Page 48 of Jane Deyre
“How ’bout we draw?”
“We did all those things already,” she pouts.
“Ms. Fairfax may punish you if you bother her again.”
“I won’t. Besides, Papa won’t let her!”
I tug at my lip in frustration. I go for honesty: “Sweetie, I don’t like playing hide-and-seek.”
Adele frowns. “It’s not fair I don’t get to be the finder!” Her bottom lip wobbles, the telltale sign she’s going to cry.
I’ve run out of options and excuses. And I sure don’t want a tearfest that will rouse Ms. Fairfax. Finally, I give in.
“Adele, you’re going to stand here and count to ten while I hide in the great room.” I’m going to make it easy for her so we can end this game quickly. I mentally cross my fingers, hoping she won’t protest. Thank goodness she doesn’t.
“Jane, I have to go to the bathroom first.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“I’m a big girl. I can go all by myself.”
“All right. I’ll go hide while you go to the bathroom. Don’t forget to wash your hands afterwards.”
After a quick eye roll, she skips down the long hallway while I dash into the great room. My eyes circling it, I quickly decide on a place to hide. Behind the drawn scarlet velvet drapes. I bet it’ll be the first place she looks after she checks behind the couches. It might even be the first when she sees my shoes sticking out.
I sidestep behind one of the floor-to-ceiling panels. The fabric smells old and musty. It makes my skin itch. By my feet, there’s a small puddle from the rain coming through a cracked window. I look outside. The rain is still lashing. It roars in my ears and makes it hard to tell if Adele has left the bathroom and started to count to ten. Anxiousness builds inside me. Sandwiched between the plaster wall and the heavy silk-lined drape, I’m shrouded in darkness and feel a bit claustrophobic. A memory stirs inside me.
There’s a reason I don’t like to play hide-and-seek. I was forever hiding from tyrannical John Reed to escape his bullying. And he always came after me. “You can run, you little skank, but you can’t hide,” he’d cackle. And I always knew when he was coming closer. I could hear his determined footsteps and smell his perspiration. Every nerve I had feared him, and the marrow in my bones shrank when he came near.
He used to especially like to torment me when I was reading a book. “Whatcha reading now, little girl?” I kept my nose in the book and tried to ignore him. This really pissed him off and usually he’d grab the book out of my hand and find a way to destroy it. But then I found a nook where I could hide and read in peace. Behind the curtains in my small bedroom, there was a window seat I could curl up on. Having graduated from the fairy tales of my childhood, I’d taken to reading his mother’s Harlequin romances that she kept on a bookshelf in the living room. She was generally too drunk to notice if any were missing, and I always put them back when I was done. Quick reads, I could usually polish them off in a couple hours. And go to sleep and dream of happily ever after.
Until he discovered me. Almost done with a regency romance, I heard him stomp into my room and the very smell of him made me wheeze. With a whoosh, the curtains parted. Looming above me was John Reed, his mouth curled into a snarl, his eyes fired up with fury.
“What the fuck are you doing with my mother’s book?”
I cowered. I trembled. My breathing grew shallow. “I was just borrowing it. I’m almost done and was going to put it back.”
“Nothing in this house is yours!” On my next shaky breath, he yanked the paperback out of my hand and whipped it across my face. The corner of the binding dug into my skin. I winced in pain as a warm trickle of blood snaked down my cheek. To this day, I still have a small scar on my left temple.
“You’re nothing but a deranged psychopath!” I bellowed.
He whacked me again, the pain so great, this time I cried. My tears meant zilch to him.
“And you’re nothing but a pathetic snot-faced crybaby! You know what? Keep the stupid book.”
In two swift moves, he hurled the book at me and drew the curtains. Then, stormed out of my room while I blew my nose with the curtain fabric and dabbed at my salty, bloodstained tears.
The painful memory fades as I anxiously await for Adele to find me. My heart pitter-patters to the beat of the rain. My ears attune to the creaks and groans of the old house. Suddenly, without warning, the curtains whip apart. The screech of the curtain rings along the metal rod are like nails on a blackboard. I let out a loud gasp and my heart almost stops.
Looming above me is Mr. Rochester!
Clutching a bronze statue that’s about to come down on me.
CHAPTER 23
Jane
Mr. Rochester looks as startled as I must look.