13
As the firstweek passed and the second began, Thornfield and its staff fell into a well-oiled rhythm.
The guests went about their holiday, just as demanding as always. They delighted in outdoor activities and traditional English life that harkened back to the Victorian era—not the provincial lifestyle but the pursuits of the nobility. Hunting, walking, playing games of badminton on the lawn, sitting for fancy portraits or the modern instances of photography, sunbathing, swimming, and reading on tablets in the sunshine.
Even when the weather changed and rain set in for days, no one seemed disappointed. Everyone moved indoors, much to Alice’s distress, and their activities became livelier because of it. Cocktail parties, movie nights, billiards tournaments, and high-roller card games, all played among a plume of cigar smoke from the men.
Even though I disliked most of the guests for their haughty view of the world, it was not my place to voice it but to do my job and make them happy. I served their orders on a silver platter and organized their whims and fancies with no complaint even though my patience was wearing thin under the surface. They’d be gone soon enough, and things would return to their usual pace with enough time to recuperate for the artist retreat in autumn.
Among all of this sat Mr. Rochester. I found myself studying him most of all when no one was looking, such was his presence to me. He was with them—betting the most money on the latest game of poker and winning it all back tenfold—but he was apart. I wasn’t sure how to describe the feeling that overcame me when I was beckoned close, only to fetch another drink or provide some information to settle whatever argument he was having at that precise moment. I watched him and thought I could unravel the meaning behind his actions.
One thing I’d fast learned was when one fell for another, it was nigh on impossible to un-fall and find your own two feet. I had lost my control over my disposition toward Mr. Rochester a long time ago.
I stood to one side of the sitting room, watching the rich amuse themselves, a silver tray in my hand. When I was beckoned, I circled the room and gathered empty glasses until it was full. I had nothing else that warranted my attention, so I was tasked with waitressing. For some reason, they felt larger when someone of importance among the staff cared for their whims. An on point person to direct all their grievances to, and today it was my turn.
Once my tray was full, I slipped into the dining room. The air was clearer out here, the weight of my desire waning the further I removed myself from his presence.
Turning to close the door behind me, I was startled to find Blanche Ingram glaring at me through the opening. She stepped forward, forcing me to retreat backward.
I could see the look of annoyance in her blue eyes, and I began to quake as she directed it upon me. With a flourish, she closed the door. Then we were alone, away from prying eyes and ears.
She had something to say, that much was clear, and I was going to hear it whether I wanted to or not.
“What is your game?” she demanded. “Do you think you’re so important that you can love that which is mine?”
I blinked, not knowing what else to do. I was shocked into a stupor. She thought I was going to attempt to steal Mr. Rochester from under her nose? What an absurd notion! I only wanted love if it was freely given because anything less was not worth the pain, which was probably why I kept my suffering in silence, willing my attraction to disappear.
“You think I cannot see the way you look at him?” Blanche asked, her lip curling. “It’s detestable!”
I kept my lips closed, and her perfect face contorted in annoyance. She was looking for a fight, which would give her ammunition to use in defaming me with Mr. Rochester. Either she was insecure in her standing with him or she simply delighted in tormenting those who were deemed easy targets in her eyes. It didn’t matter which was true. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction at all.
When I didn’t reply, she gave her own account of my person. “You have no confidence, and you’re ordinary looking at best.” She reached out and lifted a strand of my wild, brown hair, and curled her nose. “Do you own a hairbrush, or do you like looking like that?”
There was nothing wrong with my hair at all. It was wavy and long and saw a brush every morning and night. I just didn’t spend an hour each morning taming it with a straightening iron, sprays, and creams when I had work to attend. There was no crime being committed.
Now if my occupation were gold digging the young and wealthy, then I suppose I’d douse myself in sweet-smelling tonics.
“What are your accomplishments?” she demanded.
I frowned. “My accomplishments?”
“What can you offer him?” She rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue in annoyance. “A man like Edward needs more thanjust a woman.”
I thought love was enough, but obviously it wasn’t. Not in this world.
“Do you really think he would look at someone like you and prevail himself to marry?You are nothing.” Blanche laughed and shook her head, her black curls bouncing up and down with the movement. “Oh, darling. You’re a train wreck.” Her gaze dropped to the tray in my hands, and she smiled to herself. Moving closer, she raised her hand and deliberately knocked it from my grasp, the silver crashing to the floor. The sound of glass breaking echoed through the dining room, and her lips curved into a fake look of surprise. “Oops!You’d better clean that up. You servants are so clumsy. I think I shall have a word with your employer about this.”
I narrowed my eyes but didn’t fall for her line. She was fake, vindictive, and just plain mean. She didn’t deserve Mr. Rochester’s hand or anybody’s for that matter.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, once she had finished proclaiming her judgment. “I have duties to attend to.” I glanced at the floor, then back to her, my expression smooth and clear of the tears I knew would burst forth the moment I was alone.
Her mouth fell open in surprise as I turned away. Not biting when she poked was a small victory, but underneath my mask, I was a wreck. What I wouldn’t do to show her how I really felt about her petty attack, but what would it solve? I would be turned out of Thornfield—alone and adrift once more—so there was nothing to gain but a momentary feeling of victory that would soon fade.
I knew an empty fight when I saw one, so I turned my back and went into the kitchen to search for a cloth and dustpan, my nerves on edge. I shied away from confrontation on the best of days, and I’d usually feel sick after an event like that, and I’d expect it, but this felt much worse.
My feelings, which I thought I’d kept under tight control, were on show for all to see. Blanche Ingram knew of my secret love, and the thought made me sick with worry. Queen Bee herself would go straight to Mr. Rochester, and how they’d laugh.
“What was that noise?” one of the maids asked as I entered the kitchen totally flummoxed.