Page 4 of Zenith
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Sleep might have beenrestful that night if not for thoughts of Edward.
My heart trembled for him—though I had made the terrible decision to escape his tyranny and lies—but the truth was too shocking for my inexperienced and battered soul to bear. Leaving someone I loved was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do, and I was paying the price.
Words escaped me when I attempted to decipher my feelings, and I no longer had the strength to try. I’d been solitary all my life, and having experienced the euphoria of being wanted and ultimately loved had done nothing but show me what I’d been missing all those years. Now that it was destroyed, I longed for it even more. I fretted so much I made myself sick, and all I could do was allow myself to sink into a fitful sleep. There was nothing else I could do. Perhaps the feeling would fade in time, and I would look back upon this moment and wonder why I’d ever allowed a man like Edward Rochester to rule me.
Perhaps I would go back to him once I found my heart again, or maybe remaining apart forever was for the best. I wouldn’t know which one it would be if he pursued me. Forcing the situation would do nothing but make it worse.
When morning came, I was somewhat rested but had no desire to emerge from the room which had offered me a haven. Turning over, I winced as my flesh pulled at the puckered wounds in my chest. They were not fully healed even though the stitches were removed, and the skin had grown over, and every now and then, the marks would ache something fierce if twisted the wrong way. It was another reminder of Edward’s paradox, and I would be carrying the marks for the rest of my life.
The previous evening had gone well enough with Rivers. I’d told him nothing of my renewed romance with Edward, of the failed wedding, or of Bertha. He believed the story I’d told him the day before and had not questioned me any further. He’d supplied dinner at his insistence and had left me to retire early after my long day of travel.
When I was finally able to drag myself out of bed near midday, the apartment was empty. Music filtered through the door from the studio downstairs, and I assumed Rivers was in residence working on some grand work of art.
I made myself at home as he bade me, taking a shower and cleaning up the dishes in the sink, anything to keep my mind occupied. I’d never liked to be idle. Work that kept my hands busy also served to still my mind from desperate and depressing thoughts. Perhaps the pub Rivers had spoken of would be able to offer some hours, and I would be able to think of more than my pining for the dream I had lost to suffering.
I found a brush and shovel under the sink and began sweeping up in the little kitchen, then I found a vacuum cleaner in the hall closet and proceeded to work over the hallway, the guest room, and the living area.
When Rivers appeared later that afternoon, my chest and shoulder ached, but the flat sparkled.
“There you are,” he said. “Do you still want to come to the pub?”
He didn’t wait for my answer, though I was more than ready to depart. He stood and looked around the apartment as if he didn’t recognize his home at all.
“Did you clean, Jane?” he asked in bewilderment. “And was the carpet always that color?”
I smiled, thankful he was pleased and for his kind words. “Yes, I’m sure it was always that color underneath the dirt.”
“You didn’t have to, but I’m thankful. I scarcely bother with it. I suppose it is a terrible male cliché to admit to, but you know that about me already. Unashamed arrogance.”
“And you’re unashamed at reminding me,” I said.
He winked and nodded toward the door. “Well, are you coming to the pub?”
Thinking again of work, I knew it would keep my mind busy and my fingers out of my uncle’s money—I still did not think it wise to leave an electronic trail of my whereabouts in case Edward was seeking me—so I nodded and went to fetch my jacket.
Rivers was not lying when he said the pub was around the corner.
We walked down the street, across the road to the opposite corner, and we had arrived. Two minutes passed, and that was it. I could see why it had become his local watering hole with such easy access.
“Here we are,” he declared, opening the door for me. “Welcome to The Gossiping Shrew.”
I was no longer surprised at some of the names proprietors gave their drinking establishments, at least not in the United Kingdom. They needed an outrageous moniker to compete with their neighbor in the next city block, and many punters likely delighted in telling stories about drinking at a place called The Gossiping Shrew.
Stepping inside, I found myself in a traditional English pub. It was dark and dingy, its corners full of a different kind of darkness than I was used to. A long bar stretched along the side, the mahogany polished to a high shine, its surface covered in various mats emblazoned with the Guinness logo. There were three sets of gold taps, each pumping a variety of local and international beers and ciders. Bottles of spirits and liquor lined the wall behind, and fridges were set below.
The room itself was full of long tables with benches. There were also booths with red leather seats to one side, a little stage in one corner for live music, and a television was set into the wall where they would no doubt show the latest football games. Menus were littered everywhere, so there was also a kitchen hidden away someplace.
The scent of beer and food filled the air, and I decided I liked the place well enough. Pubs were on every street corner in this city and were much the same as the next. It was the people who made punters come back, and they enjoyed the sense of community.
The door closed behind me as Rivers weaved past me and made his way toward the bar. Following him, I slipped my trembling hands into the pockets of my leather jacket. It did not matter how I was feeling in my heart or how depressed I was at the loss of my love, it was time to make a good impression in case there was a chance of obtaining some work behind the bar.
There were only two staff members tending that evening—a woman and a man—as it was still early, and the pub was still rather empty. Lingering by a stool, I watched as the woman came over with a smile.
“Adele,” Rivers declared as she leaned over the bar.
She air-kissed him on both cheeks with such familiarity I began to wonder if she was one of his many flirtations. Watching their exchange, I took in the woman’s appearance, attempting to discern what kind of soul she was.
