Chapter One

 

I remember, clearly, walking through the entrance of a great door, into a grand hallway, filled with images on its walls. And in the centre of this hall was a large, glass, rectangular box. It caught my attention directly, and as my mother took my small hand, we walked towards it. I stopped, to the side, and looked upwards to this masterpiece. Rich white, encrusted with thousands of tiny crystals. A wealth of beauty before my young eyes. It brought about a want, a want for that glorious feature in front of me.
        I pointed at it and grabbed hold of my mother’s hand to indicate to it. “I want that. It’s so pretty.” But my mother only disappointed me in saying, “I’m afraid you can’t have that, my darling. It is not for sale.” Those words found a place to settle themselves in me, as to this day, I still remember them vividly.

“Fetch the cut flowers, John.” My mother pointed outside to the small lawn and flowerbeds that were our garden.
     He dragged himself outside, picked up the flowers, reluctantly, and dragged himself back in. The flowers still in his hand, I took them off him and placed them in the small vase upon the table.
        In the fading summer’s light, the delicate petals struck out white against the brown of the table. “Don’t they look beautiful?” I asked my brother who had been standing near, watching as I arranged the flowers.
        “What do I care?” was his reply. “They only ever look the same.”
        I ignored him, as I often did when he made inconsequential remarks. He never appeared to take notice of what was around him, a very unobservant young man.
        I left him and walked away from the kitchen, down the dark narrow passage to a secluded room on the darkest side of the house. I closed the door behind me, sat down at my writing desk and took up my pen. Before me were piles of paper, broken nibs and inkpots. I searched through papers before finding a clean piece on which I began to write.
        I had written but two words before there was a knock on the door, and in barged the servant with an opened letter in his hand. “Your mother has read it, miss. She asked me to bring it to you, with a request that you should read it.” I stood and took the letter off him. “It concerns you I believe, miss.”
        “Thank you, James,” I said. “You may leave now.” The servant took a small bow and quickly left the room, seeing that I was eager to get back to what I had been occupied with.
        I turned and went to sit down to read the letter, but my mood had changed since my being interrupted. And so instead, I walked to the window and leant against the ledge, allowing what light there was to fall upon the letter. I unfolded it and began to read.
        A social event, it read, was to be held at the local hall. All residents of the town of Kingsford were to be invited. It was signed: Lord and Lady Lownsmere. I looked to the bottom of the letter, to where there was a postscript: We would be particularly delighted if you were to bring your daughter along. Our dearest wishes to her.
        I looked up and out of the window, watching passers by. I had not as yet been to any social event of the town, nor county, particularly not to one whence all the lords and ladies of the area would be present. And I had been specially requested to show my presence. Was I indeed proud I had been so specially singled out, or, in fact, repelled at such an idea?
        I could not, for anything, imagine myself surrounded by such stature. In appearance, perhaps, but in nature? However, I could not refuse, it would have to stand that I was to make my first appearance at such an event, and make myself the subject of high society.
        I left the letter on the window sill, put on my dirty walking boots and left the house with a slam of the front door, to let my family know that I had gone. I walked down the street through the dull skies and torrential rain, past men with cases, hurrying home to their wives and children, to a dining table laid out with food and wine. Each gave me an odd look as they scurried homewards. A young woman of a well-respected family dressed in such strange, unagreeable attire. Nothing to stop the water from touching her bare arms, her dress almost see through. What a spectacle, they would have thought. But nothing of their thoughts disturbed me; I continued to where I was heading.
        I stepped out of the outer skirts of Kingsford and began to trudge through the muddy puddles of the poor’s habitation. Young and old wandered here and there, from workplaces to their homes. I walked on and eventually came to my destination. I knocked upon the door. Voices passed to and fro from within. And finally Cate opened the door. “Madeline, it’s you. Come in, come in.” She beckoned me to step inside the tiny house. “Mama is in need of help with the youngest.”
        I leant over and kissed her thin, drawn face. “And what about your reading?" I asked.
        “It can wait.” She turned her face towards the kitchen. “The baby won’t stop screaming. We think it may have fever, but mama hasn’t the time to take it to a doctor, what with her work an’ all.”
        “I have nothing but leisure tomorrow; I’ll come and take care of the baby for a while. See if I can shake her of her fever.”
        “You’re an angel, y’know.”
        “Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” I smiled. “Come on, let’s go to them.”
        She led the way through to the kitchen, though I knew the way well. Cate’s mother stood over the stove trying to cook a simple meal, whilst constantly turning her attention to the young children surrounding her. She turned around once she sensed others were near.
        “ Mad’line, “ she said. “How good of you to come. You couldn’t read a story to the little uns, could you? They do love it so.”
        “It’d be a pleasure.” I lowered myself to the level of the children. “Come. Show me to your front room and I shall read you a story or two.”
        I left the room with the children leading my way, excited at my reading to them. Cate stayed behind with her mother, to help with the food preparations, though I knew she longed to come.
        I sat myself upon a small wooden chair, old and worn, as close to the fire as was possible; the children sat around me at my feet. One tugged away at my damp skirt. “Can you tell us more of Jane, miss? You know, Jane Eyre?”
        “Of course, Jessie. If that’s what you all most want.” She smiled eagerly and turned to face the boys who were nodding away, equally excited.
        “Oh, thank you so much, miss.”
        “Jessie,” I spoke softly to her, “you know you need not call me miss. I have known you all for quite some time now, and you are all dear little friends to me.”
        The two boys smiled as I bent forward and ruffled their tangled hair; Jessie let out a sweet laugh, and I swept her up into my arms and placed her upon my lap, her head leaning softly against my chest. The boys moved forward and rested their heads upon my knees. And quietly, lit by the dim firelight, I began to tell the children of young Jane’s story.