Page 74 of Jane Deyre
Two men, one woman. One man, older, balding, and rather paunchy, dressed in a slick gold-button navy blazer, crisp open-collar white shirt, and expensive jeans that look like they’ve been pressed. The other younger, maybe in his twenties, wearing a flamboyant flamingo-pink suit, high-tops, and Elton John-ish rhinestone glasses.
Of the three of them, it’s not hard to figure out which is Blanche Ingram.
I don’t know how I pictured Blanche, but certainly not like this.
She’s in a word: a goddess.
Statuesque. With broad shoulders, a cinched waist, and legs that go on for miles. In her red-soled heels, she’s as tall as Mr. Rochester. About his age. Maybe I was expecting some bookish fuddy-duddy. Not this ineffable beauty.
Her face is exquisite, her olive complexion flawless with almond-shaped green eyes, an aquiline nose, and full, sensuous red lips. Her glossy mahogany hair cascades over her shoulders in glorious waves, bringing attention to her toned arms and swan-like neck. A section of her mane is held back with a gold fleurette, which only adds to her allure. She exudes power, privilege, and sexuality.
Dressed in a diaphanous eggshell gown that drapes her full-bosomed body like the Greek goddess she is, she saunters over to Mr. Rochester and kisses him effusively on both cheeks.
“Ward, darling, so wonderful to see you.” Her rich, breathy voice has an air of superiority and screams money. The white toothy smile she flashes is as dazzling as the rest of her.
“Good to see you too, Blanche. It’s been a while.” Mr. Rochester’s voice is cool. “Can I get you some champagne?”
“That would be divine.” She rakes her left hand through her lustrous hair, exposing her diamond-studded ears. There is, however, no sparkling rock on her ring finger.
Mr. Rochester strides off, leaving me alone with Blanche. Next to her I feel like a shrinking violet. Two feet tall. The plain Jane I am. She gives me a once-over.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” Her voice is laced with icicles.
Just in time Mr. Rochester returns. He hands Blanche a flute of champagne. Her long, manicured fingers wrap around the stem, and I suddenly grow conscious of my short, unkempt fingernails still bearing traces of furniture polish. Embarrassment washes over me. I clench my hands.
Blanche thanks Mr. Rochester with an air kiss and takes a sip of her champagne. “So, darling, who is this girl standing next to me?”
Girl?The condescending tone of her haughty voice stings.
“She’s...”
Before Mr. Rochester can complete his sentence, Edwina joins us. Pilote beside her. He meows, but at the sight of Blanche, he arches his back and his hairs bristle. He clearly doesn’t like her. I trust his instincts. Edwina introduces me.
“Blanche, my love, meet my protégée, Jane Deyre.”
I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief. Happy she didn’t introduce me as the nanny. For the first time all evening, I flash a smile.
“Nice to meet you.”
She continues to assess me. “You don’t look like you could be an actress.”
She’s right. I’m plain and forgettable. Nothing like this stunning, head-turner-of-a-woman, who would stand out in any crowd and could easily be a movie star.
Edwina, missing the obvious dig, sings my praises. “She’s extremely talented. Rather unique.”
Blanche smirks and not subtly. “Yes, I’ve heard there’s a big market for character actors.”
My stomach roiling, I let Edwina hook her arm through mine. “Come, my dear, let me introduce you to my agent, Max Fuller, and to our other guest... Blanche’s delightful assistant, Garrett Miller.”
“Edwina, that’s a wonderful idea,” drawls Blanche. “I can spend some one-on-one time with your godson. God knows how much catching up we have to do.” Smiling coyly, she bats her eyes. “Right, Ward?”
Mr. Rochester takes a silent sip of his champagne. As Edwina whisks me away, I wonder: Are he and Blanche sexually involved?
My heart stutters. Reader, it can’t be argued that they look beautiful together. Almost mirror images of one another with Mr. Rochester’s swarthy good looks a reflection of her dark beauty.
A bell rings. Ding-a-ling-a-ling. The signal that it’s time to sit down for dinner.
I look over at Mr. Rochester and Blanche Ingram. Now involved in an intimate conversation. As they talk, her head inclines toward him till her wavy locks touch his shoulder and brush against his face. She takes his arm in hers, but while the others, including myself, proceed to the dining room, they stay behind.