three months went by as quickly as if they were three weeks. But there was something curious about the passage of time, something insubstantial in my understanding of it. I felt like one walking through a dream, no longer controlling my own actions, but rather allowing larger forces to control me. I woke in my room each day and cheerfully rose to my closet to choose something to wear from the rows of plain frocks and shawls. They were my clothes now. I was Jane. Her words and thoughts came to me like the rehearsed lines of a play.
A part of me knew that if I gave myself over to this world completely, I’d be in danger of losing myself, losing my own thoughts and words to Jane’s. It would be so easy to do. My one way of combating this was to write. Even in the chill of winter, I’d walk out along the battlements, creating stories and adventures in my head. I began inserting the mysterious Mr. Rochester into these tales, and in my mind, he took on mythic proportions; he was the dashing hero of my most passionate fantasies. His fictional adventures fed my imagination. Sometimes when I returned to my room to write the stories down, for a brief moment I’d remember some other man, a boy really, who had once held my heart. I’d try to pin down a memory of him, but it always flew from my mind the moment I tried to grasp it.
C HAPTER 9
O ne afternoon in January, Mrs. Fairfax had begged a day off for Adèle, who was sick with a cold. I agreed, but I knew I would go mad stuck inside the house all day with nothing to do. It was a fine, calm day, and I was tired of sitting in the library reading. Mrs. Fairfax had just written a letter that was waiting to be posted, so I volunteered to carry it to town.
I set out on the moors, pulling the flaps of my cloak tight against my chest. The ground was hard, and the air was bitterly cold, so I walked quickly. The road went uphill all the way to town, and I was out of breath, so I sat down on a fence rail to rest. From my seat I could look down on Thornfield, the only object in the valley below, its woods rising against the west. I stayed until the sun began to dip behind the trees, then continued on, worried I wouldn’t make it home before dark. The darkness descended quickly here, and an eerie fog was creeping in from the moors, shrouding everything in a gray mist.
I was coming around a bend in the lane when I heard a rhythmic tramping and a metallic clatter, the sounds of a horse approaching. I stood to the side of the road to let it go by, feeling a twinge of fear as I waited for it to appear through the fog, dimly recalling some Halloween tale about a headless man on horseback. I half expected to see a ghostly apparition on a black horse crashing through the night.
Just after I heard a rush under the hedge, an enormous black-and-white hunting dog flew past my legs. It ran on ahead, and the horse and rider followed close behind. My eyes followed the rider, who was no headless horseman, but a traveler dressed in black. He passed, and I went on a few steps in the opposite direction, turning only when I heard a sliding sound, followed by a heavy thud and a shout.
“What the—?” the man called out, forcing me to turn and go back.
The horse had slipped on a sheet of ice, trapping its rider beneath its heaving flanks. Seeing his master on the ground, the dog began barking and came bounding back to me, nipping at my cloak, begging me for help. I ran quickly to the man, who was struggling furiously to get out from under his horse.
“Are you hurt? Can I help?” I said. “What can I do?”
“Just stand on one side,” he said, cursing as he rose, first to his knees, then to his feet. The horse began groaning and attempting to stand while the dog continued barking. “Down, Pilot!” the man said, stooping to feel his foot and leg to see if they were broken. Apparently something hurt, because he cursed again and went to lean against a tree.
“If you’re hurt, I can get someone
A part of me knew that if I gave myself over to this world completely, I’d be in danger of losing myself, losing my own thoughts and words to Jane’s. It would be so easy to do. My one way of combating this was to write. Even in the chill of winter, I’d walk out along the battlements, creating stories and adventures in my head. I began inserting the mysterious Mr. Rochester into these tales, and in my mind, he took on mythic proportions; he was the dashing hero of my most passionate fantasies. His fictional adventures fed my imagination. Sometimes when I returned to my room to write the stories down, for a brief moment I’d remember some other man, a boy really, who had once held my heart. I’d try to pin down a memory of him, but it always flew from my mind the moment I tried to grasp it.
C HAPTER 9
O ne afternoon in January, Mrs. Fairfax had begged a day off for Adèle, who was sick with a cold. I agreed, but I knew I would go mad stuck inside the house all day with nothing to do. It was a fine, calm day, and I was tired of sitting in the library reading. Mrs. Fairfax had just written a letter that was waiting to be posted, so I volunteered to carry it to town.
I set out on the moors, pulling the flaps of my cloak tight against my chest. The ground was hard, and the air was bitterly cold, so I walked quickly. The road went uphill all the way to town, and I was out of breath, so I sat down on a fence rail to rest. From my seat I could look down on Thornfield, the only object in the valley below, its woods rising against the west. I stayed until the sun began to dip behind the trees, then continued on, worried I wouldn’t make it home before dark. The darkness descended quickly here, and an eerie fog was creeping in from the moors, shrouding everything in a gray mist.
I was coming around a bend in the lane when I heard a rhythmic tramping and a metallic clatter, the sounds of a horse approaching. I stood to the side of the road to let it go by, feeling a twinge of fear as I waited for it to appear through the fog, dimly recalling some Halloween tale about a headless man on horseback. I half expected to see a ghostly apparition on a black horse crashing through the night.
Just after I heard a rush under the hedge, an enormous black-and-white hunting dog flew past my legs. It ran on ahead, and the horse and rider followed close behind. My eyes followed the rider, who was no headless horseman, but a traveler dressed in black. He passed, and I went on a few steps in the opposite direction, turning only when I heard a sliding sound, followed by a heavy thud and a shout.
“What the—?” the man called out, forcing me to turn and go back.
The horse had slipped on a sheet of ice, trapping its rider beneath its heaving flanks. Seeing his master on the ground, the dog began barking and came bounding back to me, nipping at my cloak, begging me for help. I ran quickly to the man, who was struggling furiously to get out from under his horse.
“Are you hurt? Can I help?” I said. “What can I do?”
“Just stand on one side,” he said, cursing as he rose, first to his knees, then to his feet. The horse began groaning and attempting to stand while the dog continued barking. “Down, Pilot!” the man said, stooping to feel his foot and leg to see if they were broken. Apparently something hurt, because he cursed again and went to lean against a tree.
“If you’re hurt, I can get someone
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