Page 88 of Jane Deyre
One afternoon, I bring over my guitar and we have a sing-along in the music room, much to the chagrin of Ms. Fairfax, who chastises us to “please keep it down.” I discover that Mr. Rochester has a wonderful voice and can harmonize with me, Adele, and Edwina; the latter can sing as well as she acts, her belting voice rivaling Ethel Merman’s. Our sing-along brings great joy to Grace Poole and I feel bad she can’t join in. I learn from Mr. Rochester that she used to be able to speak and had the singing voice of an angel. Sang regularly in a local church choir. She lost her voice shortly after Charlotte Mason’s kidnapping. Much like alopecia, mutism is often caused by trauma. I’ve often wondered: does she know something about Charlotte’s kidnapping that she’s literally not been able to tell anyone?
Another afternoon, Adele tells us she wants to put on a play.Cinderella,of all stories. While I’m wary of the idea, everyone else jumps on it. Mr. Rochester whips out a script based on the Disney version—the very book I read to Adele—and we all have to memorize our parts. I, of course, help Adele, who cannot yet read. Who plays Cinderella? You guessed right, reader. Yours truly! Yup, I’m a natural for the part.
It ends up being a three-day endeavor. Two for rehearsals; one for the actual production. We’ve been using almost every room in the house, including the chandelier-lit ballroom that hasn’t been used for decades. And everyone, sans Ms. Fairfax, who would be perfect to play Lady Tremaine, the evil stepmother, gets into the action. Even Pilote, who is ordained to play the part of the Tremaines’ evil black cat Lucifer, and Adele’s snails, who get to be the mice-slash-coachmen. We all laugh that Cinderella will miss the ball since her carriage will be traveling at a snail’s pace. Edwina plays the dual roles of Lady Tremaine and Fairy Godmother, using her cane as her magic wand, and is also the narrator and the director; Adele’s one of Cinderella’s evil stepsisters as is Grace, who additionally takes it upon herself to design the costumes and finally, Mr. Rochester, who fittingly plays handsome Prince Charming.
The only part in the production that freaks me out is the ball. I tell Mr. Rochester, my prince, that I don’t know how to dance. He and I are alone in the big, empty ballroom rehearsing the scene.
“The only person you need to know how to dance with, my fair Cinderella, is me.”
He puts on some music, I believe a Strauss waltz, and returns to me. He takes me in his arms. My skin prickles at the touch of him. His heart beats against mine.
“Just follow my lead.”
On my next heartbeat, he sweeps me away. Waltzing me from corner to corner. To my great surprise, instead of tripping over my feet, I follow him with ease. As if I’ve danced like this forever. As ifwe’vedanced like this forever. When the music ends, I’m lightheaded and breathless.
Ward, as I now call him whenever we’re alone, draws me into him. I feel his hard body against mine. His warm breath on my face. His smoldering eyes lock with mine. “My beautiful Jane, I can’t wait to dance with you again.” His lips move toward mine, and as they’re about to touch down, a sharp voice stabs the air.
“Jane, what are you doing here?”
I swivel my head. It’s Ms. Fairfax, standing with her arms folded at the entrance to the ballroom. Her eyes shoot flaming arrows at me. A shiver runs down my spine. Was she watching Mr. Rochester and me dance? Did she see him almost kiss me?
She purses her lips. “Adele has a splinter and has been looking all over for you. Crying ad nauseam and giving me a splitting headache. If you’d been looking after her, none of this would have happened.”
Mr. Rochester looks at her harshly. “Alice, Grace Poole is perfectly capable of removing a splinter.”
Ms. Fairfax meets his gaze, her steely eyes brimming with vitriol. “Grace Poole is nothing but a mute fool.” Her eyes dart back to me. “Now, Miss Deyre, get back downstairs if you want to keep your job.” She pivots on her heel and disappears.
“Mr. Rochester, I’d better get going.” I step away from him; he pulls me back. Gently, he turns me to face him. “Don’t let her get to you. She’s not going to fire you. I’m not going to lose you. Not now. Not ever. Let’s finish what we started.”
His lips crash onto mine and I lose myself in him.
The next day, we put on the play. At the last minute, we decide to hold it all in the great room, shifting the furniture around to accommodate the various scenes, and stringing the drapes across the room. Our “theater” curtains.
I must say the production is extraordinary. Everyone knows their parts by heart. In addition to being an incredible actress, Edwina is also an incredible director. And I’m in awe of the costumes Grace has painstakingly whipped up. About a half-dozen in total.
Except, reader, Edwina has lent me a gown for the ballroom scene. The famous red one that’s in the portrait above the fireplace mantel. And a pair of glass-like heels. Despite my many protestations, the legendary actress insisted I wear them.
When she waves her cane-cum-wand and says “bippity-boppity-boo,” I run behind the curtains, and with the help of Grace, put the dress and dainty shoes on. She also fixes my hair into an elegant bun on top of my head and dabs some red lipstick on my lips. I catch sight of myself in an ornate gold-leaf mirror. And gasp. Oh my God! I look like a true princess. And for a brief moment, I think I’m looking at a young Edwina Rochester. Up until now, I never really noticed the similarities between us. The same shaped face and thick eyebrows, the same petite frame and tiny waist. Even our size 5 feet are almost identical—both of us plagued with bunions on our right foot. Yes, there are major differences—our eyes, our hair, and our ears. And the biggest difference of all, the size of our chests. Hers is voluptuous; I’m almost flat as a pancake and can barely fill out the voluminous dress. Nonetheless, the passing resemblance is there. Maybe, it’s just the dress. Creating an illusion. Smiling, Grace adjusts it and then shoves me through the curtains where my prince awaits me.
Dressed in a waistcoat, britches, and boots, he sets his eyes on me. They grow wide as saucers. His jaw goes slack.
Paralyzed, I stare at him. He looks dashing. Make that devastating. My heart is about to beat out of my chest when he asks me to dance. On cue, the music plays, but it’s not some Strauss waltz.
It’s Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect”. Did Mr. Rochester make this change? He wraps me in his arms, and instead of waltzing me around the great room, he holds me tightly and sways me. Moving me side to side, hardly moving. My head on his chest, his heart thrumming in my ear, my arms looped around his neck, his around my waist.
He sings softly in my ear, harmonizing with the Grammy Award–winning British singer. The words resonate in my heart. A more perfect song, with me in the red dress, dancing in his arms, could not exist. Tears spring to my eyes. Cinderella and I are one and the same. I feel her great pain. I feel her great love.
I’m unaware of the passing time when the grandfather clock strikes twelve. Noon. I jump out of my prince’s arms.
“I have to leave. I cannot stay!”
“Wait, my fair beauty! Don’t go!”
I flee the room, tears blinding me. A glass slipper falls off my right foot before colliding into Ms. Fairfax. I almost knock her down.
She straightens her gray power suit and gives me a scathing look. Looking me up and down. Lingering on my feet. “Why are you wearing that gown? And Edwina’s custom-made shoes. Or should I say shoe?”
“W-we’re putting on a play,” I stutter. “Cinderella.You’re welcome to watch.”