Title- The Sanguinary Martyrdom

Author- 4give4get

Rated- T

Disclaimer- I own nothing.

Serena- Here with chapter two. Please R&R!

Chapter Two; Suicider's Ridge…

2 June, 1855

Ferndean

It is here that I can put a definite date upon my story. Being born in the spring of 1841, I stood at newly fourteen years old, five feet and three inches tall, strong and healthy, in a traveling gown that looked more like a burlap sack and the bonnet that I hate most, standing before my childhood home, about to leave for the next year, at least.

I was not quite in long skirts yet. They were short enough to expose my booted ankle, and that's where I liked them, for I felt rather clumsy as a fool in anything longer. My boots were filthy from the river sludge Bradford and I loved so much, and not even an hour's worth of scrubbing had gotten any of it off. I looked a right mess, but dared someone to ridicule that by the way I glanced angrily around.

At thirteen, Bradford was still rather small and childish, and grinned sluggishly at me and handed me my bag, of which the two of us had woken at the break of dawn before anyone else in the house had risen to collect more sludge balls and wrapped them tightly in a petticoat of our mother's and hide them down at the bottom of the bag. Just in case I'd need them in London. They usually lasted quite a while. Their stink only increased over time, and the stickiness decreased, but not too much so that they were unusable.

"Good-bye, Melly," he whispered in my ear and I returned it with a wide, evil grin.

Alton stood as tall as my father at sixteen years old, and had his nose turned up equally as high. He thought himself good and above Bradford and me, and our sludge balls. He only nodded, quite properly and said, "Good-bye, Melanie."

I did not grin evilly, but sniffed loudly and said, "Good-bye, Alton."

And I was not sorry to leave him behind in the least.

My father patted my head, and my mother flung her arms around me, and said many fervent good-byes.

After one last look at Bradford (who I would unquestionably miss the most) I got into the carriage my father had hired to take me to London. And there was no looking back afterwards. My days at Ferndean were over, and with them, my childhood was over. I did not look back, only forewords. My life was in London now, with my aunt Fairfax. I thought of the sludge balls tucked safely in my bag and wondered if my mother would miss that petticoat. I also wondered where the first sludge ball would be hit. I laughed to myself then—my father had made it clear that I was not to bring my mischief along with me to London. I was not being a very obedient daughter then—for I was bringing every bit of mischief I had. I was not done with being troublesome—I didn't even know my own limits yet. I smiled and leaned my forehead against the carriage window.

3 June, 1855

Suicider's Ridge, London

Yes, Reader, you have read correctly. The name of the housewas indeed Suicider's Ridge. I was in just as much puzzlement as you perhaps are now, when I had only just heard the name. The house was on a fairly crowded street, and it stretched up three floors of dismal gray stone and black Iron Gate. The day was overcast and foggy, and the air was moist as if the city were merely submersed in a large glass of water. The carriage stopped, and I (and my bag) stepped out, and pushed foreword on the gate.

Suicider's Ridge it read in iron on top, and the gate creaked open, in obvious need of oiling. The lawn looked strangely gray to me, instead of the bright healthy green I was used to. The trees had leaves, but they were more gray than green also. The path up to the house was ancient stone, and crumbed beneath my boots, from centuries of being walked on, and never replaced. The breeze was slight but chilly, and I brought no shawl.

As I climbed the cracking stone steps up to the large, oak doors with iron bolts and a large knocker with a ghoulish face, and looked up before them, as they stretched ten feet in the air. I cannot explain in a sane way why, but I was reluctant to touch the face to knock on the door. It grinned in agony, the eyes wide with madness. The face was scrunched and something about it made me feel so… unnatural around it. I found that I couldn't rip my eyes away from it for several whole seconds.

After I'd knocked twice, I looked back up at the gray house and yard and a shiver forced its way from my lower back to my neck. But at that second, one of the huge doors was swept open to reveal an irritated housemaid and I told her I was Miss Rochester. She seemed to know good and well who I was, and only motioned I come in, which I did so. The inside was quite similar to the outside. The ceiling seemed rather impossibly high and the marble floor and pillars were all likely white at one point, but were now mostly a dull shade of gray.

In the front hall, there was a large, grand staircase with a balcony looking over, and many hideous pictures were hanging on the wall with evil eyes and malicious mouths. The chandelier was quite large and beautiful, but… well, gray. The place was not dusty and full of silky, draping cobwebs. It was quite clean even, just old and worn and cracking in all sorts of places.

"I'll inform Captain Elliot that you have arrived," the housemaid said suddenly, pulling my mind away from the description of the inside of the house and back to her.

"Captain Elliot?" I asked, rushing after her as she turned down a hallway, "I know no Captain Elliot! I am supposed to be staying with my aunt Fairfax!"

"Mrs. Fairfax regrets that she is not here for the arrival of her niece and hopes that Miss Rochester accepts her apology," the housemaid repeated an obviously-practiced message to me, and continued down the hall, leaving me in the large, gray room by myself.

I approached a statue of a woman dressed in some rather risqué, thin robes that were falling down her shoulders and revealing the top halves of her breasts. I frowned at it, and wondered if I had a pencil in my pocket to make a mustache on her. I reached down into my dress pocket and found that I had. It was a broken stub of one, but still had much use left in it. After a short debate within myself whether I ought to give her a full mustache and beard, or a thin curly mustache. Or maybe the odd kind that was just a square beneath the nose? Or perhaps a goatee? I decided on a regular mustache and a little goatee and it looked quite funny when I was done, and re-pocketed the pencil with a smirk on my face.

The housemaid reappeared around then, and bade (in an equally bad mood as before) that I follow her back down the hall in which she came. She did not notice the addition I made to her master's statue. The hall was long and dark, and echoed with our footsteps, for neither of us treaded particularly lightly. I watched the unlit candles on the wall pass, along with more portraits hanging on the walls, all of people most likely long dead. She showed me into a drawing room with three people occupying it—two men and one woman.

"Miss Rochester, sir," the housemaid announced me.

"Ah, thank you, Kate—that will be all," one of the men said, kindly and she nodded and abruptly left the room, giving the door a good, firm close.

"Where is my aunt?" I burst as soon as she had gone, "I was supposed to be sent to her, not—"

The man who had first spoken, was an old man, but still tall and broad-shouldered, though his hair was pure white. Since Kate, the housemaid had called him "sir," I naturally assumed that he owned the house. His face was the face of a good, old man, and I even felt sorry I had defaced his statue—for all of about a second. He interrupted my speech with a good-natured wave of his hand.

"My dear, Eudora Fairfax has only been forced to see a friend whose husband has lately died, and it unfortunately was the day you where expected to arrive. She shall be back within the house, child. What on earth did Kate lead you to believe?" he chuckled.

I stared a complacent stare back at the door in which Kate had exited and planned to confront her on the matter at my next open chance. Here I was thinking I had arrived at the wrong house!

"Why does she stay with you here?" I asked, still suspicious.

"Eudora's brother was a very close friend of mine before his death, and when Rochester sent her away, she had little elsewhere to go. 'The more, the merrier,' I said. And now it seems Rochester is sending his own daughter away…" the old man trailed off, but then realized I was still listening and smiled warmly, "Well, call me Captain Elliot, I am sure you shall enjoy London very much, Miss Rochester."

I then noticed the two others in the room. The woman took my attention first. She was very beautiful and quite young still. Her hair was a slightly reddish blonde, and arranged in a chignon at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were undoubtedly the most purely green eyes I'd ever seen. Few eyes are pure, pure, grass-green, but this woman's were, reader. I do not exaggerate. I do not do so now, and I never will in this autobiography—it was never within my disposition to exaggerate. Her skin was clear and quite a nice color. She did not possess the fair skin most ladies hankered after in those days, but she was even a little tan. It just made her more beautiful.

Her figure was rather small and delicate. She was about my own height but obviously of a more fragile build. Her gown was a deep red color, and not so large in the skirt—which made her look far more elegant than all of the other ladies I'd seen in my life with piles and piles of petticoats and a full hoop skirt. I always swore I'd kill myself before I'd go out in public stuffed as large as those women. Her facial features were little short of perfect. She had a perfect nose and chin, and large beautiful eyes. Her forehead was smooth and neither too large nor too small. Her cheekbones stuck out, as mind did, which I found rather curious.

The other man was younger—likely not yet thirty. He was quite handsome, with dark messy hair and blue eyes. His face was everything you'd expect for a good-looking man, and the way he dressed and carried himself told me that he was not quite rich, but still a gentleman's son. I also happened to notice in that second that he only had eyes for the beautiful young woman I had already described.

Captain Elliot noticed my looks and smiled again, "These are my good friends as well—Dr. Harrington on the right. He works at Bethlam and is quite a good doctor from what I hear."

Dr. Harrington smiled, "Sir, you must not believe all that you hear," he said out of modesty and it left me wondering what it would me like to work at Bedlam Hospital. (Bedlam being the rather cruel nickname it had been given.)

"… and this young lady was originally an acquaintance of Eudora's—I think from Thornfield Hall as well—Miss Adela Varens. My, it seems Rochester sent her away, as well…"

"Everyone Mr. Rochester tires of must stick together," Adela said with a slight smile on her face, and rose to join me by the door, "I must greet darling Melanie—what kind of sister would I be, otherwise?"

I did not think much of how she referred to me as her sister, but more of that the way she talked sounded quite normal at first, but after the first sentence there is only a slight hint of a French accent. She kissed me, and then led me back to where she was sitting and bade I take the seat next to her.

"Are you French?" I asked her.

"Yes, or oui I should say. My original name was indeed Adéle, but at school they suggested I change the spelling of it," she sighed, "You look like her—Jane Eyre."

"But do not make the mistake of thinking I am her," I told her, "I am most definitely not. Jane Eyre and Melanie Rochester are very different people."

"Are they?" Adela smiled, "Jane Eyre was clever. Are you clever?"

"Not particularly so."

"That is curious. Mr. Rochester was clever as well as his wife," she looked at me with those green eyes.

"I am not like him, either," I informed her.

"I still do not believe that Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester could have possibly produced a child that is not clever," Adela crossed her arms over her chest.

"I assure you I am not," I countered, "I have often wished that I was, but I am not."

"Just know that I am incredulous to that statement, Melanie," she replied.

"Sir," I interjected, addressing Captain Elliot, "Is the name of the house truly Suicider's Ridge?"

He grinned, obviously glad that I had asked. I saw that it was likely his favorite story to tell his guests, "Ah, but it is, Miss Rochester."

"Why?" I wanted to know.

"I did not name it so," he began, "I bought the place along with its current name and have decided to keep it. It seems that since the house had witnessed three suicides—all within fifty years—the name stuck."

"Three people committed suicide here?" I asked, pondering. It sounded more like a place out of a gothic novel now. I hoped he would not insult my intelligence by telling me some story of the ghosts that still stalk the place at night. I would have to come up with some worse way to get him back that giving his statues mustaches in that case.

I remember it was a single second after I had finished that last thought that the door was thrown open with horrible force and the doorknob hit the wall with a bang against the wood and startled us all, I am sure. It was a boy who had entered. He did not dress particularly nicely, but was not in rags either. I could not tell whether or not he was a guest or a servant. I would guess his age at eighteen. He was tall enough to be considered so, and his dark features were still young. And when I say the word "dark," I quite literally mean dark. He was dark enough to perhaps have been dropped off by gypsies. And his manner was quite rough, as the slamming of the door shows. We all looked up at him. Adela and Dr. Harrington both did not look happy to see him, but Captain Elliot was quite the opposite and even smiled at him, although not quite as warmly as he smiled at me.

"Ah, Thomas how lovely of you to join us! Did you notice our new addition? Miss Rochester?"

The boy said nothing at all, did not even acknowledge any of us, until he had circled the room once, all of us watching him do so, and then he said, "Yes, I have."

I decided he was not worthy of too much attention—likely only a rude stable boy that Captain Elliot didn't see a problem with him haunting the house and slamming doors, and turned to the old man and asked, "How did they commit suicide?"

"Well," he seemed rather uncomfortable to speak of it now, likely because I was a fourteen-year-old girl, "The first man—the owner of the house threw himself off of the third story balcony…"

"Oh, get to the blood!" the boy, Thomas interrupted him, "He was crazy," he was addressing me now, "And heard all sorts of voices speaking to him. They seemed to be telling him to kill himself—and then tormenting him until he did. A witness said he shouted, "Alright! Just stop! Don't hurt Matilda!" Matilda was his daughter, you see, but she had also died three years earlier. And then he jumped. When he landed, his head was bashed in, but the same witness said that his right pointer finger didn't stop twitching until several minutes later when the coroner came to collect the body—"

"That's enough of that story, I should think," Captain Elliot said quickly, giving the boy a harsh look.

"That is fine," Thomas retorted, grinning, "We shall move on to the next. Miss… Rochester you said her name was? Yes, Miss Rochester. The second was not ten years later. It was a woman—the cook. She was found lying on the kitchen floor, bleeding heavily, with all of the kitchen knives stuck in her. She was still barely alive, and when the young maid asked her what had happened, she said the knives told her to use them to kill herself."

By this time, Captain Elliot and Dr. Harrington both stood up and tried to grab his arms, but he waved them away, "Then the house was not occupied for another ten years. The owner lived in another house he owned. And the name was changed to Suicider's Ridge—as it was thought to be a house that would make you go mad like the first owner and the cook. So the current owner was eager to sell it. Who did he sell it to? Why, Captain Elliot."

Both men had hold of each an arm and were attempting to quiet him, "And that is when the third suicide happened. It was just a manservant this time, but he tried to resist it. He thought that if he just made tiny cuts on himself that his madness would be satisfied. But he kept on making so many cuts that he finally just bled to death on the floor—you could barely recognize him he was so sliced up."

They were ushering Thomas to the door, trying to pull him out of the room altogether now, "And would you like to know how I know that he was barely recognizable, Miss Rochester?" he didn't wait for a reply, but held on to the door frame so he could finish his story before he was forced out of the room, "I know because I saw him with my own eyes," the door was practically closing on him and he fit in one last sentence before I could no longer hear him, "He was my father."

And then the door was shut, and it was only Adela and myself, frozen in our spots at the scene that had just taken place. We could hear bangs from outside the room, and she smiled at me and said that I must be quite worn out from my journey indeed and that she would show me and my bag up to my room. I followed her up to the second floor and she showed me a room and gave me time to unpack in solitude. The room was gray. The wooden floor was practically as gray as the gray painted walls. The wood was all dark black, and the bedspread and curtains were all lacy and gray. I cannot stress the word gray enough, reader.

I placed my bag on the bed, where I forced it open and pulled all of my clothing out. I did not bring much. I didn't think I would need more than a few dresses anyway. My favorite color to wear was brown. In a brown dress no one looked at you. That's what I noticed anyway. I placed them all in the drawers and then just happened to notice that I had doors out to a balcony in back of the house. I flung them open and leaned my elbows on the stone rail and looked over into the houses behind Suicider's Ridge. The day was still as gray as it had been before, and I noticed a smaller brick house directly behind it. It soon grew to chilly and I decided to go back in. First, I noticed how there was a slight red stain on the stone beneath me. I believe I might have screamed. I slammed the door behind me and recalled all of Thomas's story. His own father had died in it all as well? As I looked around the gray room I felt myself shiver. Out of all of the places in London I, Melanie Cassandra Rochester had been sent to the one called Suicider's Ridge and bloodstains on the balcony! I outwardly cursed my ill luck and sat down on the bed, staring at the wooden boards of the floor.

I then grinned. I had come to London to be a horrible, mischievous girl and make them send me directly back, not cower in some room over the history of the place! I remembered the sludge balls in the bag in my mother's petticoat and carefully unpacked them and hid them under the bed. Yes, they would all see that Melanie Rochester was definitely not Jane Eyre…

End Chapter

Serena- Wow, longer chapter here. Had a lot to include, sorry if it was a little fast. Please review, flames accepted.