Page 62 of Jane Deyre

Adele finishes both her quiche and salad. “Auntie, would you like to come see the snails with me and help feed them?” Grace has prepared another small bowl of cut-up veggies for them.

“My darling, I would love to.”

I have a small window of opportunity. “Mrs. Rochester, would it be okay if I went back to my quarters? I have something important to take care of.”

Ms. Fairfax shoots me a scathing look. “I don’t believe it’s in your contract to take time off in the middle of the day.”

“It’ll only be for a short time.” And then I’ll never have to put up with her again. The only good thing about leaving Thornhill behind.

Edwina chimes in. “Of course, dear. And it’ll give me an opportunity to spend some quality time with my lovely goddaughter.”

A smile as bright as the sun lights up Adele’s face. Ms. Fairfax pinches her lips so tight a knife couldn’t split them apart.

Edwina pushes herself up from her chair. “Oh, and by the way, Jane, my godson told me how much acting potential you have.”

“He did?” I squeak.

The legendary actress dramatically fans her hands. “He couldn’t stop raving about you. I would love to work with you... give you acting lessons.”

Really?My greatest dream. A dream that’s not meant to be as I’ll be leaving Thornhill shortly.

Ms. Fairfax sneers. “Edwina, she’s not worth your timeoryour effort. Spendinganytime with this liability will wear you out.”

“Alice, let me remind you. I’m not dead yet. I believe mentoring this lovely young, talented woman will give me purpose and strength. God knows how bored I am staying in bed all day. I find it extremely debilitating. Both mentally and physically.”

Ms. Fairfax silences.

I rise from the table. “Please excuse me.”

“Come back soon!” calls out Adele, her voice full of cheer. My chest constricts. I dread coming back, but there’s no way I’m leaving without saying goodbye to her and Edwina. And Grace too.

The door to the guesthouse is still unlocked. Ms. Fairfax probably never called a locksmith. It doesn’t really matter anymore.

Hastily, I pack up my things. Even with neatly folding my clothes, it doesn’t take long. The last thing I put in my duffel is Edwina’s rose-print dress. A last-minute decision. I almost didn’t take it. Or my French lingerie, which I’m wearing beneath my clothes.

I zip up my guitar in its case—I’ll sadly never have a chance to play it with Adele—and then carefully take my vision board off the wall. My finger still covered with a Band-Aid, the memory of Mr. Rochester bandaging it fills my head. So gentle and caring. The touch of him so warm. A rebel tear leaks from the corner of my eye as I try to will it away. It’s a losing battle; I’m unable to forget. My brain says I should rip off the Band-Aid, but my heart screams leave it on forever. A remembrance...

That and my Audrey Hepburn-like self-portrait. I’m torn once again. Should I take it with me? Or leave it behind? Have Grace give it to him? In the end, I decide to take it. I need something to make me dream. Believe in myself.

I have one more thing I have to do. One more thing Idon’twant to do. My heart leaden, I sit down on the edge of my bed (God knows where I’ll be sleeping tonight), my cell phone in hand, and text Mr. Rochester. I obtained his phone number from Grace after we moved the potted plant.

What should I write? How should I start?

My beautiful Mr. Rochester... My one and only Mr. Rochester... Dearest Mr. Rochester...

No, none of the above. I shake my head in negation. Not evenDear Mr. Rochesterwill do. My beloved teacher Mrs. Temple preached:Less is more. So, I start.

Every jab of a letter pains my fingertip. Each one slower than the one before. My finger aches; my heart is breaking. I read my text before I send it.

Per your request, I’m texting to let you know I’ll no longer be working at Thornhill as of today. Please accept this text as my official resignation. I will miss you and your beautiful daughter and wish you much success with your book.

Impulsively, I delete the part about missing him. On the verge of adding it back in and breaking into tears, my finger quivering, I hit send.

I can no longer hold back the waterworks. The dam behind my eyes breaks and tears storm down my face like raging rivers.

I’ve shed many tears in my life but none like these.

Most from the man who tortured me. Almost broke me.