My Mr. Rochester 1 (Jane Eyre Retold) by Rigel LK

Author:Rigel, LK [Rigel, LK]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery, jane eyre retold, gothic romance
Publisher: Beastie Press
Published: 2013-12-16T08:00:00+00:00

Miss Temple’s answer to Bishop Brocklehurst came the next day. Lunch was delayed, and we were sent outside to work in our gardens while we waited. I was glad because I shared my plot with Helen, and I hadn’t spoken to her since Brocklehurst’s horrible visit.

We set to work weeding the yellow squash. I waited for her to speak, but she was even quieter than usual. She was pale, yet her face seemed flushed to me. “How are you feeling, Helen?”

“Fine.”

“You can’t even tell about your hair,” I said. “Not with your scarf. And it will grow back.” Everything I said made it worse, so I changed the subject. “What Brocklehurst said about me wasn’t true. I’m not…like them.” I nodded toward Bethany House, the building where the fallen girls lived. “I could never.”

“I didn’t believe the bishop.” Helen stopped and sat back on her heels. “But you’re wrong to judge the Bethany girls, Jane. Maybe they thought they were in love. Maybe they were forced. I’m sure not one of them meant to end up in her condition with no husband.”

Contraception was banned by the EDLs, and at Gateshead parish the vicar delivered regular sermons on the evils of birth control. He said condoning it was like condoning sin. Made sense to me! Why make it easier to follow the wrong path?

But what if Helen was right? What if those girls had been forced? Lucky for me John Reed was an even bigger coward than he was a bully. The thought of bearing his child made me ill. Good lord. I could have been a Bethany girl at this very moment.

“I’m ashamed of myself,” I said. “Those poor girls.”

I first heard their cheerful chattering, and then they were there, walking two-by-two through the rows of garden beds. They were like flowers themselves in their lovely floral patterned dresses. Poor girls wasn’t quiet apropos.

“Hello,” a Bethany girl said sweetly to the gaping Lowood girl across from our plot.

What a bout of cognitive dissonance! We were supposed to loathe and judge them, but they were so pretty, so relaxed—so happy. I envied them.

They crossed the garden, and as they disappeared into our building the damned bell rang, calling us in to lunch. I was on my feet in an instant, ready to run with the others, hoping to catch another glimpse of the Bethany girls.

“Helen, let’s go.” I looked back, and my friend was still on her knees. I rushed to her and helped her stand. “Are you ill, Helen?”

“I’m a little weak, that’s all,” she said. “I’ll feel better when I eat something.”

If only lunch is edible, I thought. Then we entered the building, and I thought I must be hallucinating. The tantalizing aroma of stew and fresh bread floated out to us like we were in the little princess’s dream—but that wasn’t the amazing thing.

The Bethany girls were in our dining hall seated at a newly added table near the front of the room, chattering like birds while servers poured milk into large glasses before each of them.

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