Page 31 of Euphoria
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Thornfield was overrun.
As the days turned into a week, all sense of stillness had ceased its hold over the hotel. The kitchen, the concierge desk, housekeeping, and even Alice and I, were run off our feet. The main gallery and entrance were bustling as people went out to enjoy the sunshine or the close company of the sitting room with its projector screen and billiards table. Couples had begun to pair off, groups had formed, and the walls were alive with gossip.
The staff had begun to show signs of wear and tear, not just from the extra work but also from the particular treatment at the hands of the guests. It harkened back to the days of lords and commoners, the rich and the poor, and the class lines that were not to be crossed. Equality was in short supply.
Thornfield was aiming to be a five-star hotel, so the extra attention was warranted, but no one was used to such demands in quick succession. Long days with empty rooms had lulled everyone into a sleepy way of life, and with a full house, it was bedlam. Every soul, which was employed, was exhausted.
Once all the guests and the master had retired for the evening, everyone remained in the kitchen and gossiped about their day. Their words were all as bad as the treatment they had been given, and I suppose I couldn’t blame them for wanting to blow off some steam, but it felt toxic to me. Hate was such a strong word to use in mere passing.
I disliked the way we were spoken to and the things we were ordered to carry out just as much as the others, but the ire that was so present once the lights were dimmed was extraordinary. So I sat in a corner of the kitchen—next to Alice, the bartender, and the concierge but still apart—eating leftover cake, macaroons, and fruit from yet another fancy dinner and keeping my thoughts on the rabble upstairs to myself.
And what do you suppose I secretly thought about most, reader? It did not take a rocket scientist to figure out the complexities or nature of my greatest torment.
Mr. Rochester was a grand host when he decided to turn on the charm, but there were times when he’d glance away, and his mask would slip, and his exhaustion was apparent. Like his treatment of me, it was yet another game, and in my depression, I began to wonder if I’d ever glimpsed anything of the real man at all.
What did it matter? After the first night I was commanded to attend the after-dinner festivities, I’d become a ghost. I wasn’t commanded to appear again, so I’d gladly remained apart, but it didn’t mean I was free of his presence. He was still my employer, and he still had control over my movements, along with Alice and the rest of Thornfield’s staff.
Arrange this hunting excursion, arrange this meal, arrange a cocktail party in the gardens.
I could be in his presence for hours and he would not turn to notice me, nor had he acknowledged my work, not once inquiring after the progress of the retreat. I’d devoted so much time to it, and he’d invested quite a considerable sum of money, so I was confused at his indifference. He didn’t care much about Thornfield at all. Only impressing his fancy friends and wooing Blanche Ingram seemed to command his whims.
I suppose things were going well for them, in the romantic sense. They were glued together at the hip—and I assumed in other ways also—and spent a great deal of time together, whispering and smiling.
Smiling.
I’d never seen such a carefree look pass across his features, and so the jealousy and rejection grew inside me, tangling around my heart like the roses that clung to the facade of Thornfield, cracking the mortar under their oppressive nature. The vines of my anguish strangled me until I was nothing but blackness in a sea of color. The waters crashed around me, pulling me down into its depths, and I went on with my duties as if they were a punishment.
I was drowning, and nobody saw me struggle.
But at least I had macaroons to soften the blow.
“Isn’t it just beautiful, Jane?”
Alice clapped her hands together as we stood at the top of the stone stairs looking down over Thornfield’s rear garden.
The sun was bright in the sky, its heat blistering on my pale shoulders, and not a trace of cloud broke up the vast blue that stretched along the horizon. The garden was awash with color—blue, yellow, red, and white—the grass a rich emerald green, and upon it sat jewels that sparkled even more now that daylight was showering down upon them.
All morning we’d toiled setting up the afternoon party that now sat upon the lawn. Ten tables with white linens, fine bone china, silver cutlery, and elegant centerpieces were arranged just so, the food and cocktails perfect in their construction. Sandwiches, fresh fruits, and pastries sat in generous helpings atop each table while waiters moved to and fro from the bar, delivering drinks to the guests.
It was decadent, as were the people feasting upon our handiwork. Diamonds set in gold, each one of them, but the many facets of a diamond shone differently depending on the light, impurities and all.
It was a page out of one of the novels I’d been devouring,The Great Gatsby, and the only thing missing was a sparkling champagne fountain.
Blanche sat apart from the main bulk of the group at a private little table with Mr. Rochester. They were sipping on champagne, ignoring the plates of fresh strawberries and sandwiches in front of them. They were talking earnestly about something, and their closeness drove a hot needle into my heart, just precisely enough to cause the most amount of pain.
Having suffered through many harsh realities from an early age, unrequited love was not something I was accustomed to. I was content with my solitary existence, for it kept the wolf from my door and my walls intact. It was what I wanted to return to, was it not?
Mr. Rochester leaned close and whispered something into Blanche’s ear, and she laughed loudly, placing her delicate hand over her mouth.
“Rocky!” she cried, swatting him when she’d recovered enough. “You’re positively wicked!”
Despite my resolve to put him out of my heart and mind, I wondered if he kissed her like he’d kissed me. With passionate longing. Had I imagined it? It felt like a specter in my memory the more time and space was placed between that night and my current position.
Perhaps he kissed her with a larger helping of passion since their match was more acceptable. At least I was sure he wouldn’t stop just as things were progressing and would take it all the way to his bedroom. My stomach twisted, and I felt a wave of nausea at the thought.
“I suppose they’ll announce their engagement soon,” Alice said dreamily.
