Page 68 of Jane Deyre
The wordsBURN IN HELLscorched on my brain, I hurry back to my room. There is only one person malicious enough to write it. Who knows I’m residing here... Alice Fairfax. She hates me. She wants me to leave. And now she’s resorting to scare tactics. I bet she even has a copy of my key, which I guess she’s entitled to as Edwina’s chief of staff. And there’s nothing I can do about that. I just can’t let her get to me. She may rival the Wicked Witch of the West, but I’m not going to let her intimidate me. In fact, tomorrow I’m not going to react. Give her even the slightest bit of satisfaction.
I unpack my bag and put on my pajamas. Then after locking my bedroom door—still no latch—climb into bed. I make sure the child monitor, which I left behind, is plugged in, then turn off the lamp and sink under the covers.
Fatigue overwhelms me. The bed is like an abyss beneath me. I plummet into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 35
Jane
The next few days go by smoothly. Uneventfully. The June gloom persists. A combination of heavy fog, misting skies, and showers.
There have been no more unsettling notes. I’m still convinced Ms. Fairfax wrote the one left in the typewriter, though I haven’t confronted her. Who else at Thornhill bears so much animosity toward me? I honestly don’t understand why she hates me so much except for the fact that she associates me with Adele whom she hates equally. If not more.
We keep our distance. We avoid eye contact. Whenever we encounter each other, we’re like two ships passing in the night and look the other way. The only time we’re forced to see each other is at lunch, but we sit far apart. A draft of silence between us. Separating us.
Adele continues to blossom. Despite the wet weather, which keeps us inside most of the day, we stay busy. We’ve gotten into a routine of reading, playing games, cooking together, and watching some TV. She’s especially fascinated by her snails and doing a great job taking care of them. Feeding them. Keeping their cage clean. And their habitat moist. She desperately wants Speedy and Stripette to have a baby. I haven’t told her they can have hundreds if we don’t clean the leaves daily.
Adele is kindergarten-aged, and school starts mid-August in most of LA. That’s less than two months away and she’s already excited about it. Soon I’ll have to have a discussion about her education with her father. Whom I still call Mr. Rochester. Since his return to Thornhill, I haven’t seen much of him. Not even at meals. I’ve been told he’s consumed with the final edits of Edwina’s memoir, but I think he’s avoiding me. I was hoping he’d let me read it and help him pick out photos, but that hasn’t happened.
On another positive note, I should mention I’ve added a new activity to my daily schedule. Every day after lunch while Adele watches her favorite cartoons on TV in her room, Edwina gives me an acting lesson in her memorabilia-filled study. She’s what is known as a method actor. A technique that requires constant devotion and research into the role, often requiring one to reach deep inside themselves to extrapolate from past life experiences, be they good or bad, and recycle their emotional and physical context into the character they are portraying. Like when she had to shed hysterical tears in her Oscar-winning portrayal of Anabelle Bright, the tragic heroine of her late husband’s bestselling novel,Miracle in the Rain, she thought about the time her beloved Maltese got run over by a car and died. While I never read the book, I’ve seen the movie a dozen times. Her performance was heartbreaking. So convincing. Each successive time I’ve watched her in it, I’ve cried harder.
I’ve already learned so much from her and to watch her perform is such an inspiration. She’s both demanding and a perfectionist. While I haven’t seen the world like she has or lived such a long, colorful life, I have an abundance of pain and sorrow to draw from in my life. It’s not hard for me to put my heart, soul, and body into the final soliloquy of Shakespeare’s Juliet. As I pretend to stab a dagger into my heart, I relive John Reed stabbing me with his pocketknife and feel the doomed lover’s physical pain, and when I relive Mr. Rochester’s kiss, which has continued to burn like an eternal flame on my lips, tears pour from my eyes as I collapse to the floor.
“Bravo, my dear!” cries out Edwina, clapping her hands. “A brilliant performance. You are destined for stardom!”
Tears still falling, I stagger to my feet and humbly manage to thank her. Deep in my heart, I know that a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame will never be mine. And I also know that my Romeo will never be mine. If only I could find a photo of him and hang it on my vision board. A girl can dream, right, reader?
At the end of the week at Sunday lunch, the first one Mr. Rochester attends since his return, Edwina makes an announcement.
“Blanche Ingram phoned me.”
Adele’s face brightens. “Blanche. That’s French. It means white.”
“Yes, dear, it does,” says Edwina as Mr. Rochester’s face pales. She continues. “She shared the most wonderful news. The SundayNew York Times Book Reviewwill be featuring my memoir on the front page and one of their top reviewers has agreed to review it.”
She looks at her godson. He should be bubbling with excitement since he’s the co-author, but instead he still looks chalky. “Did you know that, darling?”
“Um uh, yeah. She called me.” His usually forceful voice falters. “But I wanted you to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
Adele cocks her head. “Blanche is a talking horse?”
Edwina laughs her throaty laugh. “Oh, the pearls that come out of children’s mouths. No, my dear, that’s just a saying. Blanche is our agent.”
“What’s an agent?” asks a still perplexed Adele.
Mr. Rochester interjects. “It’s a person who sells the books I write to a publisher—”
“What’s a publisher?”
I answer her query as best I can.
“A publisher is someone—or a company—that manufactures... um, makes books and gets them onto bookshelves in stores and libraries.”
My charge nods with understanding, looking proud of herself. “Oh, now I get it.Je comprend.”
Edwina takes a sip of her champagne. “I am beyond thrilled. Blanche says the review will catapultThe Queen of Thornhillto the top of the hardback nonfiction bestseller list. There’s already so much buzz about it and pre-sales have been stellar. They’re already planning for a second run as she believes the book will sell out quickly. Best of all, with every purchase, a percentage will go directly to my foundation, Gone Baby. And help parents find their missing children.” She glances again at Ward who still looks shell-shocked. “And so much of that is due to the painstaking effort of my beloved and talented—and so very handsome—godson, who guided me every step of the way.”
The slightest blush falls over Mr. Rochester’s indeed so handsome face, made more ruggedly handsome by his extra layer of stubble and tousled onyx locks. When he’s working hard, I’ve noticed he pays less attention to himself, though it beautifully suits him. Makes him sexier.