A/N: I apologise for the delay. Hope you enjoy this chapter.
CHAPTER V - LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
Mr. Rochester having left for Ingram Park, I thought it was high time to make use of his absence. I would have more time to plan my night-time adventure now that I was not occupied with entertaining the self-proclaimed 'master of the house' in my spare time (believe me, I scoff at this notion!). In the past few weeks he had been here, I had somehow lost track of time, trying to get accustomed to my new routine, but Mr. Rochester required a lot of attention to be given to him. It displeased him to be alone and he felt bored easily, so I had replaced Jane's position as his companion. However, I did so in a respectful manner, of course. I was not replacing her as his lover and future wife.
On our daily strolls in the garden, Mr. Rochester had told me of Jane and how much she still meant to him, how he regretted having married Bertha, but that he had felt a tiny shred of hope that he could perhaps succeed in marrying Jane anyway, against all odds. I had felt sorry for him then, because I knew all his actions were well-intentioned. Even if his conduct was ill-advised when he attempted to drive Jane to the verge of insanity by rousing her jealousy, he had never meant to torture her. Perhaps I give Rochester too much credit, but, the way I see it, he was secretly attempting to find out what Jane truly felt for him beneath her stoic exterior. How could Mr. Rochester have known that he was hurting Jane so with his little games and ploys? I believe he was a bit insensitive, but maybe pushing Jane to the edge was necessary for her to admit her feelings to Rochester, as society was certainly "not amused" by this kind of union. A governess falling in love with her master? How despicable!
In the end, though, Rochester succeeded, however clumsily he had gone about it, in forcing Jane to confess her feelings. The words she had suppressed for such a long time, had finally erupted from her lips. I wonder, though, why Rochester himself had never admitted his feelings to Jane. Maybe she could have been spared some of the pain Rochester had caused her. He was, after all, permanently subjecting her to his will and treating her like his puppet. In my opinion, he went too far by abusing Jane emotionally, forcing her to her knees (pardon the ambiguity.)
However, Jane had finally proved her true strength by standing up to Rochester, and that is what makes her so special. She may have been victimised, but she never saw herself as a victim, if you get my drift. Jane showed Rochester her will-power by telling him that she is not a machine, but she also admitted to him that she wouldn't be able to stomach staying at Thornfield Hall if another woman was to be his wife. Yet, it was due to her position as governess, that Jane believed Rochester could never truly love her. This was why she had probably been so cautious around him.
Being in love with her employer seemed fruitless, but the moment the two of them found out about their love for each other, was the moment Jane made herself vulnerable and started hoping, rejoicing, only to be let down after finding out about Bertha. The only way Jane and Rochester could be together, was if Bertha died. This was also my current dilemma. Knowing what was to happen in the near future, I felt morally obligated to save everyone I could. What if I had the possibility of saving Bertha? What would this entail for the story? Was it perhaps better not to meddle too much? I was uncertain as to which choice I should make. Given the option, should I save Bertha Mason or was I to remain passive, standing by as Bertha committed suicide. I saw my role as the 'saviour' of Rochester's relationship with Jane. Due to the disruption of the plot, which I seemed to have caused, I needed to set things right. So, shouldn't the changes remain minimal? In our time, Rochester and Bertha could probably get a divorce, but there would be a lot of uncertainties even in this scenario.
My mission was to take place tonight. I had decided to infiltrate the attic to see if there was a way through into my world there. Even if I wasn't lucky enough to find a doorway or the like, I could rest assured that I had tried. Grace Poole usually guarded the attic room during the day, but she tended to sleep in her own room at night, lest Bertha needed emotional support or had lost control. There had been no crises to be attended to while I had been here, so I was safe to head upstairs this evening without anyone standing in my way.
It was the middle of the night now, and I was growing more and more agitated. Feeling tense, I left my bedroom, locking the door behind me, as usual. I headed for the attic hopefully, a candle in my hand, lighting my way in the otherwise pitch-black hallway. The candle's soft flickering light was my sole companion in this moment. Everything was silent, except for the occasional "click clack," sounding out every time I didn't tread carefully enough on the stone floor with my heeled shoes. I could see my own shadow projected onto the floor like a willowy ghost ahead of me.
This house was full of ghosts, whether they were merely talked of, whether they really existed or whether they were in fact memories or wishes left unfulfilled. This house seemed haunted, but more by Mr. Rochester himself, rather than by Bertha Mason who seemed like a ghost of Rochester's past herself. But it was Mr. Rochester who was the cause of the dark atmosphere pervading this house. His soul was truly tortured and his gloomy moods created a certain heaviness. Thornfield Hall seemed forlorn itself, standing on its own away from society. It was this isolation that really got to me at times. I felt like I had to break free from this cage.
Like the Beast in Beauty and the Beast, Mr Rochester had attempted to escape his misery, loneliness and desperation by travelling far and wide, but really, he was only running from himself. Mr. Rochester had always been a man trying to lose himself in excess. An excess of women and an excess of alcohol were probably involved in those days he travelled all over Europe, running away from his own mistakes. Mr. Rochester was not exactly what I would call a man of moral conviction. He was rather a man without hope, which is perhaps a state of mind that explains his behaviour. Nobody deserved to live like that. There was so much darkness inside him, but also so much potential for goodness and happiness, if it were given the chance to be set alight. Jane had given Rochester this chance. She was his cure, his beacon of hope, perhaps the only girl who could save him at this point.
Sadly, now Mr. Rochester seemed to be carrying on in his old ways. He seemed to have given up again, so I would have to speed things up now. If there really was another doorway in the attic, this was my opportunity to bring Jane and Rochester back together, but I believed if I brought her through now, she might be in danger, for she was not supposed to be at Thornfield Hall at this present time. It might do more harm than good if she ended up being caught in the fire, which still lay ahead. Her life could be in danger. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time had brought me into this pickle, too, but I would get us both out of it, since clearly, I was meant to. This was the way I saw it, even if this sounds grandiose.
I had to believe this in order to feel like I had a purpose, a function of some sort. What would happen if Bertha survived? Would Jane and Rochester have a future? I thought it better not to meddle, but I would have to be careful, too. What if I couldn't save myself from the flames? How strong-willed did I really have to be, in order to stay in a house which was doomed to burn down? But I wasn't a selfish person, and I had enough faith in myself and this story that everything would work out in the end. In my dreams, I had always seen myself taking Jane's place. Who would have thought that I was now working on reuniting Jane and Rochester, instead? It was only a story after all, and my idea of Rochester had only been a fantasy. Who knew what could have happened if I had met him before Jane had ever arrived at Thornfield, but the story had almost reached its end now. That was why I was certain my role was a different one. Rochester would have to come back with me to Blackfield, so he could be with Jane.
I looked up the staircase leading to the attic. This was it. Taking one creaking wooden step at a time, I made my way towards Bertha's 'layer.' This was where the 'mad woman' resided. There were paintings here and there on the walls on either side of the stairwell. They were mainly portraits, but there was one painting, which gave me the creeps. It seemed to jump out at me, because it portrayed such pain and horror. It was a painting of mad people, screaming and shrieking figures, crawling over each other. What in God's name was Mr. Rochester thinking? Was that supposed to be an ironic statement? Well, it was certainly insensitive and left me feeling disturbed. The image of those tortured souls would probably haunt me later in my dreams, but I had to focus on the job I had to do at present.
After I had made my way upstairs, I took a look around. This room was the place where Grace Poole usually sat by the window. Her chair was still standing in its place. There was a small mirror hanging on the panelled wall to my left. Beats me what it was for, apart from it looking decorative. A small mahogany table stood by the wall under the mirror. There was also a door at the other end, possibly leading to Bertha's residence. The wall to the right was lined with a heavy velvet curtain from the ceiling to the floor. Lucky for me, there was a carpet on the floor as well, which muffled my footsteps and allowed me to take a look around without drawing any attention to myself. I tried opening the door by the window, although I didn't expect it to yield. It was indeed locked, but I could hear quiet snoring noises coming from the other side. Other than that, there was no sign of any creature of bestial nature living here. Instead, it was hauntingly silent.
At first glance, this room seemed like any other, but I was intrigued by the curtain covering the right wall and what might lie beyond it. I decided to investigate. Sherlock Holmes at your service! Was the curtain simply covering up another wall or was there more to be found? The curtain could be parted in the middle. Lifting one side up in turn, I peeked behind the velvet fabric, holding up my candle for a better view, but taking care not to let the flame graze the curtain.
There wasn't really anything unusual to be seen. Maybe I had better come during the daytime when it was light and Grace was taking one of her breaks, short though they may be. As a last resort, I pushed against the panels in the wall to see if they would give way, working my way from right to left, but nothing happened. Darn it! I stood motionless in the middle of the room for a moment. My eyelids were beginning to feel heavy. Maybe I had better return the next day when it was light. I would have less time, but I was sure I couldn't accomplish anything more right now. The attic would still be here in the morning, after all.
I took one last look behind the mirror on the wall to see if I had missed something, but again, I came up empty, greeted only by the tapestry on the wall. However, just when I was about to turn around and head back down the stairs, I heard a woman's voice whisper urgently: "Ruby! Psst! Ruuby!" My head jerked back in the direction of the mirror automatically, having heard the voice coming from this direction. I held up my candle to illuminate the familiar face now looking back at me. It was Jane! Truly, it was Jane! I had found her at last!
"Hi," I said dazedly after staring at Jane's glowing face speechlessly for a brief moment. "I wanted to speak with you," Jane came right to the point, "Did Mr. Rochester receive my letter?" I filled Jane in on what had happened since my arrival here, keeping things simple. "It worked," I said finally. "Mr Rochester seems to trust me now, but-" I then began to wonder, "where are you right now?" I could see our shower curtain behind her. Jane confirmed that she was in our bathroom, looking through the mirror: "I can only reach through briefly with my hands," Jane explained, "that is how I managed to drop my letter off," then her face turned sullen, "but I must warn you that I think Bertha may have gotten her hands on the letter before it reached Edward. You see, I didn't seal it, and when I wanted to take a look if my letter had been picked up by someone, I couldn't see through the mirror anymore, but I could hear Bertha cackling to herself, as she read parts of the letter out loud." Just as I was about to thank Jane for the warning, Bertha began shrieking in the neighbouring room. "Dear Lord!" I exclaimed.
"Run, Ruby! Hide! And take care!" With that, Jane had disappeared from view while I still dithered about the room. I remember wishing Bertha would go to hell. In that moment, I could not have despised her more. I quickly darted behind the curtain, blowing out my candle just in time. Someone was running up the stairs. I pressed myself against the wall as best I could, so the tips of my feet would not peek out from under the curtain.
Standing stiffly, I listened tensely as Grace Poole attempted to calm down a screeching Bertha. I only went back to bed when all had grown quiet again, fumbling my way back to my room in the semi-darkness. What a night it had been! Feeling stiff and exhausted, I let myself fall onto the four-poster bed, snuggling up under the cosy sheets. My eyelids had grown heavy, and it was not long until I nodded off contentedly.
