My Mr. Rochester (9 page)

The bishop stood above us in the pulpit, hatless, his long thin hair spread like a shawl of hay sticks over his shoulders. An ornate white cravat sprouted at his throat and spilled over his black robe down to his waist.

“This scourge of your unfortunate schoolmates is a reminder of the inevitability of holy judgment.”

I expected no great consolation from the
choker
, but his want of compassion depressed me. He adjusted his cravat fondly, as if proud of its beauty, and cleared his throat.

“It is an exhortation from the powers above to aspire to a more righteous—”

Miss Temple leapt to her feet so fast she startled Brocklehurst out of his sentence. The chapel fell quiet as bishop and superintendent locked eyes on each other. Brocklehurst’s face was filled with burning resentment. I couldn’t see Miss Temple’s expression, but I so wanted her to admonish him!

Without a word she turned away. She walked up the aisle and out of the chapel, and I never saw her again.

The measles epidemic scandalized the ladies of Lowton parish. Many had known Naomi Brocklehurst, and all made a religion of her memory. They insisted the bishop install a board of supervisors—composed of their members—to oversee the school’s day-to-day operations. As he was running for public office at the time, he was relieved to disassociate himself from the place.

Under the guidance of the new Ladies Board, conditions improved. To the Lowton Ladies, “self-denial” was a spiritual endeavor that didn’t include freezing or starving. Our shoes still came from the donation box, but their first fundraiser bought an extra blanket for every bed, and our meals became nutritious and ample.

For five years Lowood was my home. When I was seventeen, I passed the state exams to become a certified instructor with both public and private licenses.

When I was nineteen, I woke up.

« Chapter 9 »
I Scandalize Myself

Anno Domini 2085

Bells jingled on the door like magic as I crossed the threshold into Blackstone’s. A fire crackled on the grate in a corner of the cozy shop. Shelves lined the wall to my right from ceiling to floor, covered with shoes, boots, small purses, satchels, and wallets.

“Out in a moment,” Mr. Blackstone called from the back room. “Feel free to look at anything you like!”

Those who’ve had money all their lives don’t know what a delicious feeling it is to carry undedicated cash in a normally empty purse. The power in it. The control.
I choose. I decide. I say no or yes.

I’d never had money of my own, and my teacher’s salary of $1500 seemed like a fortune. Still, in my first year I’d ripped through my paycheck every Teacher’s Day—what the merchants in Lowton called our quarterly paydays when we swarmed into the village with our small vouchers and our little desires.

At first it was all about provisioning.

Once free of the dreadful brown frocks and white pinafores supplied to students, I had to buy teaching uniforms, two navy calf-length dresses with three-quarter-length sleeves. I was also required to own a good dress for Sundays of any modest color. In honor of Miss Temple, I had chosen a simple purple jersey (the low-cut neckline hidden by a black lace collar), covered with tiny pink and yellow roses.

And shoes! My very own shoes that fit. I hadn’t let myself dwell on it, but the worst aspect of receiving Lowood charity was the utter powerlessness in it—symbolized in my mind by wearing another person’s cast-off shoes. I bought new ready-made flats and a pair of dark violet pumps for Sundays. I hadn’t owned two pairs of shoes at one time since leaving Gateshead.

Then there were the incidentals: a supply of black and white lace collars, underclothes, and whatnots like gloves and hats for church. I splurged on candies and colored pencils for my students, and in a shocking moment of weakness and vanity I bought a shawl for myself. The black jersey knit with red, blue, and green paisleys and black fringe made me feel invincibly stylish.

Between the shoes and the shawl, I considered myself quite spoiled.

After deductions for my room and board, by year’s end I’d saved $17.45. The second year I fared only a little better. Lowood never provided enough supplies for my art class, and I liked to keep candies and notions in my pockets as treats for my students. At the end of the year, I’d saved two hundred dollars and change.

No matter. I didn’t want the money. I wanted the sense of self spending it gave me.

Today was Teacher’s Day at the beginning of my third year. Earlier I’d dressed in my purple and dared to leave off the collar as a symbol of my independence. The Board Ladies had descended upon Lowood in all their benignity to supervise the girls and dispense the largesse of their latest fundraiser. Playing Lady Bountiful, they made their carriages available to take us into Lowton for the day.

“Miss Eyre, come with us, won’t you?” Miss Miller had collected Miss Scatcherd and Miss Roy, the teacher of homely arts. “This one has room for four.”

We were off for a day of self-indulgence. After depositing our checks at the bank, we moved on to the champagne brunch waiting for us at the inn, compliments of the Board Ladies.

“Take warning.” Miss Roy covered her champagne flute as a waiter tried to refill it. “The so-called
complimentary
champagne is a ruse. The shopkeepers of Lowton are in cahoots with the innkeeper to loosen our self-control and thereby our purse strings.”

“But Miss Roy, we want loosening,” Miss Miller said.

“It’s what we came for.” I laughed with the others and nodded my ascent to the waiter.

Miss Scatcherd said, “We all know what you came for, Miss Roy. Canning jars and pectin.”

“And a new boiling pot besides,” Miss Roy said good-naturedly.

“Is this yours?” I held up the hot scone I’d spread with a wonderful raspberry lime marmalade. Miss Roy not only taught homely arts, she made fabulous jams and jellies and sauces. The inn and the grocer bought such a steady supply from her that she had a good side business going.

“It is,” she answered with pride. She never spent but on her business and on good things for her beloved pet birds. I suspected Miss Roy would retire with an enviable nest egg.

“What are you after today, Miss Eyre? Paints, caramels?” Miss Scatcherd looked pointedly at my exposed collarbones. “Lace?”

I blushed. My hand flew protectively to my uncovered throat, and I fingered the gold cross pendant Miss Miller had given me upon passing my licensing exams.

Miss Scatcherd moved on to Miss Miller. “I suppose you’ll visit the heathen bookshop.”

The clinking of knives and forks halted with the conversation.
She’d do it, too,
I thought. In taking Miss Temple’s administrative place, Miss Miller had adopted her courage as well.

“What would be wrong in that?” she said. “Mrs. Dean has books her grandfather didn’t carry, and I want to see them. Lord knows it would be a pleasure to read something new.”

“I wouldn’t patronize that foreigner with one penny,” Miss Scatcherd said. “She has an entire section devoted to witchcraft, you know.”

“I didn’t know, Miss Scatcherd. How do you?”

“I believe I heard something from the kitchen.” Miss Scatcherd turned red and looked down at her plate. “Cook said she has the Harry Potter books.”

“Oh, those are wonderful,” I said.

All heads jerked in my direction, as if I’d admitted to a deviant crime.

“What?” I said. “They are. People who denigrate those books haven’t read them. My uncle had a complete set, and he was an Anointed Elder.
The Arabian Nights
also.”

I didn’t mention his secret books kept in the Red Room behind a locked glass door. If only I’d had the courage to look for the key when I had the chance! I never missed Gateshead, but I did miss Uncle Reed’s library.

“Harry Potter is all about love of others and self-sacrifice,” I said. “Christian themes, if I’m not mistaken. I’m surprised Lowood doesn’t teach them.”

At that Miss Scatcherd spilled a little of her champagne.

“That shall be our guide,” Miss Miller said. “An Anointed Elder! I want to see what this American has done with her grandfather’s store, and I don’t think the Gytrash will get me for having a look.”

“Maybe your Gytrash will in fact be your fairy godfather,” I said.

Sadly, as no one else had read
The Prisoner of Azkaban,
none understood my reference to the mysterious great black dog, a shapeshifter who turned out to be Harry’s guardian.

A sense of claustrophobia came over me. I was so different from these women, yet in that moment I saw my future: bit by bit and with each passing year, I would chip away at my sharp edges. I would modify myself to fit in. I would become less like myself and more like them.

Despite my purple dress with its low neckline and a mind that once read scandalous books.

I turned down Miss Miller’s invitation to go with her and Miss Roy to the bookshop. It felt good to get out of the inn and go my own way. Anyway, today I had a plan. I meant to splurge, not on candies or paints. My salary had been raised, and I’d kept out half my quarterly $500 to spend on a pair of custom-made boots at the cordwainer.

Blackstone’s felt more like someone’s parlor than a place of business, but for the display samples on the wall. While I waited for Mr. Blackstone, my gaze went straight to a pair of black leather knee-high lace-up boots.

I couldn’t help myself. I lifted a boot from its stand, caressed the leather and inhaled its rich smell. The interior was lined with soft, soft microfiber. How warm the boots must be!

“Will I measure you for a pair then?” said a deep voice behind me just as I became aware of a masculine presence at my back. I turned around, but the gray hair and twinkling blue eyes I expected weren’t there.

I caught my breath. My eyes were level with a young man’s broad chest. He wore a dark forest green cotton shirt with the long sleeves partly pushed up exposing muscular forearms. The shirt buttons were open to his breastbone. He had the scent of a man who’d been working physically. My heart raced, and my breathing was shallow.

I looked up to the amused expression of a man not much older than myself. He had large dark eyes and thick eyebrows, wonderful cheekbones, a square jaw, and full lips. He brushed his loose brown hair off his face and smiled.

“You did come in for shoes, miss?” His voice was like a dream, deep and rumbling. I wanted to answer, but I’d forgotten how to speak.

“Where is Mr. Blackstone?” I finally managed to get out.

“My dad’s not feeling well today, I’m afraid. But I can help you. I’m Gideon.”

“You were away.” I grabbed on to a piece of intelligence I’d heard in the kitchen about Mr. Blackstone’s son. “On border duty.” Having a topic of conversation brought me back to my senses. Gideon Blackstone was the current fascinating thing in the gossip factory known as the Lowood kitchen. The descriptions of his beauty hadn’t come close.

“You’ll love this boot,” he said. He took me by the elbow and led me to an overstuffed chair by the fire. I’d never been touched like that before, not with kindness. Not by a man near my age. Not by a prince in a fairy tale. Pulling a stool close to my chair, he sat down in front of me and lifted the skirt of my dress over my knees.

“What are—”

“To fit you, miss.” He spoke matter-of-factly and went about his business. An ember on the fire snapped as he slipped off my shoes. His hands were nearly as large as my feet. He left my stockings alone—I didn't know if I was grateful or disappointed.

“Was the border awful?” I could hardly believe this was happening. “Did you have to…”
Good lord, Jane!
I very nearly broke the unspoken commandment:
Never ask about the border
.

Of course he might have had to kill someone. At the very least, he’d caught runners who’d be sent off to hard labor in the hellish factory farms of Carolina or worse, to clean contaminants along the dead zone of the Keystone spill.

“I’ll be right back.” He let my foot down gently and fetched his tools. He sat down again as I stuffed my dress between my legs, and his mouth twitched with a smile. “A deep purple boot would look well with that dress, miss.”

But not much else. “I’d like black, please.” I didn’t say I could afford only one pair which had to go with everything. “I think it’s wonderful that you went for citizenship,” I said. “Your father must be proud.”

To earn full citizenship and secure voting rights, a young man not joined to a Righteous Household or Estate had to serve two years in the New Judean militia. If he was lucky, he’d be garrisoned in the interior, risking nothing more than a pulled muscle while drilling for war with the United States that everyone knew would never come.

The unlucky ones got border patrol.

“My father didn’t want me to go,” he said. “Didn’t think it was worth it.”

Before I could be shocked by the idea, he lifted my left foot firmly in one hand and ran the other down my calf.
Oh!
Butterflies flitted across my stomach…and I felt hot in other places.