Page 70 of Jane Deyre
Then in my mind’s eye, Pilote transforms into an evil black cat—like the ones that decorate front doors at Halloween—baring his razor-sharp teeth and retractable claws. With an ear-piercing screech, his green eyes glowing like neon, he attacks Ms. Fairfax and shreds her to pieces.
No one sees my wicked smile.
Including Mr. Rochester. Usually so present, he seems totally out to lunch.
CHAPTER 36
Jane
The next five days are the busiest of my entire life. In addition to looking after rambunctious Adele, I have to, per Ms. Fairfax’s orders, help arthritic Grace with the dinner party preparations. Truth, reader, I would have offered my help to the poor overworked woman even if the dragon woman hadn’t made me.
It’s all too much. There’s so much to do. Polishing silver. Dragging out crystal and china from cabinets. Handwashing each piece. Laundering and ironing linens. Dusting and polishing furniture. Scrubbing the fireplaces. Cleaning all the mirrors. It never seems to end.
I’m as overworked as Grace is. Maybe more. By late afternoon, I can barely keep my eyes open. But I know if I take a break, I will fall asleep. I bet evil Ms. Fairfax assigned me to Grace to deliberately wear me down. To make me look ragged and haggard. More unattractive than I already am.
During this week of madness, I don’t see Mr. Rochester at all. Adele, who’s proven to be a little helper—and a great one at that—tells me her father’s been in a bad mood. Saying bad words. Yelling and screaming. Throwing and kicking things. She, however, assures me that it has nothing to do with her. I don’t understand this mercurial man. One day he’s hot, the next day he’s cold.
Unable to converse with mute Grace, my mind wanders whenever Adele runs off to play or watch TV. Who is this Blanche? What does she look like? What’s her background? How old is she? What’s the history between her and Mr. Rochester? I could google her, but I honestly haven’t had a minute to myself. By the time I’m done for the day and checking up on Adele, it’s usually going on midnight. I stagger back to the guesthouse and conk out right away. The only good thing about this ordeal is that I sleep like a baby. If there are still weird goings-on, I’m oblivious to them. They do not wake me. I’m too dead to the world. I don’t even dream of Mr. Rochester.
The day of the dinner party is the most hectic of all. Both of us up since the crack of dawn, Grace shows me how to set the table... how to fold the napkins and arrange the plethora of plates, crystal, and silverware. There are more knives, forks, and spoons than I’ve ever seen in my entire life, each one with its designated place and purpose. While worn-out Grace spends the rest of the day in the kitchen preparing the gourmet six-course meal, the tantalizing aroma making my mouth water, an energetic Adele keeps me company and helps me out. She’s got an enviable knack for this. A total pro. Maybe she learned the art of tablescapes from her mother, though I dare not broach this still delicate subject.
My other big job—gathering roses from the garden to put in all the vases. With a rusty old clipper, I head outside with Adele, who’s holding a large wicker basket by its handle. A receptacle for the clipped roses. She wanted to help cut the roses, but her hands were way too small for the pair of garden shears Grace offered. Ms. Fairfax has ordered no fewer than four dozen assorted perfect roses. It’s going to take hours.
It does, however, feel good to be outdoors. The June gloom hasn’t lifted, but the cool, misty air feels refreshing against my skin. I glance up at the stormy gray sky and pray it won’t rain.
There are numerous beds of roses in the backyard, the majority along the pebbled path that leads to the guesthouse. We go from one to the next, with Adele helping me find the best roses. Unblemished and in full bloom. They are few and far between as most of the roses are wilting. Many not in full bloom. Others blemished. And some holding on to their stems by only a few petals. Regardless, they smell intoxicating, and I think about that rose petal–filled bath I took when I first got here. How my tired, sore body longs for another. Wishful thinking. I’ll be lucky if I have time to take a shower before the party.
Cutting the roses proves way harder than I thought. The rusty shears are stiff, making the blooms difficult to clip. The blades are dull, the thorny stems thick and stubborn. I keep pricking myself and there are dots of blood all over my fingers. My hands are also blistered from having to squeeze the clipper so hard. Stupid me should have worn gloves. With Adele next to me, I bite down on my tongue so as not to curse.
Two long, painful hours later, my fingers are covered with Band-Aids. Grace had a silent panic attack when a droplet of blood landed on the white linen tablecloth. Fortunately, she was able to get it out with a little soap and water. She makes me sit down while she and Adele artfully arrange the gorgeous roses in crystal vases. It feels good to take a small break.
“Be careful,” I tell Adele who’s totally immersed in making the jewel-like bouquets, again displaying her innate talent. “Don’t prick yourself.”
“Don’t worry, Jane. I won’t.”
The scent of the roses mingles with the aroma that’s wafting from the kitchen. I don’t know what Grace has prepared, but it smells delicious.
A familiar click-clack breaks into my brief respite.
“Where the hell are the candles?” The contemptuous voice can only be coming from one person.
Ms. Fairfax. I look up and there she is, standing at the threshold, tall and erect in her habitual gray suit, her arms folded across her chest. Her wrathful gaze meets mine.
“And please tell me, Jane Deyre, why on earth are you sitting down when there is so much work to be done?”
I jump to my feet. My pulse accelerates. “Um, uh, I was just taking a short break.”
Wordlessly, her lips pinched, she stomps up to the table and scrutinizes it. Her eyes grow more venomous. The look on her face ices my blood.
“Who set this table?”
“I did,” I say meekly.
“I helped,” chirps Adele, not in the least bit intimidated by the noxious woman.
“Shut up, you little imp. Speak only when spoken to. I wasn’t talking to you.”
Adele pokes her tongue at her, but Alice ignores her. She glances down at the table again and then sets her eyes back on me.