Page 97 of Jane Deyre
My pulse accelerates and my stomach twists. “Can you at least tell me he’s okay?”
Removing her reading glasses, she looks at me with her warm, wise eyes. “My dear, to prolong doubt is to prolong hope.”
I ponder her cryptic words, making no sense of them. They do little do assuage me. Alleviate my trepidation.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Believe, my dear, believe.”
With the help of her cane, she stands up. “Now please excuse me. I must get ready for my dreadful physical therapy.”
My gaze stays on her as she exits the room. I still don’t know what’s wrong with her. I’ve dared not ask Ward nor dared ask her. All I know is that whatever it is, it’s getting worse. The tremors more visible, her gait more labored. She’s been relying more and more on her cane to get around.
Following the acting lesson, I take Adele outdoors and let her frolic in the yard while I embark on reading more of Edwina’s memoir. I’ve barely opened the book to the page I left off on when a shrill voice stops me. Ms. Fairfax.
“So, Miss Deyre, since when do I pay you to read books for pleasure in the middle of the day?”
With a start, I set the book on the table. Holding a cup of tea, she strides over to me and examines the cover. Her brows knit together into a scowl.
“Where did you get this book?”
“Mr. Rochester gave it to me.”
Her face tightens, her lips pursing. She bends over and opens the book.
“Please don’t touch it.”Get your hands off it. It’s mine!
She ignores me, flipping past the copyright page until she gets to the signed page. Squinting, she reads the inscription. And then to my absolute horror, her tea spills on it.Deliberate?Soaking the page and blurring Ward’s words. Angry tears spring to my eyes.
“Look what you’ve done!”
She snickers. “Did your Mr. Rochester ever tell you he’s married?”
He’s married?Her words come at me like a punch to the heart. My hand involuntarily clutches my chest. I can barely catch my breath as her words whirl in my head. My voice hitches in my throat.
“I don’t believe you. His wife is dead.”
Another snide snicker. “Her name is Céline Varens. Google them... make the effort and expense of installing Wi-Fi in the guesthouse worthwhile.”
She finishes what remains of her tea. “You are nothing but his lowbrow mistress.” She pauses, then chortles. “I take that back... Make that nothing but some foolish besotted schoolgirl.”
Tears clog my throat as she scoffs at me.
“Do you really think a man like Ward Rochester could love a plain Jane like you?”
The cut is so deep I feel it slice through me. Splitting me in half.
“You, missy, are formed for labor not for love. Now get back to work!” She snaps her fingers like a mousetrap. “Oh, and by the way, the locksmith will be back here tomorrow. He’s been rather busy.”
Pivoting on her heel, she marches inside the house. My voice fails me, words lost in the bile that rises to my throat.
On my next wretched breath, I throw up.
That night, I do something I should have done a long time ago. I google Ward Rochester and find a Wiki piece on him. It talks briefly about his childhood and education, the bulk of it focused on his writing career with a long bibliography listing all his magazine articles and books. Under the section labeled “personal,” there is one short line:Married to French singer Céline Varens. 2015–Present.I close my laptop before tears fall on my keyboard.
Ms. Fairfax spoke the truth. How could he not tell me? He lied to me; told me Adele’s mother was dead. Or maybe I lied to myself and that’s what I chose to hear. Or believe.
Anger and sadness wage a war inside me, each emotion vying to consume me. Neither wins and all I feel is numbness. My heart a heavy weight, I fling myself onto my bed. I pull the covers up over me and rock from side to side. Unable to fall asleep, I flick on the lamp next to my bed and pick up Edwina’s memoir. A distraction. Sitting up, I flip to the earmarked page where I left off and throw myself into the book to get my mind off him.