Page 82 of Jane Deyre

Whatever the consequences.

I fly into the drawing room where Edwina and Blanche’s flaming assistant, Garrett, are engaged in an animated conversation, both sipping Cointreau and smoking cigars. Fat Max is conked out on the couch. His snoring loud. At the sound of my footsteps, Edwina looks up at me. Her gaze is loving and warm.

“Darling godson, where have you been? I’ve missed you. And you missed dessert. My God! Grace’s profiteroles were divine.” She takes a sip of her drink, which reflects the color of the low-burning blaze in the fireplace.

I answer her question with a question. “Where’s Jane?”

“Ward, dear, I haven’t seen her for over an hour. I know she went upstairs to put sweet Adele to bed. But that’s the last I saw of her. Maybe she’s in the kitchen helping Grace. The poor overworked woman! That darling girl! God bless her!”

Garrett helps himself to more Cointreau. “I love that Jane! She’ssoAudrey-Hep without even trying...”

His words fade in my ears. I hurry to the kitchen.

Grace is putting the last of the dishes into the dishwasher.

“Grace, have you seen Jane?”

She may not speak, but she can hear. She turns around. Her face distressed, she rolls her hands and points a finger to the door. I’ve known Grace long enough—close to thirty years—to know what the mute woman is trying to say.

“She left the house?”

She nods affirmatively and hands me the keys to Edwina’s Corniche. Worry etched on her face, she clutches her crucifix and mouths for me to go.

Five minutes later, I follow my gut and am driving down Hollywood Boulevard. Jane’s on foot, so she couldn’t have gotten too far.

Adrenaline pumps through me like fuel in a car. My heart racing. Pounding against my ribcage.

In a short time, so much could happen to my impulsive, vulnerable Jane Deyre.

Fear pulses in my veins and I pray she’s okay.

CHAPTER 43

Jane

Hollywood Boulevard heading west is deserted. Not a person on the street; hardly a car on the road. I have no idea where I’m going. What I’m doing. My feet in the kitten-heeled shoes are throbbing. But the pain is nothing compared to the throb in my heart. Seeing Mr. Rochester with beautiful Blanche Ingram, her straddling him, riding him, their mouths locked in a passionate kiss, was the final straw. I should have left Thornhill when I had the chance. And not looked back.

The night is damp. The street dark. The air chilled. The silver moon is but a sliver in the hoary sky.

Tears burn my cheeks. Blur my vision. Dappled beams of light from the scattered lampposts are my only beacon. What was I thinking? I clung to a thread of hope that Mr. Rochester had eyes for me. Felt something for me. I must have been blinded by my heart. Fooled by my senses. That thread is now severed.

Without warning, the sky opens up and it begins to pour. The raindrops coming at me like a spray of bullets. Within seconds, I’m drenched to the core. I don’t let the torrential rain stop me. In fact, it propels me. Raindrops become teardrops and storm down my cheeks.

Hugging myself for warmth, I walk briskly, each step more agonizing than the one before, until it becomes unbearable. My right foot, the one with the bone spur, is killing me. On my next agonizing step, my heel gets stuck in a crack and I go flying onto the wet pavement. The rain beats down on me as I catch my breath and manage to stand up. I glance down. My shoe’s fallen off, and I’ve torn both my little black dress and my knee. It stings like hell and blood is pouring down my shin. Leaving the shoe behind, I hobble off. A rat scutters across my bare foot. I shudder. I pass a tent; a homeless person. He calls out to me from inside it—“Need some shelter, pretty woman?”—and scares me. Not because I think he’s dangerous, but because I identify with him. Feel his loneliness. His hopelessness. Even though I’ve always had some roof over my head, I know what it’s like to feel homeless. Unloved.

Shivering, I let out a sob as I pick up my pace. Tonight there is no Mr. Rochester to protect me. He’s too busy with his lover. The woman he belongs with. I told him I didn’t need him to protect me. I’ve gotten what I deserve.

Blinded by the rain and my tears, my mind clouded with despair, I am startled by the blast of a horn.

A car pulls up beside me. The rain hammering it. The passenger window slides down. A familiar voice bellows in my ears.

“Jane, get in the goddamn car!”

Mr. Rochester!

CHAPTER 44

Ward