Page 115 of Jane Deyre
Alice’s expression darkens. “Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to kill the entitled bitch?”
Fear and shock have stolen my voice. I shake my head.
“How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.” Alice cackles. “The answer is... countless. But now that I will be a rich woman with you gone, it’s time to stop counting. Tomorrow will be her last day.”
Oh my God! She’s going to kill Edwina too? My breath hitches in my throat. “I don’t want the money. You can have it. I’ll leave Thornhill and never come back.”
She snorts. “You can never be too safe, Miss-I-need-another-lock-on-my-door. Too late!”
She curls her index finger around the trigger.
My whole body is consumed by a viselike grip of terror. I feel myself trembling. Almost convulsing. Then, a sudden bolt of adrenaline surges through my veins and knocks the fear out of my system.
I lunge at her.
Caught off guard, she goes tumbling and lets go of the gun. It falls with a clunk onto the wood floor.
“You bitch!” she screams as she scrambles to retrieve it. With the tip of my shoe, I kick it away from her. She lurches for it and so do I, gliding across the floorboards like a baseball player sliding onto a base. I grab it first, but she wrenches it out of my hand. My heart beats wildly. My breathing grows ragged. The pain in my abdomen is excruciating. Beyond unbearable. But I can’t let it distract me. I can’t give up. Amidst grunts and groans, I wrestle the gun back in a vicious tug-of-war. Clutching it, I roll away, but as I do, I bump into the small wooden stand, knocking off the candle onto the train of my gown. To my horror, it catches fire, and despite the drenched fabric, it starts to spread. It’s only a matter of time until the flames crawl up the dress and lick my flesh. Frantically, I roll around the floor trying to quell them. The gun slips out of my hand. I succeed, but now curls of fire are all over the floor. An orange-gray cloud of smoke fills the attic as the flames grow taller and taller, rising to the pitched ceiling and climbing up the walls. My eyes burn; my lungs burn. A sheen of sweat coats me from the heat. I hear Alice Fairfax shrieking. A gunshot is fired. And then another. Panic fills every cell of my being as the smell of burning flesh infiltrates my nostrils. My eyes dart in every direction.
Where’s the door? If only I could find it! I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I’m caught in an inferno. A living hell. Blinded by the raging blaze. Then suddenly, I hear a crack. The brittle sound like a large branch snapping off a tree. On my next harsh breath, I scream out in pain. A heavy wood beam from the ceiling has fallen onto my leg. Pinning me to the ground. Between the pain, the flames, and the cyanide, I’m too weak to lift it off. Too weak to move a muscle. On the brink of losing consciousness, reality hits me with the force of an avalanche: I’m going to die! Either be shot to death or burnt to a crisp. Or both. A mix of raw sobs and coughs wracks my body and clogs my throat.
Then a voice.
“Jane, Jane! Where are you?”
Am I now delirious? Can it be?
“Jane, I can’t find you!”
It’s him! Ward! My Mr. Rochester!
“I’m here!” I choke out, my throat burning, my mouth parched.
Footsteps thud in my ears. Grow louder and louder. He finds me. One word...
“Jesus.”
On my next agonizing breath, I’m freed from the burning beam and scooped up in his strong arms.
“Hold on! I’m getting us out of here!”
Reader, I feel him. The taut muscles of his back. The contours of his arms.
But why can’t I see him?
Is he too late?
My eyes close and a curtain of darkness descends upon me.
I come to slowly. Feel the rain, now a fine drizzle, tickling my scorched skin.
I’m no longer in the guesthouse. Though I hear it burning in the near distance. The framework coming down. Windows shattering. Explosions everywhere.
I also hear sirens. Lots of them.
And then, I hear the voice of a human being, a known and loved one. That of Ward Rochester.
Cradling me in his lap, he strokes my hair as he says my name again and again “Jane... Jane.” Soft and reverent as a prayer.