Page 8 of Fragile Wicked Things

"Mr. Rochester sees everything. That I know," she said to no one in particular. She then wheeled herself towards me and smiled, all tension from the argument gone. "Well, now. You’re younger than I expected. Everybody calls me Auntie Fairfax. Let’s get you settled before you meet Mizzez Cousins.

You must be starved." Grabbing the bag from me, she motioned for me to follow her into the house.

"Is Mrs. Cousins Mr. Rochester's grandmother?"

Auntie hesitated a moment, looked down at the ground and mumbled, "Yes, his grandmother."

Lowood had no Black students, and there were few in Liberal, where I lived with my parents, making Auntie the first Black person I had spoken with.

I stared at the folds on the back of her neck, the shine of her sweat, and listened as she huffed down the hall, ushering me into the kitchen.

There, Auntie took leftovers from the icebox, cut some bread and put cold turkey slices between them.

The teakettle whistled, and she poured the boiling water into a cup, spilling some on the counter.

She motioned for me to sit down, served me the lunch plate, and then plopped into a chair opposite me, her chest heaving.

My arrival at Thornfield Hall had differed from that dark, wet night when I had arrived at Lowood, that I took it in faith as a sign of good things to come.

"Miss Jane, you been to Nawlins before?"

I shook my head and swallowed the piece of dry bread in my mouth, wishing for water but making do with the hot tea. I detected a slight accent. Her vernacular was sometimes similar to Buddy’s and yet not. "Are you the housekeeper?"

"Yes, though Thornfield Hall looks a bit run down lately. I’ve been takin’ care of Mr. Rochester for some forty-five years now."

"Oh," I said, mulling it over. "If I remember correctly, you wrote in your letter that Mr. Rochester is in his thirties."

Auntie got up from her chair, picked up a washcloth, and wiped down a clean counter, her back to me. "I took care of his father before him," she said.

"The senior Mr. Rochester lives here, too?"

She stopped in mid-wipe; her shoulders tensed before she spoke.

"It's best not to ask too many questions.

" Her voice sounded somber, but when she looked at me, she chuckled to show me she wasn't serious.

My uneasiness wasn't soothed, and I felt like a stupid girl.

Of course, asking many questions wasn't polite, especially in someone's home.

This I had learned at Lowood—to keep quiet and observe, to hide away—and I swore never to forget my lessons again.

After lunch, Auntie escorted me up the oak staircase, stopping to take a deep breath. We continued, reached the landing, and walked along a corridor with several closed doors. She pointed to a set of double doors.

"That’s Mizzez's room. You’re at the end."

My room was apart from the others at the darkest end of the corridor. There were two doors next to each other, and when I jumped ahead of Auntie and reached for the first handle, I found it locked.

"That’s not yours," she spat out.

My mistake was a small one, and her tone astonished me.

"You mustn’t go there. This here is you," Auntie said, pointing to the other door and left me.

The room was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a dresser and mismatched night tables, and a reading chair nestled near the fireplace.

I let out an incredulous gasp at having my own bathroom and fiddled with the taps, gawking at the hot water pouring out.

Later, as I ran my fingers across the layer of dust on the bookcase, I guessed that it had been a long time since someone had stayed there.

The shelves were lined with hardcover books, bringing to mind Auntie's letter I had received two weeks prior advising me that Mrs. Cousins liked to be read to.

Auntie asked if I could read. Had I not responded by letter, she would have heard my joyous "yes. "

Rochester (much to my chagrin, I picked up Buddy's habit of dropping the "Mr.") went out of town several days a month, and my arrival coincided with his absence.

He was to return the following day, but in the meantime, I would meet Mrs. Cousins that afternoon.

When the clock struck four, I grabbed a book from the shelf, clutched it to my waist and ambled down to her room.

I knocked, too loudly it seemed, and was taken aback by the high spirit of the female voice that invited me in.

Mrs. Cousins sat upright in her bed, her grey hair cascading in braids on either side, her smile pleasant, her freckled hands shaking.

She was not the frail elderly woman I had envisioned.

Her bedroom was larger than mine, the four-poster bed carved in a foreign land with markings of palm trees, mountains and long-legged men and women carrying bundles on their heads.

There were three other doors on the opposite side of the room.

Beside her on a night table were portraits of men, some in black and white, some sepia-tinged, with a strong resemblance between the men.

"Jane, come closer so I can have a look."

I stepped closer. Throughout my childhood, I had been made to stand as people examined me, commenting on my tiny frame and plainness.

"Lovely girl," she said.

"Lovely" had never been used to describe me.

"Plain" was the description most often attributed to my appearance, and once I overheard Mr. Brocklehurst tell Mrs. Temple he thought I lacked "refinement.

" She pointed out I had many fine qualities, and although I strained to eavesdrop on their conversation some more, she never went on to list them.

Still, if I was deficient in physical attractiveness, I certainly made up for it in intelligence.

"Sit by me."

"Would you like me to read to you, Mrs. Cousins?"

"Not now, but I'm delighted to have someone who can read to me. My eyes get very tired. Auntie will only read recipes and tabloid magazines. Edward will only read poetry and nothing else. He's a romantic. I'd like to get to know you. How old are you, Jane?"

"Eighteen."

"Have you any family?"

"Orphaned, Mrs. Cousins."

"No relations at all? No husband, I understand."

"I have an aunt and uncle, but I've never met them. I'm alone."

The spark on her face disappeared for a moment. Her eyes drifted away, lost in another place, another time, and a sadness came over her. Then, she smiled and reached out for my hand.

"We have much in common. I, too, was orphaned, but not alone. I can tell by your eyes that you are clever. I'm correct, am I not?"

This made me blush. No one had ever called me lovely or considered me clever, and even though I believed myself more intelligent than most of the girls at Lowood, I would never admit it.

"Edward will return tomorrow, and you'll meet him then. I must warn you—he can be somewhat...well, how should I word it?... Put off."

I wasn't sure if she meant he’d be put off by me, or the reverse.

"By Edward , do you mean Mr. Rochester, your grandson?" I asked, now that she had mentioned the name a second time. This seemed to take her by surprise, and she looked at me strangely, tilting her head.

"Grandson? Yes, I suppose I can see that.

You were informed that he travels for business several days each month?

He's always weary before he leaves but returns energized and happy, full of life.

" Here, her voice trailed off. "Yes, my grandson.

That's what it's come to. Pick up that picture," she said, pointing to a photo on her bed table.

A young woman I assumed was Catherine, sat in a chair beside a man, his arm wrapped over her shoulder.

I surmised he was her husband, Mr. Cousins.

They appeared happy, and I could tell that they were to have a child, a daughter who would marry a Rochester and give birth to Edward, I presumed. I reached for it.

"Not that one. The one behind it," she said. The man in that photo seemed to be in his mid-thirties and posed next to the Cadillac, which Buddy had driven me in earlier.

"That's Edward. The car was a birthday present from him. He thought I'd enjoy the wind in my hair." Here, she ran a hand across her braid. "I don't know what he was thinking, but he's much younger now."

"He's handsome, like your husband. I can see the resemblance."

"Yes, my husband." She became silent at the mention of him, and naturally, I assumed he was dead.

"Speak to Auntie about my schedule, and I insist you call me Catherine.

Oh, and dear, Edward will be quite hard on you but don't take it personally.

He expects me to be well cared for, and I'm afraid he doesn't always behave around strangers. "

I took my leave of her, happy to have such an agreeable employer and curious about this Edward.

* * *

Long past dinner, Auntie continued instructing me on my job—I had to mark how Catherine's health progressed, what, when and how much she ate, how many hours a day she slept and other details I didn't think were important.

She was elderly, but from what I could tell, not sick at all, but rather lonely.

Auntie lived in a cottage at the edge of the Rochesters' land; two housekeepers arrived when the sun rose and left before it went down.

Buddy was a hired hand responsible for Rochester's horses and attended to other matters as they developed, which scattered his work schedule.

For the most part, Auntie took care of Rochester, but in what manner remained unclear to me.

It was near nine in the evening when I decided to orient myself with the property by going for a walk, starting from the main house and setting out for Auntie's, her porch light acting as a beacon.

Auntie told me Thornfield had a maze, and when I strolled by it, I didn't dare go in for fear I'd lose myself in the twilight.

Without Theseus by my side, how could I destroy the Minotaur in his labyrinth?