Page 37 of Jane Deyre

I feel Ms. Fairfax’s contemptuous eyes on us. “Miss Deyre, in the future, please use the side door. It’s intended for servants.”

Her words sting me. My whole life I’ve wanted to be treated as a person, not a servant. A single tear rolls down my face. Then another.

Ms. Fairfax rolls her eyes. “Spare me the tears.”

Mr. Rochester fires a look back at her. “For your information, Miss Deyre isnota servant. She can use whatever the fuck door she wants.”

Ms. Fairfax’s jaw drops to the floor.

Another voice joins us before she can lash back.

“Pilote! There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Edwina. Decked out in a crushed velvet fuchsia caftan and matching turban. She scoops up the soaked cat in her arms. “My poor darling!”

My teeth no longer chattering, I tell her, “I found him outside.”

“Thank goodness! I wonder—how on earth did he escape?”

Ward pipes in. “He must have leaped out of the house when I went outside to check on the sump pump, which is fine, by the way.”

“That’s good to hear.” Her gaze returns to me. “Dear, why on earth are you wearing my godson’s cape? And why are you shaking?”

Mr. Rochester answers for me. “She got caught in the rain. She didn’t have an umbrella and is soaked to the bone.”

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I should have brought a change of clothing.”

Ms. Fairfax glares at me. “Youshouldbe sorry. Look at all the trouble you’ve caused.” She casts her eyes down at Grace, who’s still cleaning up the muddied floor. “Grace, please get a mop and bucket and clean this mess up properly.”

Grace staggers to her feet. Edwina holds her back by planting her hand on the housekeeper’s arm.

“No, Grace. Before you do that, I’d like you to show Jane to the guest bathroom and help her out of her wet clothes... before the poor girl catches pneumonia. Draw her a hot bath and fetch her one of my robes. And be sure to make her some more hot tea. Then have her meet me upstairs in my quarters so that she can get into some dry clothes while you launder hers.”

Grace nods with understanding and scurries off.

“B-but I should be taking care of Adele,” I stammer.

“Precisely,” bites out Ms. Fairfax, crossing her arms. “That’s what you’re being paid to do,notwasting time luxuriating in hot baths.” She glances down at her watch. “You’re already a half hour late, and I, for one, cannot be bothered by that child.”

Mr. Rochester looks at her coldly. “I’m sure my daughter won’t be a bother. She can occupy herself just fine.”

Without another word, Ms. Fairfax stomps off. Her lips pressed tight. Her hands clenched by her sides. Leaving behind a cloud of toxicity and hate.

CHAPTER 21

Jane

“Hello, dear. How are you feeling?” Edwina stands before her dresser mirror, adjusting her turban. “There’s nothing like a hot bath to take a chill away. Well, except for a hot toddy. Or a lovely shot of Cointreau. I’m sorry... I should have offered you some instead of that god-awful medicinal tea.”

“Please don’t apologize. The tea was so nice and the bath was wonderful.” The latter is an understatement, thinking back to my soak in the deep porcelain tub with its fragrant, rose petal–filled water. Relaxing, invigorating, warming every muscle of my body. I can’t remember the last time I had a bath. Well, at least like the one I just experienced. The baths I took when I was a child were far from relaxing; I dreaded them. The tubs lined with mold and other stains. The surface rough, cutting my flesh. Often I had to share it with two other kids. Other times, when I was older, wait for the younger ones to get done. So, when it was my turn, the water was always dirty. And there was no hot water left to refill it.

I tighten the belt of the floor-length cashmere robe she’s lent me. Cocooning me, its super-soft warmth against my skin feels delicious. I’ve never worn anything as luxurious before. Let alone touched the likes of it.

I take in Edwina’s expansive quarters. More of the same. A tasteful, bohemian blend of antiques, art, and travel mementos. Shiny, dark hardwood floors, the walls painted a deep burgundy, and a carved marble fireplace. I note on the mantel, there’s a tall urn in the center. Simple and elegant with a halo of golden roses around the rim. And the initials GW. I wonder what they stand for. Goodwill? I don’t think so.

My eyes swing to the majestic four-poster bed. The frame a dark rich wood, fit for royalty with its mountain of plump pillows and super-thick comforter. A gold-threaded coverlet is folded over it. I bet a king or queen once slept in this bed. Edwina Rochester belongs in it too. She’s, after all, Hollywood royalty. The stuff legends are made of.

Pilote is curled up in the center of the bed as if he owns it. Holding a mother-of-pearl brush, Edwina moves to the bed, lowering herself on the edge, and tends to his long white coat. The cat looks more gorgeous than ever. Like it could be entered into one of those “best in show” contests.