My Mr. Rochester 1 (Jane Eyre Retold)

by Rigel, LK

  Her eyes lit up, and she showed me her wedding band. “Of course, you wouldn’t know. Dr. Lloyd and I were married a year after you left us. We have a child now, a little girl named Jane.”

  “Oh, Bessie.” A lump rose in my throat. So she did care for me all those years. I really was terrible at recognizing affection. “Then you’re no longer at Gateshead.”

  “I’m my own mistress now, though I let James think he’s master. What with him and Janie to care for, I’m busy enough. It’s a good life.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.” I couldn’t stop myself asking: “And how are things at Gateshead?”

  “Mrs. Reed is very unhappy,” Bessie said. “Georgiana refuses to stay at home. She’s going on to graduate school, can you believe it? She’s in medical school. She’s going to become a brain surgeon! Mrs. Reed is scandalized, though James assures her women make fine doctors. John Reed cut off Georgiana’s funds, but she won a scholarship.”

  Good for you, Georgiana! I imagined her living happily at her Hamlet 1-3-78. “And what of John Reed? Did he get his degree?”

  “No, he’s turned out very bad,” Bessie said. “The moment he came into his money he left the university and moved to Beverly Hills. Mrs. Reed says he’s fallen in with the wrong crowd, but I think he’s the wrong crowd, if you know what I mean.”

  I knew all too well.

  “So Georgiana is going to California to check up on him. He keeps promising he’ll visit Gateshead, but he never does.” Bessie leaned closer and whispered, “I hear he’s become an actor.”

  We both laughed.

  “Bessie, I have to tell you something. Thank you for my hat and scarf. You probably won’t remember, but they were sky blue and so soft and lovely. You gave them to me the morning I left Gateshead—only later, I realized they must have been a birthday present, and you likely paid for the yarn yourself.”

  “True, Jane. It was my pleasure.”

  “You’re the only one who ever loved me, Bessie. Bishop Brocklehurst took them away with all my decent clothes, but I’ve never forgotten your kind gift.”

  “I’m glad, Miss Jane. For look what I have here for you.”

  She brought the hat and scarf out of her bag and handed them to me. I buried my face in their softness.

  “When I saw that sad pile of your nice things on the table in the morning room, I wanted to scream,” she said. “The bishop told Mrs. Reed to give them to the poor box at church, and Mrs. Reed ordered me to take them away. I did nothing wrong to save these two items for you, since they never did belong to Mrs. Reed. I knew—or hoped—I’d see you again one day.”

  A whistle blew and the board flashed, announcing the Zephyr’s arrival. I left Bessie with all my best wishes. As my train pulled away, I felt happy. I wasn’t alone in the world. Bessie cared for me. So had Miss Miller in her way. And Helen Burns. I wondered if Helen’s spirit conversed with my guardian angel in heaven. Were they watching over me now?

  I was a hundred miles away from Gateshead before I realized I’d forgotten to ask about Eliza. If only I could forget Mrs. Reed and her son so easily.

  « Chapter 11 »

  Stranger on a Train

  My accommodations on the Zephyr must have cost a couple thousand dollars. Mrs. Fairfax provided the ticket, but I expected the amount would be deducted from my grand new salary. No rational person who works for her living travels first class, but I put aside my irritation at the extravagance. There was nothing I could do about it now.

  In the private compartment, two plush seats faced each other and a window ran the length of the space. The United States-based Zephyr was limited to civilized speeds within New Judah’s borders, but it was impossible to hide away its heathen amenities.

  The compartment was electrified. The porter showed me how to turn on the lights and extend the seats into beds. The refrigerator contained wine and cheese and fresh fruit. One machine made food instantly hot, and another brewed a single cup of fresh coffee or tea. The lighting was soft and easy on the eyes—far better for reading than candlelight. This was the seductive side of technology.

  I could live with it.

  My light lunch didn’t stay with me long, and I was hungry by time for the evening meal. The dining car would be full of Americans, and I changed into one of my navy teacher’s dresses and put on my plainest white collar. The uniform announced that I belonged somewhere, that I was under someone’s protection.

  I moved through the dining car, hoping to find a genial New Judean party with an open seat, ideally someone who liked to talk and knew something of Millcote County. I should have arrived earlier. The only empty seat was at a table with three sour-looking clergymen, by their hats two rectors and a vicar. They wore their white cravats as I did my collar—defensively. I was about to sit down with the chokers when someone called my name.

  “Jane!” A hand shot up near the far end of the car, and an American rose. “Jane Eyre! Come join me!”

  The woman was about twenty-four years old with dark hair cut to her jaw line and thick bangs over arching eyebrows. Her face was painted like a China doll, and her pink and black earbobs danced as she grinned and waved. “Come, Jane. Don’t you know me?”

  “Georgiana Reed.”

  I wouldn’t know her without Bessie’s heads-up. No one would take her for a New Judean. She wore shiny black pants and a loose pink cotton sweater with a low scooped neckline. Her lips made me smile. Candy-apple red. She always did like makeup.

  “It’s Georgie now. I’d know you anywhere, Jane,” she said. “I hoped I’d see you on the train. Turn around. Let me look at you.”

  She fixed on my one vanity. I wore my hair in a French braid, the style adapted from Miss Temple. I’d let the braid fall to my waist instead of tucking it in.

  “Deluxe.” She made the X into a kssss and flashed her eyes. “You’re plain as ever, but don’t let anyone tell you plain is ugly. You’re like a little sparrow. You’ve got great thick hair, such a lovely honey color—and look at that figure!”

  I felt my face go hot and quickly sat down.

  “And still proud, I see.” Georgiana refilled her wine from the bottle on the table. She poured some for me and raised her glass to mine. “Congratulations on your licensure. I’m gratified you considered my advice.”

  I drank, if only to afford myself some space. She was so effervescent!

  “Bessie tells me you’re going to be a doctor,” I said.

  “I am a doctor,” she said. “But I’m training in a specialty.”

  “A surgeon.” My brain twisted into a pretzel, trying to reconcile its template of a doctor with this picture of Georgiana.

  “Surgeon.” She smiled. “Is that what Bessie said?”

  I certainly remembered that ironic smile, a sign of Georgiana taking private amusement in notions that escaped me.

  “Now, where are you going, Jane? Mother told me it’s somewhere in Jefferson, but I don’t recall the name.” She picked up a hard flat device from the table and touched it, repeating my answer, “Thornfield Righteous Estate.”

  I noticed then the other Americans in the dining car—identifiable by their clothes—all had similar tablets which drew their attention from their dinner companions. The aura of disconnection floated about them—as Georgiana was distracted from me now, looking at her instrument.

  “This is the internet,” I said. “But it’s not supposed to work in New Judah.”

  “It’s the Zephyr,” Georgiana said. A map appeared on the device. “All transcontinentals have satellite links to provide a signal local to the train.”

  She touched the tablet again, and the map changed to a photograph. She spread her fingers over it, and a spot at the center grew until it showed a mansion in the center of rolling fields of corn and wheat.

  What a wonder. What else could the device show?

  “Impressive estate.” She examined me again. I felt somewhat violated, like being looked at by Gideon Blackstone. Her
gaze lingered on my collar. “The governess,” she said. “No doubt you’ll attract the attentions of the young master—or worse, the old one.”

  I looked away and took another drink of wine.

  “How will you stop yourself, Jane? Hot blood has always run beneath your cold surface.”

  What did she mean? Had her brother told her the same lies he told Bishop Brocklehurst? I was saved from responding by the dinner trolley’s approach. Georgiana chose something called lamb curry. I wanted to appear sophisticated and chose the same.

  What had I done? Not about the curry, but about Thornfield. I’d cut myself off from the only life I knew—and for what? Georgiana had a point about masters and servants. The hoped-for something else could well turn out to be something worse.

  “Oh, that’s good.” The lamb brought back my courage. The meat was tender and the spices exotic and delicious. Yes, Jane. Something new can be something good. “This is wonderful, Georgiana.”

  She ignored her food, digging through the bag on the chair beside her. “Here, take these.” She pulled out a paper card with four tablets sealed in little pop-outs and put it by my plate. “It’s a year’s supply. One every three months.”

  “Good lord. Put those away.”

  “You’re in America now, little bird. No worries. The Zephyr is sovereign to the United States. Birth control is legal here.”

  She didn’t lower her voice. She showed no shame because she felt none.

  “I won’t have my cousin end up somewhere like Bethany House. Yes, I know all about that place. I gave Mother hell when she told me where she’d sent you. Brocklehurst is a piece of work, helping his fellow lords hide their dirty work.”

  “But they’re dangerous. The pills affect a woman’s body.”

  “And pregnancy doesn’t?” Georgiana said. “The lies you Judeans tell yourselves to justify the bondage of women.”

  “You’re New Judean.” But was she still? She’d adapted the American habit of saying our name wrong, with an added sneer.

  “Look, you may never need them.” She avoided the question in my statement. “You say your boss is a woman. You might encounter no man at Thornfield—how sad would that be? But if temptation comes, take the first pill within forty-eight hours after you surrender and the others three months apart.”

  I stared at the packet, afraid to touch it. Afraid to admit the potential need. And anyway, I’d taken care of the threat. Every hour put more distance between me and Gideon Blackstone.

  “Are you going to California to see John?” I needed a change of subject. “Bessie said he’s become an actor.”

  “So Mother believes.” Georgiana lost her crusading tone. “If only that was the worst of it. I’ve heard from friends he’s becoming an alzhead.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Of course you don’t.” She filled her glass again. “Alz is a street drug. They say the high is better than any opiate and more addictive. I see alzheads all the time at the hospital. The drug eats away at the brain, destroys the personality. Judgment goes first—though John never had much of that. Self-control, curiosity. It steals away the civilized human being and leaves a violent creature in its place.”

  “Good lord.”

  “Nothing good about it,” she said.

  “And Mrs. Reed hopes you can help him.” I would never not hate John Reed, but I wouldn’t wish such a fate on anyone.

  “Her fair-haired boy,” Georgiana said. “The only person she ever loved beyond herself. But if it’s alz, there’s no help for him in this world. The damage is irreparable. I doubt he’ll follow my advice, but I promised Mother. I’ll try to get him into a sanitarium, but he’ll probably end up in prison or worse.”

  I decided not to bring up the fate of the atlas. No need to make her feel worse about her brother.

  The packet still lay on the table when we finished dessert, and Georgiana’s words repeated in my mind: helping his fellow lords hide their dirty work. I could swear nothing like that would ever happen to me, but it would be a lie. The world was full of John Reeds and Gideon Blackstones. The John Reeds I could fight. As for another Gideon Blackstone, I’d stay out of the company of handsome and charming men.

  Georgiana walked back with me as far as my quarters. “Goodbye, then, little bird. I change trains at an ungodly hour, and I won’t see you again.” She hugged me. “Remember, Jane: It’s all very well to be truly righteous, but be on your guard against self-righteousness.”

  Brushing my teeth in my little lavatory, I saw the bright red mark on my cheek where Georgiana had kissed me. I wiped it away and washed my face, still thinking of her as I changed into my nightgown.

  I’d known Georgiana all my life, yet she was a stranger to me now. So bold. Self-contained. And yet isolated. She’d spoken of no one with love. No friends. Certainly not her family. I’d forgotten to ask about her Hamlet 1-3-78, but I feared the answer. The way she’d said you Judeans, made me think she’d never come home.

  I didn’t want that kind of independence. Maybe it was because of the hole in my orphan’s heart, but I craved to belong to someone, to some place. Somewhere I was respected and equal.

  The touch of a button extended one of the seats into a bed, and I lay down to watch the world roll by. The train rounded a bend and entered a tunnel then came out the other side into dark unpopulated country, its sky sparkling with unlimited stars. An ascending half moon hung low and serene. I turned on the overhead reading light.

  A few hours later, many chapters into Northern Lights, it struck me: for the first time in five years, I was alone. My thoughts were uninterrupted, my reading uninterrupted.

  The absence of other voices was heaven.

  I stayed in my compartment all the next day, savoring the solitude, stretched out to read my precious forbidden trilogy. By afternoon I was well into The Subtle Knife, and I understood the novels’ threat. The tale of dust pried open a little further the Pandora’s Box within, first unlocked by Gideon Blackstone.

  The train traveled through hours of sublime mountain scenery. Pine trees, waterfalls, and rushing streams gave way to oaks and foothills and down to a panorama of rolling farm country, the oaks mostly cleared away, the fields now bordered by willows and thorn trees.

  It was past sundown when the train dropped me at Thornfield Halt. A man waiting beside a one-horse carriage touched the brim of his hat in salute. “Are you Miss Jane Eyre?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, you’d best get in then.” He smiled pleasantly as he put down the step and opened the door. “I’ll get your trunk.”

  “How far is the journey to Thornfield Hall?” I said.

  “Six miles, miss, not far. About an hour and a half.”

  The carriage was very well built, with pneumatic springs, and the seat was comfortable. The ninety minutes could provide a good nap, but I was too excited to sleep. Soon I’d meet the people I would share my life with in the years to come.

  Beyond the one daughter who was to be my pupil, I hoped Mrs. Fairfax had no other relatives living in the house. Hoped. Not expected. Thornfield was a Righteous Estate, and there were bound to be many living there. There would surely be Mr. Fairfax and likely more of the family and who knew how many servants, retainers, and hangers-on.

  I began to feel a bit sorry for myself. I’d lived among fine people before, and I was miserable with them. What if Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be another Mrs. Reed! Yes, I wanted to belong somewhere, but belonging to the wrong people—people who didn’t like me, who didn’t understand me—was worse than being alone.

  Then we passed through Millcote, and I remembered my guardian angel had guided me here, if only in my fancy. At once I felt better. I’d come to my Hamlet 1-3-78.

  After the promised hour and a half, we stopped at the bottom of a hill. The driver got down and opened a large double gate fashioned of two iron gryphons facing each other. We ascended a long drive and stopped at the front of a mansion, foreboding in the da
rk but for a light in one window.

  “Good evening, Miss Eyre.” A housemaid carrying a kerosene lamp greeted me. “Mrs. Fairfax sends her apologies for not meeting you personally. She’s gone to bed. I’m to show you to your room.”

  She led me over the threshold into a square foyer and up a wide staircase. As with the carriage, the house wasn’t ornate, but all was of good quality and well cared for.

  The maid showed me to a room in the middle of a long corridor, and the driver followed us in with my trunk. He left it on a bench at the end of the bed. He tipped his hat again, not in subservience but as a friendly gesture, and said goodnight.

  “The bathroom is there.” The maid gestured toward a door. “And the closet and sitting area.”

  “How many am I to share with?” There was only one bed but a rather large one. Three could sleep in it without running into each other, though I didn’t savor the prospect.

  “No one shares a room at Thornfield.” The maid practically sniffed with indignation. She opened a drawer in the bedside table and withdrew a fat beeswax candle. “These are yours.” She put the candle in a lamp, lit it with a match, and returned the matches to the drawer. “The supply will be replenished when you begin to run low.”

  “Thank you. I can put away—”

  “We’re not stingy with candles and matches either,” she hastened to add. “If you need a candle through the night—for any reason—no one will mind.”

  “I’ve kept you up late enough,” I said. “I’ll take care of my things.”

  The room was wonderful. There was indeed an adjoining sitting room, and the bathroom had a deep claw foot tub. I changed into my nightgown and put away my clothes. The closet could have housed all Georgiana’s dresses—if she still wore them. My four looked forlorn hanging in a place so grand.

  Transferring incidentals from my purse to a dresser drawer, I pulled out a cardboard card with four pop-outs. The pills! Georgiana must have slipped them in. I looked around with the sudden feeling I was being watched. Good lord, Georgiana. What were you thinking?