Page 37 of Fragile Wicked Things

Eighteen

D uring the two hours that Catherine recounted her story, I had wiped tears from my eyes numerous times, unprepared for the emotional hold her words would have on me.

Her words evoked a passion deep within me; the idea that this monster could love as he did, and that Catherine chose him above all others unraveled me.

I had understood pain and suffering. Still, my life had not been as tortuous or dark as his, and I was sensitive to the great lengths he took to find whatever humanity he had left.

To my surprise, the poker remained in my hand, but I no longer clenched my fingers around the iron, having slackened them at some point while Catherine spoke.

The story had worn her down, and she sent me to my room, but not before pleading with me to spend one more night at Thornfield and reconsider my options.

She promised me that I would be well cared for and experience great love, the kind normally reserved for fiction.

Back in my room, I lay on the bed, recalling every detail of Catherine's story and, touching my fingers to my lips, envisioned a kinder version of Rochester.

The fact remained that he never left Catherine at the orphanage as I had been.

Oh, how different my life would have been!

But was it within me to live my life in pretense, in naiveté of what transpired in the attic, to hear the footsteps of the women after he was done with them?

Could I have the hands of a murderer on me again, albeit he did kill to save Catherine?

When he held me in the past, sometimes it was in an aggressive manner, other times in tenderness; the way he held me while we danced, wrapping his arm around my waist, touching the small of my back.

I longed for him to touch me again, to disrupt my loneliness.

—No. No, I could not bear it. I must leave Thornfield in the morning.

There was so much to consider that it brought on a headache.

I wet a cloth, placed it on my forehead, and lay down again, closing my eyes.

In quiet despair, I concentrated on breathing, freeing myself of all thought.

My head cleared and calmed, the recesses of my mind belonged to me alone, and I shunned him.

Edward. He entered my mind again. I thought of his beautiful features, his voice when he read, and his imposing, strong, masculine figure when he stood near me.

Catherine had crossed oceans to be with him, freely giving herself to him.

I could, as well. I had chosen to leave a moment ago, but now I was lost again in indecision.

A crash sounded from Catherine's bedroom.

I whipped the cloth from my forehead, threw my legs over the side of my bed and ran down the hall.

By the time I had arrived, Edward was already there, picking Catherine up in his arms, the glass from a picture frame shattered by his feet.

He carried her to the bed and sat on the edge beside her.

"Catherine," he said.

"I'm here, Edward. With you. Always."

Catherine fell silent, eyes staring at him.

He tried at a smile, wiped away hair from her face and kissed her forehead.

Edward picked up her hand and held it to his face, but when he let go, her hand dropped.

He did this a few more times, and the result was always the same; then, he reached out and, with such gentleness, closed her eyes.

My heart broke at Catherine's death, at his sadness, and a muffled cry escaped me. Edward looked at me.

"Get out!" he said. Edward pounced on me, pushing me out of the room with such force that I fell to the floor, and he locked the door between us.

During those early morning hours, I sat in the corridor, listening to the wailing on the other side, to his blasphemies and wishes to take away his pain.

My body trembled at the crashing sounds from within—the smashing of glass, the turning over of furniture—from Edward wreaking havoc until he collapsed at last, defeated, and the house filled with silence.

On a bright, sunny day, Catherine was laid to rest. Rochester didn't speak a word and locked himself away in his attic.

By then, Thomas had returned from his secretive trip and helped me with the arrangements.

Often, I tried reaching out to Rochester, but he never responded.

One night, I found Thomas knocking on his door, and after several seconds, the door opened.

Thomas disappeared inside. We never spoke of it.

Many of Catherine’s friends and acquaintances attended the funeral, with the odd person who hadn't known her but wished they had.

The one notable absence was Edward, who could not travel in daylight.

Word spread of his heartbreak over his grandmother's death, and condolences arrived daily at Thornfield, beautiful cards with words of sympathy, of kindness and a few as awkward as the people who wrote them.

When the sun set later in the day, I returned to the cemetery with Edward.

We traveled down the alleyways, past monuments of loved ones abandoned long ago, past vaults and headstones damaged by moss and lime, inscriptions faded with time.

My flashlight illuminated Catherine's marble tomb, and a small wrought iron fence surrounded her crypt.

I held the gate open to Edward. The arch above the door was adorned with a crest, and decorative urns stood on either side of the entrance.

I pressed my shoulder into the hard, wooden door a few times, then thought better of it and moved aside.

In one effortless movement, Edward pushed the door open and walked in, leaving me to follow.

It looked different at night, frightening, cold, and filled with intense loneliness.

On the east wall sat a small tomb with a stone marked:

Here lies our darling daughter

Elizabeth Catherine Rochester

1900

Edward leaned against the stone crypt that housed Catherine's coffin, ran his fingers along the crease where the lid met the bottom, then placed his cheek to its cold hardness, caressing the markings of her name engraved deep into the stone.

He emitted a long, deep noise of sadness, then shifted the lid a few inches.

The sound of grinding reverberated as he pushed some more.

"Mr. Rochester, please don't. Leave her in peace," I said.

"Leave. I shall remain here with my Catherine." Those were the first words he had spoken to me in days.

"I won't leave without you. She didn't bring me to Thornfield to have you bury yourself in a tomb, to impose a harsh punishment like this on yourself." When he looked at me momentarily, I saw a change come over his face as though he agreed with me and would do Catherine's bidding.

"You have a man's vigorous brain and the heart of a woman—it will not do. You must not be locked away in Thornfield. I free you, Jane, from whatever promise you made to Catherine," he said.

"I made no promise to her. It's for me that I won't leave you here. I couldn't bear it."

Edward reached out and touched my cheek, held my face in his hands, and drew me to him.

The light in his eyes faded, its sadness palpable and so intense that I shared in his suffering, stifling a cry.

Then the spark dissipated, replaced by something resembling death—they became darker, devoid of humanity.

He grabbed me by my shoulders and pushed me backwards until I was thrown outside the mausoleum, and I landed on the soft, dewy grass.

"This is our death," Edward said and, closing the heavy door, locked himself inside and set me free.

* * *

The following evening, Rochester still had not returned to Thornfield, and I waited one more night before asking Thomas for help.

I traveled down the drive to the home that once belonged to Auntie, where Thomas now lived.

As I approached, I found him waiting for me, leaning against the doorjamb, a grin on his face.

"I've got the kettle on," he said, and I followed him in.

The home was small and bare, with a green sofa placed in the center of the living room, its middle sunken, and in front of it was a striped woven rug on the white-painted wood floor.

Next to the kitchen was a table and two chairs.

I had never been in the home when Auntie was alive, and it felt strange being there with her gone.

Even stranger was the general awkwardness that still existed between Thomas and myself.

For his part, the uneasiness began with Auntie's death. As for me, I built a wall up when I discovered the secret of the creature Thornfield housed. There was no one else to speak to about it, leaving me no choice but to be upfront with Thomas, tell him about Rochester’s secret while asking him for help to bring him home.

"Lemon or milk?" Thomas said, placing two teacups on the table we sat at. Then he snapped his fingers. "Forgot I'm out of lemons."

"Milk is fine," I said, and he poured some into my cup. I stirred the milk with a spoon, and although it blended several seconds later, I kept stirring. Thomas did the same. "Help me bring Rochester home," I blurted out.

He took the spoon out of his cup and laid it down, then raised his hands to cover his face, leaning his elbows on the table. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea," he said. Then, after removing his hands from his face, he asked, "Why are you doing this?"

Taking a deep breath, I relayed the events of the night Catherine died, hesitating before revealing what I saw in the attic. And although I had thought he would believe me to be crazy, I had not anticipated what followed.

"I'm sorry you saw that. You were never supposed to see it," he said.

Tears flooded my eyes at the betrayal, and he looked away. "You knew what he was all this time?"

"Not at first, but when my grandmother died, he offered me a job. The money was too good...I learned soon enough what the job entailed," Thomas said, rubbing at his eyes.