great consolation from the choker, but his want of compassion depressed me. He adjusted his cravat fondly, as if proud of its beauty, and cleared his throat.

  “It is an exhortation from the powers above to aspire to a more righteous—”

  Miss Temple leapt to her feet so fast she startled Brocklehurst out of his sentence. The chapel fell quiet as bishop and superintendent locked eyes on each other. Brocklehurst’s face was filled with burning resentment. I couldn’t see Miss Temple’s expression, but I so wanted her to admonish him!

  Without a word she turned away. She walked up the aisle and out of the chapel, and I never saw her again.

  The measles epidemic scandalized the ladies of Lowton parish. Many had known Naomi Brocklehurst, and all made a religion of her memory. They insisted the bishop install a board of supervisors—composed of their members—to oversee the school’s day-to-day operations. As he was running for public office at the time, he was relieved to disassociate himself from the place.

  Under the guidance of the new Ladies Board, conditions improved. To the Lowton Ladies, “self-denial” was a spiritual endeavor that didn’t include freezing or starving. Our shoes still came from the donation box, but their first fundraiser bought an extra blanket for every bed, and our meals became nutritious and ample.

  For five years Lowood was my home. When I was seventeen, I passed the state exams to become a certified instructor with both public and private licenses.

  When I was nineteen, I woke up.

  « Chapter 9 »

  I Scandalize Myself

  Anno Domini 2085

  Bells jingled on the door like magic as I crossed the threshold into Blackstone’s. A fire crackled on the grate in a corner of the cozy shop. Shelves lined the wall to my right from ceiling to floor, covered with shoes, boots, small purses, satchels, and wallets.

  “Out in a moment,” Mr. Blackstone called from the back room. “Feel free to look at anything you like!”

  Those who’ve had money all their lives don’t know what a delicious feeling it is to carry undedicated cash in a normally empty purse. The power in it. The control. I choose. I decide. I say no or yes.

  I’d never had money of my own, and my teacher’s salary of $1500 seemed like a fortune. Still, in my first year I’d ripped through my paycheck every Teacher’s Day—what the merchants in Lowton called our quarterly paydays when we swarmed into the village with our small vouchers and our little desires.

  At first it was all about provisioning.

  Once free of the dreadful brown frocks and white pinafores supplied to students, I had to buy teaching uniforms, two navy calf-length dresses with three-quarter-length sleeves. I was also required to own a good dress for Sundays of any modest color. In honor of Miss Temple, I had chosen a simple purple jersey (the low-cut neckline hidden by a black lace collar), covered with tiny pink and yellow roses.

  And shoes! My very own shoes that fit. I hadn’t let myself dwell on it, but the worst aspect of receiving Lowood charity was the utter powerlessness in it—symbolized in my mind by wearing another person’s cast-off shoes. I bought new ready-made flats and a pair of dark violet pumps for Sundays. I hadn’t owned two pairs of shoes at one time since leaving Gateshead.

  Then there were the incidentals: a supply of black and white lace collars, underclothes, and whatnots like gloves and hats for church. I splurged on candies and colored pencils for my students, and in a shocking moment of weakness and vanity I bought a shawl for myself. The black jersey knit with red, blue, and green paisleys and black fringe made me feel invincibly stylish.

  Between the shoes and the shawl, I considered myself quite spoiled.

  After deductions for my room and board, by year’s end I’d saved $17.45. The second year I fared only a little better. Lowood never provided enough supplies for my art class, and I liked to keep candies and notions in my pockets as treats for my students. At the end of the year, I’d saved two hundred dollars and change.

  No matter. I didn’t want the money. I wanted the sense of self spending it gave me.

  Today was Teacher’s Day at the beginning of my third year. Earlier I’d dressed in my purple and dared to leave off the collar as a symbol of my independence. The Board Ladies had descended upon Lowood in all their benignity to supervise the girls and dispense the largesse of their latest fundraiser. Playing Lady Bountiful, they made their carriages available to take us into Lowton for the day.

  “Miss Eyre, come with us, won’t you?” Miss Miller had collected Miss Scatcherd and Miss Roy, the teacher of homely arts. “This one has room for four.”

  We were off for a day of self-indulgence. After depositing our checks at the bank, we moved on to the champagne brunch waiting for us at the inn, compliments of the Board Ladies.

  “Take warning.” Miss Roy covered her champagne flute as a waiter tried to refill it. “The so-called complimentary champagne is a ruse. The shopkeepers of Lowton are in cahoots with the innkeeper to loosen our self-control and thereby our purse strings.”

  “But Miss Roy, we want loosening,” Miss Miller said.

  “It’s what we came for.” I laughed with the others and nodded my ascent to the waiter.

  Miss Scatcherd said, “We all know what you came for, Miss Roy. Canning jars and pectin.”

  “And a new boiling pot besides,” Miss Roy said good-naturedly.

  “Is this yours?” I held up the hot scone I’d spread with a wonderful raspberry lime marmalade. Miss Roy not only taught homely arts, she made fabulous jams and jellies and sauces. The inn and the grocer bought such a steady supply from her that she had a good side business going.

  “It is,” she answered with pride. She never spent but on her business and on good things for her beloved pet birds. I suspected Miss Roy would retire with an enviable nest egg.

  “What are you after today, Miss Eyre? Paints, caramels?” Miss Scatcherd looked pointedly at my exposed collarbones. “Lace?”

  I blushed. My hand flew protectively to my uncovered throat, and I fingered the gold cross pendant Miss Miller had give
n me upon passing my licensing exams.

  Miss Scatcherd moved on to Miss Miller. “I suppose you’ll visit the heathen bookshop.”

  The clinking of knives and forks halted with the conversation. She’d do it, too, I thought. In taking Miss Temple’s administrative place, Miss Miller had adopted her courage as well.

  “What would be wrong in that?” she said. “Mrs. Dean has books her grandfather didn’t carry, and I want to see them. Lord knows it would be a pleasure to read something new.”

  “I wouldn’t patronize that foreigner with one penny,” Miss Scatcherd said. “She has an entire section devoted to witchcraft, you know.”

  “I didn’t know, Miss Scatcherd. How do you?”

  “I believe I heard something from the kitchen.” Miss Scatcherd turned red and looked down at her plate. “Cook said she has the Harry Potter books.”

  “Oh, those are wonderful,” I said.

  All heads jerked in my direction, as if I’d admitted to a deviant crime.

  “What?” I said. “They are. People who denigrate those books haven’t read them. My uncle had a complete set, and he was an Anointed Elder. The Arabian Nights also.”

  I didn’t mention his secret books kept in the Red Room behind a locked glass door. If only I’d had the courage to look for the key when I had the chance! I never missed Gateshead, but I did miss Uncle Reed’s library.

  “Harry Potter is all about love of others and self-sacrifice,” I said. “Christian themes, if I’m not mistaken. I’m surprised Lowood doesn’t teach them.”

  At that Miss Scatcherd spilled a little of her champagne.

  “That shall be our guide,” Miss Miller said. “An Anointed Elder! I want to see what this American has done with her grandfather’s store, and I don’t think the Gytrash will get me for having a look.”

  “Maybe your Gytrash will in fact be your fairy godfather,” I said.

  Sadly, as no one else had read The Prisoner of Azkaban, none understood my reference to the mysterious great black dog, a shapeshifter who turned out to be Harry’s guardian.