Page 36 of Jane Deyre

I have a job to do.

I need to get myself together.

After a quick shower, I get dressed. In my jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. And my Converse. I have nothing appropriate for the rain. Maybe I can find an umbrella. I search my bedroom, the small storage closet, and the living room.Nada.

I bet there’s one in that locked room, but that’s not going to help.

Grabbing my backpack, I venture outside and am immediately assaulted by the fierce drops of falling water. I pull my hood over my head and hold my canvas bag on top of it. My only protection from the rain.

I jog down the winding path to the main house, hoping I won’t trip on the slippery pebbles. And take a tumble. The rain is cold against my skin and comes with a wind that rouses the rosebushes into a frenzied dance. If I were wearing proper raingear, I might enjoy the freshness of the rain, the glow of the emerald lawn, and the spectacle of the roses. But the rain crashes over me so vehemently that it feels as though I’m in the throes of a river and am going to drown. My only goal is to seek shelter. To get to Thornhill as quickly as possible. It feels like an eternity, but at last the house is in my line of vision. Looking so much more foreboding engulfed in the dark, storming sky. As if it’s straight out of a gothic romance novel.

Dripping wet, I pound on the French doors that open onto the veranda. First with one fisted hand, then with both. So hard my knuckles hurt. A rivulet of red pours down my middle finger. All the banging has opened up my torn cuticle. The bandage having fallen off, it’s bleeding again, the blood seeping onto the cuff of my hoodie.

“Hello!” I yell at the top of my lungs. “Can someone open the door?”

With the pounding rain, I don’t think anyone hears me. I hurry around the side of the house to the front door. Pilote is surprisingly standing in front of it, as drenched as I am. He meows madly. The poor cat looks like he’s gone for a swim. Or is having a really bad hair day. Either way he’s a fright with his long white fur matted like spikes. Silently, I tell him to hang in there and jab the doorbell. Except it doesn’t ring. That’s because the damn power is still out. Shivering, I slam the old brass lion head knocker against the door as hard as I can. The brittle sound echoes in my ears. Hot tears begin to pour from my eyes and mingle with the cold raindrops. Why won’t someone answer? Come to the door?

A memory flares in my head. The Reeds made me take the garbage out. It was one of my many chores that should have been John Reed’s. But the bastard passed the buck to me. One time while I was outside, he locked all the doors. No matter how much I yelled, rang the bell, or banged on the doors, no one came. Mrs. Reed was passed out and Mr. Reed had the TV on so loud he didn’t hear me. I heard John cackle from his bedroom window. Call me a loser. A piece of garbage. Another one of his cruel pranks. I spent the night outside on the stoop, too afraid to go to sleep. Shivering. The howl of coyotes mingling with the wail of sirens. And pop of gunshots. The temperature dipping to almost freezing.

The chilling memory is cut short when from behind me, I feel two firm hands on my shoulders. With a start, I whirl around. Hovering above me is a tall, gorgeous man clad in all black like the Phantom—a fedora hat, a calf-length cape-coat, and tall shiny boots. Holding an enormous umbrella over his head. The black canopy is so wide it shields the two of us along with Pilote from the downpour.

Mr. Rochester!

“Jesus Christ, Jane! What in God’s name are you doing out here?”

My teeth are chattering so badly I can’t form words.

He gives the doorknob a forceful twist and shoves the door open. It was unlocked all this time! The cat dashes inside. Lowering his umbrella, Mr. Rochester ushers me across the threshold. He slams the door shut and throws the dripping wet umbrella into an ornate stand. The kind of thing rich people have in their homes.

Throwing his hat onto the console and wasting no time, he shrugs off his cape and puts it over my shoulders. Made for a man his size, it dwarfs me and hangs to the floor. Though it warms me, I’m still a sopping wet mess. Chilled and drenched to the bone. A puddle of rainwater gathers around me. Mixing with the mud from the soles of my soaked Converse. I hope I haven’t ruined the antique floor.

I can’t stop shivering. And hug myself. Mr. Rochester eyes my bleeding-again finger. The blood snaking down my wrist, it looks worse than it did last night. The name he gave me plays in my head. Calamity Jane. I’m more like a train wreck. I don’t know why he doesn’t fire my sorry ass right here and now.

Lumbered footsteps thud in my ears. I turn my head. It’s Grace Poole, dressed in her prim and proper maid’s uniform. I can almost hear her gasp when she sets her eyes on me. Soaking wet and bleeding, I’m a sight for sore eyes.

“Grace,” says Mr. Rochester, his tone urgent, “go get some towels to dry off Miss Deyre and to clean up the floor. And find a couple of Band-Aids. Please hurry.”

Before she can oblige, another set of footsteps reaches my ears. These a sharp, rapid click-clack.

Ms. Fairfax. Dressed in a stiff gray suit identical to the one she wore yesterday, she marches up to us. A fearful, uncertain look falls over Grace. The timid woman seems unsure if she should tend to Mr. Rochester’s orders or bend to her superior’s.

Mr. Rochester narrows his eyes at her. “Grace, what are you waiting for? Do as I’ve asked. Now!” His gruff, commanding voice is back in play. She scuttles off like a frightened mouse.

Ms. Fairfax stares at me. Something between a frown and a smirk crosses her lips. She snorts.

“Well, well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in!”

As if on cue, Pilote prances back into the grand entrance and meows. He circles around me, avoiding the dirty puddle of water.

“Actually, Ms. Fairfax, I foundhimoutside and let him in.”

She makes a disgusted face. “Whatever. The mess you’ve made is unacceptable.”

Grace returns, holding a mug of piping hot tea, with two towels draped over her other arm. I gratefully take the tea from her and take a small sip. It tastes like chamomile, my favorite. Though it burns my mouth, it warms me as it goes down my throat. While I take another sip, she reaches into the pocket of her apron and retrieves the Band-Aids. Mr. Rochester plucks them from her and peels them open. He throws the wrappers into the umbrella stand.

“Give me your left hand,” he orders after Grace bends down to wipe the floor.

I do as he asks and he re-bandages my finger. The touch of his warm hand on my icy cold one sends a spark of electricity down my backbone.