Jane
There was a fog in front of Jane’s eyes. A dense fog that prevented her from seeing anything, or hearing anyone. Voices would speak to her, but before the sounds could coalesce into words, the fog would capture them and wrap them up in cottony nothingness, stripping them of all meaning.
The head cloud stayed for days and days, and then all at once, it was gone and Jane was flat on her back on a hard, cold surface, looking up at several faces.
Mr. Blackwood. Charlotte. Rochester. Mr. Mason? And a man in white robes holding a bible?
“Charlotte?” Jane said. “Where am I?”
“Oh, dear,” Charlotte croaked and then coughed. “Do you not remember anything?”
“No,” Jane said. “I must have hit my head. Oh, no. Did I hit my head? Is that it?”
Mr. Blackwood crouched by her. “Maybe we should help her up.”
“Maybe we should tell her what happened before she . . . stands all the way up.” Charlotte said.
After further discussion, it was decided that they would help Jane to a chair, where she should sit—definitely not stand—to hear what happened. The whole thing made Jane very nervous, but not as nervous as the very next moment when she discovered what she was wearing.
“Why am I all dressed up?” Jane asked, smoothing her hand down the softest silk she’d ever felt in her life. “I didn’t steal it.” She felt the need to clarify that fact upfront.
Rochester paced on the other side of the room defensively.
“Somebody please tell me what happened,” Jane insisted.
“Well,” Charlotte said. “To put it as succinctly as possible . . . You were possessed by a ghost, who then, using your body, agreed to marry Mr. Rochester, who, it turns out, has a secret wife locked away in the attic, and just as you were about to say your vows, we rushed in and stopped the wedding and I tore off your pearls, which seemed to be the talisman for your ghost, and then you collapsed, and . . . well . . . here we are.”
“Yes, aren’t we, though,” Rochester grumbled.
Mr. Blackwood clenched his fists. “You, sir, have no right to say anything.”
Charlotte went to his side. “We should call for the authorities.”
“And tell them what?” Rochester smirked.
“Wait,” Jane said, rubbing her forehead. “Wait.”
“I know, I know,” Charlotte said, returning to Jane. “Being possessed by a ghost cannot be a pleasant experience.”
Jane shrugged Charlotte’s hand away and stood. “Rochester’s married? You’re married?”
Rochester’s gaze darted nervously from face to face. “It’s not what you think.” His voice cracked.
“Oh, is that right? Because what I think is that you are married and you tried to get engaged to a woman who was not your wife and then had her possessed!”
“Well, I guess in that regard, it is what you think. But I can explain.”
Jane folded her arms, and then next to her, Charlotte folded her arms, and at that point, Jane noticed someone missing.
“Where’s Helen?” Jane said.
“Who’s Helen?” Rochester said.
“Here I am,” Helen said, flying into the room. “When you were possessed, and I realized even I couldn’t get through to you, I thought I would go to find help. But I didn’t know where to go, or what to do without my Jane. I decided the task was going to take a lot of thinking, so I wandered Thornfield estate, thinking. Until I saw the carriages racing here today. For the wedding.”
“I’m back now.” Jane turned to Rochester. “Explain yourself.”
“Please, please come with me.” Rochester held out his hand. Jane didn’t take it. He dropped his hand. “I will show you everything.”
“You shouldn’t go with him,” Helen said.
“I have to know.”
Jane and the rest of the wedding party followed Rochester out of the church and down the hill and back to Thornfield Hall.
They all entered the manor in a flourish. Housemaids and servants threw rice and flower petals at the couple.
“Curse your happy wishes!” Rochester growled. “There was no wedding today.”
The staff scurried away like roaches in a sudden light.
Jane and company followed Rochester up the spiral staircase to the top floor of the east wing, where Jane had gone so many nights ago when Mr. Mason was injured.
When Helen realized where they were going, she turned around.
“I’ll wait down here,” she said. “I can’t stand being in that room.”
Rochester did, indeed, lead them to that very anteroom where Mason had lain, bleeding. Inside, Grace Poole was sitting near the sofa, fabric on her lap, a needle in her hand. She put down her embroidery when everyone walked in. “How is our charge?” Rochester said.
“She’s a might touchy, sir,” Grace Poole answered.
“Please show us in,” Rochester said.
Grace frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. She’s rather snappish of late.”
Jane remembered the noises coming from beyond that door the night Mason was injured. The rattling of the knob. The moans that mingled with the wind. A shiver ran through her as she watched Grace open the door.
Rochester stepped through the threshold, followed by Jane and the rest of the party. Inside was a large bed, draped with deep red fabric. Red tapestries hung from the ceiling. One such tapestry was sticking out of an open window as if someone were going to attempt an escape, but they were too far up. In the corner, a small table stood. On top of it were two glasses. One lay on its side, liquid pooled around it.
Jane couldn’t see anyone in the room, until a strong breeze forced a gossamer drape aside, and behind it was a woman with ebony-black hair, sitting in a chair. She was thin to the point of being malnourished. There were scratches and cuts up and down her arms, and her head hung low as if she were asleep. Even so, Jane couldn’t stop looking at her. She was luminous, as if a brilliant glow came from deep within her.
“Meet my wife,” Rochester said. “I was married to her before I found out hysteria runs in her family.”
At his voice, the woman raised her head. “You are not my husband,” she said wearily. Then she noticed Mr. Mason.
“You.” She lunged for the man, but wrist restraints jerked her back. “You promised to stay away! Tu as promis!”
She repeated herself in French, Jane noted.
“Bertha, it is all right. This is your brother.” Rochester turned to Mason. “You’d better leave. You’re upsetting her. In fact, we should all leave.”
“No!” Mrs. Rochester cried. “No. This is not my husband. Please.”
“See?” Rochester gestured to her. “There is no cure for this kind of madness. She is hysterical. Now, everyone kindly leave so I can tend to my wife.”
Mrs. Rochester looked frustrated. Exhausted. Resigned.
But she didn’t look crazy.
Reader, you might have noticed there was a propensity at this time to label women as “hysterical.” The term was thrown around quite frequently, and, in the humble opinion of your narrators, far too easily. Then it became a vicious cycle. The more they protested, the “crazier” they were labeled. We are going on record here to say that we feel this treatment was completely unfair.
Mr. Blackwood took a step toward Rochester. “We will be waiting for you, sir.”
Mr. Mason, Mr. Blackwood, Charlotte, and Jane left.
“She attacked me that night,” Mr. Mason said. “I had no idea such madness had overtaken her.”
Jane took Charlotte’s hand. “I am feeling rather faint.”
“Yes, poor Jane. You have been traumatized.”
Mr. Blackwood and Mr. Mason bowed as the ladies walked out, as if pre-Victorian protocol mattered a whit at this point.
Charlotte walked Jane to her bedchamber. They were quiet as Charlotte helped Jane unbutton her gown and fold it carefully, and take off her veil and place it on top of the dress.
Jane put on her usual gray dress and then they both sat on the edge of her bed.
“So I was possessed?” Jane said.
Charlotte nodded. “I can’t believe he did that to you. He should be arrested.”
“There’s no way they would believe it.” Jane could hear the exhaustion in her own voice.
“Do you remember anything while you were possessed?”
Jane shook her head. “No. One minute I was talking to Mr. Rochester, and the next . . . nothing.”
“And then you find out he has a wife,” Charlotte said. She pulled her notebook out of her pocket.
“Really?” Jane said.
Charlotte blushed and set it aside.
“We must leave here at once.” Jane went to her wardrobe, took out her other dress, and began to fold. “About the wife. Mr. Rochester kept saying she was mad, but I didn’t find her to be so.” She hoisted her trunk onto the bed. “Frustrated, yes. Exhausted, yes. But mad?”
Charlotte took Jane’s stockings out of a drawer and folded them. “I agree, dear. But then, I’ve never met someone who was supposed to be mad.”
“It almost seemed . . .” Jane paused. “It almost seemed like if we loosened her restraints and sat down to tea, we could have a—”
She was interrupted by a rap at the door.
“Jane?” Rochester’s voice came through the thick oak.
Jane held a finger to her lips and met Charlotte’s eyes.
“I just want to leave,” Jane whispered. Charlotte nodded and placed the stockings in the trunk.
Helen ghosted in and noticed the packing. “Oh, good, we’re leaving.”
Three more strikes against the door.
“Jane, please. I’m sorry it all happened as it did, but I was desperate. Have you ever been so desperate, Jane? Have you ever been so hungry, you would do anything for bread? So cold, you would do anything for warmth? So tired, you would do anything for rest?”
Jane closed her eyes. She knew that feeling. She knew Charlotte knew that feeling as well. Helen’s head burst into flames.
Helen had a point. Jane never would have deceived someone so, as Mr. Rochester had deceived her. Not to mention the fact that she never would’ve had someone possessed to get her way.
The thought made her stomach roll.
Another knock. “Jane. You are the most radiant thing I’ve ever seen. Remember when you bewitched my horse on that road?”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows at Jane, and Jane shook her head and pointed at Helen, who shook her flaming head and pointed at Jane.
“I knew then that you had come here to change my life. I knew then that the happiness, which had eluded me so far, had come to me at last.”
Jane couldn’t take it anymore. “How can you say such things? I am, by all living accounts, plain.”
“Did you see what I was married to?” Rochester said.
“Oh, bother,” Helen said.
Jane rolled up her sketches and paintings and Charlotte tucked away her brushes.
“Jane, it doesn’t matter if I’m married, because I would be satisfied having you merely as a companion. A sister, almost. We could live in a villa I have in the South of France.” He knocked again, this time with more force. “Jane, we would have separate living compartments, and we would only spare a kiss on the cheek for birthdays.”
“Please, stop talking, Mr. Rochester,” Jane said. “I am not interested in that.”
“You are the love of my life.”
“Which life is that? Because you seem to be living so many.”
“But we had something special, didn’t we? I know you felt it, too.”
Jane stamped her foot. “You lie and manipulate and twist until you get your way. You proposed to me, even though you have a wife, who’s conveniently locked away in the attic, and when I asked for more time, you had me possessed! So no, I don’t think I will live with you in the South of France as sodding brother and sister!”
The flames in Helen’s hair sputtered out. Charlotte stood frozen. Jane’s eyes were wide as if she couldn’t believe the words that had just come out of her mouth.
Jane was about to crack a smile, when a loud thump came at the door. And then another. And another.
“Jane, open the door!” Rochester’s voice was enraged. “Open the door!”
Louder thuds sounded, as if Rochester were throwing the full weight of his body at the solid oak.
Jane looked around for something to defend them with, but there was only a hairbrush and then pieces of furniture that were too big for them to wield as weapons.
“Maybe the window?” Charlotte said.
“We can’t possibly use the window as a weapon,” Jane said.
“No, to escape.”
They ran across the room and looked out the glass, but Jane’s bedchamber was three floors up. And below them, the ground was all packed dirt and grass.
“I’ll go first,” Helen said. She ghosted through the window and floated to the ground. “Now you!”
Jane waved her off. “Quick, Charlotte. The dresser!”
Thud. “Jane, you may not see it now, but soon, I will make you see!” Thud.
Jane and Charlotte put their full weight against the side of the dresser. It moved an inch at a time. They shoved and shoved and then all of a sudden, the dresser toppled over onto its side, landing just short of the door and in no way blocking it.
“No!” Jane exclaimed.
Thud. A piece of the doorframe went flying across the room.
Jane and Charlotte grabbed hold of each other.
Thud. The top of the door separated from the hinge and then the entire thing fell to the floor. Rochester stood there in silhouette against the light from the corridor.
“I asked you nicely,” he growled.
“You can’t really believe that, can you?” Jane said.
Rochester raised his foot to come toward them, but just then a figure came barreling against his side.
“Alexander!” Charlotte exclaimed.
“Ladies, run!” He huffed from exertion.
Rochester was momentarily stunned by the blow. Jane and Charlotte scrambled past him and sprinted down the corridor, followed by Mr. Blackwood. Moments later, Rochester’s footsteps followed.
“Faster!” Mr. Blackwood said.
“We’re going as fast as we can,” Charlotte said back. “Have you seen the shoes we’re expected to wear?”
The three of them made it to the great hall, and almost across it, but Rochester caught up and he tackled Mr. Blackwood. Both men flew to the ground.
Jane and Charlotte stopped.
The two men lay there, their chests heaving as they tried to regain their breath.
“Mr. Blackwood, are you all right?” Charlotte said.
“Yes,” he said, mid-cough.
The men brushed themselves off and then stood, facing each other, knees bent, hands out, combat position.
“Go!” Mr. Blackwood said to Jane and Charlotte.
“Find us at Haworth,” Charlotte said. “We’ll go to Haworth!”
“I will find you! Now go!” Mr. Blackwood said as he lunged for a sword on the wall.
The two ladies flew through the door and out into the cold dark night.