A Breath of Eyre (8 page)

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Authors: Eve Marie Mont

BOOK: A Breath of Eyre
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I froze, and then the footsteps began rattling down the stairs. Without thinking, I ran down the hallway and back into my room, locking the door behind me and blowing out my candle. I crouched by the door, listening for sounds outside. All I could hear was my own labored breathing.
My heart was pounding. And I still needed a bathroom. I considered venturing back into the dark hallway, now possibly occupied by a pissed-off ghost. And then I glanced at the chamber pot. It was no contest.
Later, I crawled into bed and drew the blankets tight around me, laying my head on the crunchy pillow. I couldn’t remember having ever felt this alone or terrified. Surely this was all a dream—a long, elaborate, highly realistic dream spurred by too much reading of
Jane Eyre
. I would wake in the morning in my own bed at Lockwood, safely restored to my normal world.
The only thing that saved me was a mind-numbing fatigue. After some tossing and turning, I finally fell asleep clutching the only meaningful object I’d taken with me from my real world: the dragonfly pendant.
C
HAPTER
8
W
hen I woke the next morning, I opened my eyes, hoping to see the digital LCD of my alarm clock staring back at me or Michelle’s lanky body in the bed across from mine. I longed to hear some girl’s radio blasting hip-hop or maybe the sound of an airplane flying overhead. Better yet, the hiss of a shower spraying hot water, thanks to the miracles of modern plumbing. But when I opened my eyes, I saw the high ceilings and ornate bedclothes of Thornfield. My heart sank, and dread overwhelmed me.
I climbed out of bed, almost falling since the bed was much higher than the one in my dorm room, and felt my feet land on a freezing floor. Stumbling over to the vanity, I washed my face and underarms in the basin on the washstand, then opened the closet. Boring black and gray dresses as far as the eye could see. I considered putting on my Wednesday Addams dress, but it smelled faintly of berry wine cooler, and I was afraid that another whiff might make me sick.
That old woman and little girl I’d met yesterday would be expecting Jane Eyre to come downstairs. I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the real Jane. If I was here in her place, where was she? Was she sleeping in my bed, looking into my closet, wondering how a modern girl wears her hair? I dismissed the idea as ridiculous, but a small part of me panicked at the thought of being stranded here.
I chose one of the dark dresses from the closet and eased it over my body. The material was coarse and uncomfortable and there was a row of buttons in the back that took me a year to fasten. The neckline was high and tight, making it difficult to breathe. I found my rubber band from the day before and managed to secure my hair in a makeshift bun.
When I was finally dressed, I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair needed a good washing. I’d also need a pair of tweezers soon or I’d be sporting some serious eyebrows. I had to admit, though, I did look a little like a nineteenth-century governess—plain and serious and old-fashioned.
This was ridiculous. What was I doing here? Was I being punished for something? Or had I, in some way, asked for this?
I thought back to my state of mind these past few months. I didn’t fit in at school. I didn’t fit in at home. Barbara didn’t approve of me. My father didn’t talk to me. My love life was hopeless. I had often wished for some escape from it all. Was this some twisted answer to my prayers?
I knew I had to get back to the stables to see if I could find a clue, anything that might explain why I was here and how I could get back. Grabbing a shawl from the closet, I left my room, walked down the hallway and stairs, and let myself quietly out the side door. The sun was barely over the horizon, pouring diffuse light over the lawn. I guessed it was before seven o’clock.
I passed through the garden behind the house, noting its similarity to the garden behind the Commons Building on campus. The same pathways and beds of seasonal flowers, the same fountains and antique sculptures. Off in the distance was the giant two-hundred-year-old chestnut tree, which had been marked with a plaque designating it as historic. When I circled the tree this morning, though, I could find no sign of the plaque. The wind rustled through its leaves, which seemed to whisper something strange and otherworldly and meant just for me. Shivering, I pulled the shawl around my shoulders and headed for the stables.
I was relieved to see Curry, who nickered when he saw me. And then I wondered, was this even Curry? Madame Favier was no longer my French teacher; she was Mrs. Fairfax. And Anna was no longer Gray’s sister; she was Adèle. Was Curry one of Rochester’s horses now? He still seemed like Curry to me—sweet and docile with that earthy, leathery scent I’d come to love. But I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
“Who are you?” I said to Curry, patting him on the head. “Are you still my boy? And more to the point, am I still me? Or am I crazy?”
Curry sneezed and shook his head, which made me laugh. Not exactly the answer I was hoping for. I wandered around the stables for half an hour, looking for any signs of my old life. Maybe there was a door I could walk through and find myself back at Lockwood. Maybe the loft held the key. I climbed up and looked around but found only hay and swallows. Their cheerful warbling turned to nervous chitter at my arrival. I quickly descended the ladder and left them in peace.
Feeling frustrated and none the wiser, I returned to the house. Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for me at the front door. “What, out already?” she said. “I see you are an early riser.”
“Not usually,” I said.
“Breakfast is ready.”
I followed her into the kitchen and tried to pretend everything was normal, that this was just an ordinary turn of events for me. But inside my mind was swimming. Breakfast was a lukewarm porridge, and I ate it absently, knowing I had to keep up my strength. But what I would have given for an Egg McMuffin or a Pop-Tart.
When we finished breakfast, Mrs. Fairfax led us into the library and handed me a language primer so I could work on Adèle’s English. And this became our routine. We spent the mornings working, took a break for lunch, then resumed our lessons in the afternoon, and met for dinner around six o’clock. It was all very tedious and repetitive. After dinner, I took to walking the grounds, searching desperately for something that might lead me back to my old life.
I had thought I wanted to get away from school—from the competition, the cruelty, the constant stress and noise. But now I found myself missing it, longing for some signs of life around this place, hoping to run into a familiar face. Michelle. Owen. My father. Gray.
No. I wouldn’t let myself think of him. The emotions were still too raw, my humiliation too recent.
What must he think of me after that pathetic display on Halloween?
I thought.
Or worse, does he even think of me at all?
Adèle was the one element that kept me sane during my first weeks at Thornfield. She was spoiled and clearly starved for attention, but that suited me fine. We told each other funny stories and made up jokes, and all the while, her English improved, and so did my French. But once Adèle went to bed, the nights were long. I couldn’t get over the dimness of the rooms, the constant cold, the eerie quiet that descended over the house, broken only by the wind howling across the moors. I would sit by the fire with Mrs. Fairfax, reading while she sewed. I must have read every book on those bookshelves, even tried some of the French ones. But eventually reading grew dull, and I longed to do something active.
I was infinitely bored. I missed Michelle. And Owen. And pizza. And electricity. I wanted to watch bad reality television with Michelle and make fun of the contestants. I wanted to sneak off campus and meet cute boys. I wanted to go for a bike ride and gossip over coffee in Waverly Falls.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Fairfax wasn’t the best company. She insisted on speaking formally all the time and often corrected me when I lapsed into casual conversation. Over those first few weeks, I learned how to play my part well so as not to arouse her suspicion or criticism. Our evening exchanges usually went something like this:
“So, Miss Eyre, how are you progressing with Adèle?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“My, but the weather has been cool of late.”
“Yes, it has.”
“I do wonder when the master shall return.”
“As do I.”
The master. She meant Rochester, and I had almost forgotten about him. Funny, since he’d been my favorite part of
Jane Eyre
. And yet, as I tried to recall the details about him, I found myself unable to remember what he looked like. Or when I would meet him. The thought that it might be soon made the prospect of staying at Thornfield a little less intolerable.
One morning when I was feeling particularly churlish, I went downstairs to find Mrs. Fairfax and Adèle in the kitchen. Mrs. Fairfax’s face nearly collapsed when she saw me. “Why, Miss Eyre, your hair is absolutely wild.” My hand instinctively flew to my head. I’d forgotten to pin it up. “Why, you look like ... a sorceress.”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, trying not to laugh. I didn’t know why my hair was such a big deal. Clearly, there was no one here except an old woman and a little girl. What did they care what my hair looked like?
Dutifully, I went back upstairs, annoyed by Mrs. Fairfax’s constant rules of propriety. I was so weary of the same clothes, the same books, the same lessons, the same walks, the same conversations, day after day after day. I sat down at the vanity and hastily pulled my hair back in a bun. My dress was chafing my neck. I was dying to throw on a T-shirt and jeans, a pair of Converse.
Irritably, I yanked at the collar of my dress. With one particularly fierce tug, my mother’s necklace came flying off, throwing the dragonfly pendant free. A cold wind overtook me then, almost as if the windows had all been thrown open at once. Panicked, I crouched down on all fours and scoured every inch of that floor looking for the pendant, but I couldn’t find it anywhere.
When I stood up, I felt light-headed. My hand went instinctively to my chest, the way it always did when I was nervous or sad. But my neck was bare. I had lost my dragonfly necklace, the last relic of my mother’s.
I sat down at the vanity and felt like crying. I knew so little about my mother, about the woman who’d given birth to me. But I knew that I missed her presence, her vitality, even all these years later. After she died, my father had become a shell of a man until he met Barbara in grief counseling. With her in the house, he gradually came back to life, but he was different, like one of those people who survives a coma but comes back with a completely new personality. A few weeks before he proposed to Barbara, he gathered up my mom’s belongings—her clothing, her sketches and books, the photos of the two of them from various vacations—and put them in boxes in the attic. He said it was out of respect for Barbara; he wanted her to feel at home in our house. But I never bought that excuse. I think secretly he was relieved not to have to deal with the memories anymore, to have a reason to hide them away.
After that, he rarely spoke of her, rarely reminisced with me about all the fun times we’d had together as a family, but instead closed himself off—from her and from me. Sometimes I think he resented me for reminding him too much of her. Now, as always, I longed for a way to reach him. Somehow, I was always trying to reach my father. But I realized, just as I had no cell phone or computer to reach anyone from my old life, I had no magic wand that would bring me closer to my dad. And now I had lost the one link tying me to my mother.
Heartbroken, I glanced in the mirror and was shocked by what I saw. It was not Emma, high school sophomore, staring back at me. It was Jane. I can’t describe the feeling that washed over me, but in that moment, with my necklace gone, I had nothing left to keep me grounded, nothing to maintain my shaky hold over reality. And so I surrendered myself to the fantasy.
I went back downstairs, hair appropriately tamed, and did exactly what was expected of me for the rest of the day. And the day after that. And all the days to follow. There was no question of rebelling, no thoughts of finding my way back home. Thornfield was my home.
And while the days were still a bit monotonous, each felt a little more satisfying than the last. I grew to love the mornings tutoring Adèle, the afternoons strolling through the garden on my own, the evenings reading by the fireplace with Mrs. Fairfax. I got used to the quiet, the solitude, the time spent in my head.
As the days grew colder and the nights grew longer, my former life at Lockwood simply faded away. When I got up in the morning, I was no longer surprised to find myself in a guest room at Thornfield instead of a dorm room. When I saw Mrs. Fairfax, I did not stop and think,
This is Madame Favier, my French teacher.
Lockwood ceased to exist for me, the way school retreats so quickly from one’s mind during the summer vacation. Teachers and schoolmates simply faded from consciousness, replaced with the characters of
Jane Eyre,
more real to me now than reality itself.
Once I had given in to this new life, three months went by as quickly as if they were three weeks. But there was something curious about the passage of time, something insubstantial in my understanding of it. I felt like one walking through a dream, no longer controlling my own actions, but rather allowing larger forces to control me. I woke in my room each day and cheerfully rose to my closet to choose something to wear from the rows of plain frocks and shawls. They were my clothes now. I was Jane. Her words and thoughts came to me like the rehearsed lines of a play.
A part of me knew that if I gave myself over to this world completely, I’d be in danger of losing myself, losing my own thoughts and words to Jane’s. It would be so easy to do. My one way of combating this was to write. Even in the chill of winter, I’d walk out along the battlements, creating stories and adventures in my head. I began inserting the mysterious Mr. Rochester into these tales, and in my mind, he took on mythic proportions; he was the dashing hero of my most passionate fantasies. His fictional adventures fed my imagination. Sometimes when I returned to my room to write the stories down, for a brief moment I’d remember some other man, a boy really, who had once held my heart. I’d try to pin down a memory of him, but it always flew from my mind the moment I tried to grasp it.

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