Escaping Mr. Rochester

by L.L. McKinney

Genres: YA LGBT & Pride; YA Historical Fiction

Synopsis

In this fresh reimagining of Charlotte Brontë’s classic novel by acclaimed author L. L. McKinney, Jane Eyre and Bertha Mason must save each other from the horrifying machinations of Mr. Rochester in this intrigue-filled, empowering young adult romance.

Jane Eyre has no interest in a husband. Eager to make her own way in the world, she accepts the governess position at Thornfield Hall.

Though her new employer, Edward Rochester, has a charming air—not to mention a handsome face—Jane discovers that his smile can sharpen in an instant. Plagued by Edward’s mercurial mood and the strange wails that echo through the corridors, Jane grows suspicious of the secrets hidden within Thornfield Hall—unaware of the true horrors lurking above her very head.

On the topmost floor, Bertha Mason is trapped in more ways than one. After her whirlwind marriage to Edward turned into a nightmare, he locked her away as revenge for withholding her inheritance. Now his patience grows thin in the face of Bertha’s resilience and Jane’s persistent questions, and both young women are in more danger than they realize.

When their only chance at safety—and perhaps something more—is in each other’s arms, can they find and keep one another safe before Edward’s dark machinations close in around them?

Release date: January 16, 2024

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 352

Sample

Part 1

I am no bird;

and no net ensnares me.

 

1
Proper Lady

JANE . . .

This is better than the alternative. I’ve told myself so time and again. I repeat the assertion while I wait near the road for a coach that will carry me into the unknown. Not for the first time do I face such a fate, but it will be the first time I have chosen to do so.

The truth of this does nothing to assuage my fear.

So I shove my thoughts aside and focus on the moment itself. Despite the cloudless sky and bright sunshine, the late morning is so cold my breath mists. I shiver, partly from the chill plucking at me with icy fingers, and partly from nerves. Perhaps mostly from nerves, if I am fully honest with myself.

My fingers dig into the fabric of my coat as I clutch my arms for warmth. Paper crinkles in my left hand, caught between my palm and my sleeve—the letter that came last week. The wax seal has crumbled away due to my fidgeting, leaving a bloody kiss on the envelope.

Dear Miss Eyre,

I hope my correspondence finds you well. I am pleased with your decision to accept my offer of employment as governess in Thornfield Hall. As such, I will send for you at the earliest possible convenience. A coach will arrive at Lowood the morning of Saturday of next week. That is the sixteenth. I trust this will provide plenty of time for you to make the necessary preparations. Room and board will be provided as part of your wages. Please bring anything else you feel you will need.

Regards,

E

I’ve read the letter often enough to commit its words to memory. And to know this coach is late.

The single traveling chest containing all my belongings rests near my feet—tightly packed and, truthfully, more prepared for this journey than I am. There’s a twisting in my gut that’s been there since I woke before dawn. A breakfast of cold porridge and leftover broth did not settle my unease, and taking such an early meal means my stomach is now empty. There’s nothing to weigh down the nervous hummingbird fluttering viciously. My fear is alive inside me.

It takes every ounce of willpower not to glance over my shoulder, past the high gates of Lowood School, to the dingy windows where faces no doubt crowd the panes to watch me.

She’s still out there, they likely whisper, mocking me for standing in the cold for so long.

Foolish.

She’s surely lying.

The letter is fake.

No one is coming.

The imagined taunts ring like bells in my ears, and my grip on my arms and thus the letter tightens. I could go back inside, if no one came. Back to the bleak and lonely halls that are as much my home as the muddy path stretched before me. Back to the sideways glances and snide remarks about my family or hair or dress. Back to being told what to do and when to do it. To so few choices and 

even fewer possibilities.

“No.” The word crawls free from somewhere deep down, spoken by a part of me that knows this is the only way. The same part of me that knows, without Helen, I’d never survive Lowood.

Thoughts of her fill my mind and my heart, and I feel her absence as keenly as I might a blade in my side. She made this place bearable, with her sharp mind, soft words, and unyielding being. My Helen, whose smile I can still see as clear as if she were standing before me. My Helen, who would want this for me.

My Helen . . .

A horse whinnies and my eyes fly open. The sight of the approaching coach sends a thrill through me. As the horses pull up, the scent of oil, leather, sweat, and something sour washes over the area. The fluttering that had taken residence in my middle dissolves, as do the unpleasant feelings surrounding it.

“Miss Eyre?” a hoarse voice crackles from the driver’s box. A squat blanched man gazes at me with one bright blue eye, the other milky. He sniffs, his large nose heated red from the autumn chill. Or, given the pungent stink of ale wafting off him, the previous night spent halfway down some bottle. That would explain why he’s late, at least.

I nod. “Yes.”

He stares at me with a look that says he doesn’t quite believe me, then gazes past me and to the school.

Pushing aside the beginnings of a familiar burn in my chest, I lift my chin and clear my throat. “Busy morning?”

The man blinks, his eyes finding me again. “What’s that?”

“I was curious if the roads were busy this morning to upset your schedule so.”

Those eyes of his narrow. “All’s fine, ma’am.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” I go to climb into the coach when a harsh cough stops me.

“Hand up your trunk first.”

“What?”

“Your trunk. Hand it up.” His gloved fingers fidget with the reins before setting them aside.

“Oh.” Clambering down to the road, I take hold of my trunk to pull the thing forward. The lower edge sticks in the mud a couple of times, despite a relatively light load.

“Come on now, we don’t have all day,” the man grumps.

Heat fills my face as anger spills through me. But I smile and straighten from where I’ve been dragging my belongings across the ground. “I apologize. Forgive my tardiness, as I’ve forgiven yours.”

His lips become tight, and my smile widens. I bob a half curtsy, just enough for the gesture to be recognized but left unmistakably and intentionally incomplete, then return to my task. Slipping slightly in the muck, I manage to wrestle the trunk into my arms and up high enough for the driver to take hold. He yanks it free with such force that he nearly takes me with it, and I have to wonder why he could not do it himself. First late and now this? Lazy sod.

The insult dances on my tongue, but I snap my lips shut. No. I swore I’d be better about that, especially now that I am to be a right and proper governess. No matter how much he deserves it.

Right and proper. I scoff faintly as I settle onto the bench. I barely manage to situate myself before the coach jerks forward and we’re on our way. Thankfully, the cab is unoccupied, as it appears Mr. Rochester

sent his personal coach. Whatever the circumstance, I’m grateful for the time alone to gather myself and allay my rising irritation.

This driver is not the first to show such unkindness in my nineteen years, and he will not be the last. People find ways to justify their mistreatment of others. The wrong lineage, the wrong upbringing, the wrong affluential status. An enumeration of charges for the crime of being born different. I learned long ago that I had committed such a crime. I also learned that fighting with every cruel person in the world will leave me time for little else, and I refuse to let them have all of me.

Besides, I doubt my future employer would appreciate such openly critical commentary of his other staff. Mr. Brocklehurst certainly didn’t, and he made sure I was aware of this at least twice a day. He also made clear his displeasure that I often forgot to refer to him as Headmaster or Sir. Neglected was more like; it pleased me to see him so agitated.

Well, I will no longer have to be concerned with what pleased or displeased that man, or anyone save my new employer. For the first time, my fate is now my own. My life is my own.

And I will do everything in my power to keep it that way.

 

2
Stolen Sunlight

BERTHA . . .

I snatch at one of the boards covering the single window at the far end of the room. The wood groans, as if in pain, while the nails strain against my efforts. I’ve been working at it since last night and my hands and arms ache. My fingers tingle, but I tighten my grip.

One more tug ought to—

Crack!

I nearly topple over when the board finally comes free, along with a chunk of the window frame. That was not part of my plan.

“Damn,” I hiss under my breath, and steal a look over my shoulder at the bedroom door, shut and locked tight from the outside.

For a moment, I don’t dare to move. I barely dare to breathe. My senses strain to hear any signs of life, especially the familiar sound of Grace’s feet shuffling hurriedly toward me. But silence presses in from all directions.

After counting to sixty I allow myself to relax, but only barely. I shift the now-dangling board in my grasp and inspect the damage. The bit of wood that broke away from the sill remains intact. If I can balance this board on the one beneath it, I can press the hunk back into place. The deception won’t hold up under scrutiny, but to anyone present for the scant amount of time it takes to deliver my meals, the damage should go unnoticed.

Carefully, I swing the board along the remaining nail like a hinge and lower it to hang. For the first time in days, sunlight pours past me. It cuts a swath through the darkness, scattering the sleepy morning shadows and revealing more of the space. This room that has been my cage for the better part of a year, ever since that monster trapped me here.

The furnishings, what few remain, are agreeable for a prison. The bed is large, the linens changed regularly by Grace, my chambermaid and warden. A small table at the bedside holds a single lantern with barely enough oil to feed the flame through a full night. There’s the battered wardrobe that contains what remains of my clothes, and a table where I eat with a single chair.

Most everything else has been removed, after an incident this past summer when I broke a chair leg free and used it as a club. I managed to reach the kitchens that time. It was the farthest I’ve ever gotten. I also broke Sophie’s arm when she tried to stop me. Her screams alerted the others. Then I was dragged back in here and most of the furniture was removed—all but what I needed to live “somewhat contentedly.” If one can be content with being held captive.

“You are my wife,” Edward had said, in that way of his that’s capable of making a person feel like they were less than nothing despite all the compliments he paid. Like the very breath they lived by was a gift he personally bestowed and could just as easily take away. “You will be afforded the necessary comforts.”

Comforts he chipped away as time went on. Like my mirror, wood for the hearth, a bowl for washing, and my thick, seasonal linens after I used them to fashion a rope. Last week he managed to take the sun itself when he had my window boarded after I climbed through it and attempted to use said rope to reach the ground.

But now I have reclaimed the light.

Dust glitters in the warm September rays. At least, I’m fairly certain it’s September. It’s difficult to mark the passing of time, but the way the green of the trees has begun to bleed into the rich burn of orange and red marks the change of the season.

A sharp band of sunlight

 reaches my table and illuminates the surface. I hurry to my chair and take up my pencil. What remains of it. Adèle snuck it to me under the door a fortnight or more ago, along with several leaves of torn paper. The black at the tip is nearly depleted, and the thing as a whole is barely the size of a thimble. Pocked and gnarled from my makeshift sharpening with dining knives when I can, there is perhaps enough lead for a few pages.

I write furiously.

September, maybe

It’s as I thought; Sophie is gone. I suspect this is in part because Edward is disappointed with her performance as governess. Then there were her injuries. I’m not sorry for what I did. She was in my way, and more importantly, she was working to keep me trapped here. I had suspected as much when she delivered my dinner one evening. Then there is the fact that Edward doesn’t bring anyone into his full employ unless he feels he can eventually control them.

I should have known better, should have trusted my instincts. Adèle never liked her either. That child is smarter than anyone gives her credit for, and an excellent judge of character. She is, perhaps, the only true friend I have in this hell. I will miss her when I leave this place, and leave it I shall.

The hole is nearly finished. I only have to wait for an opportunity to present itself. Once free, I will sell what few possessions I have left to pay for passage back home, back to my family. I will ne—

The familiar tap of approaching feet fills the silence and I freeze. It could be Grace, come to bring my breakfast. I strain to listen for the rattle of dishes against a tray. There’s nothing but her clomping shuffle, and it stops shy of reaching my door. Hinges squeak and rattle. Grace has returned to her room, likely coming in from her morning prayers. She talks to God more than she does any living soul in this house. I wonder if He answers. If He tells her that, despite her devotion, what she does is wrong.

There are a couple of thumps from the room before the door squeaks closed again, and her footsteps retreat back down the corridor. Grace must have put away her Bible and rosary and is likely on her way to the kitchens to fetch the morning meal.

I spare a moment for my own prayer that the shawl she wears will catch fire. Then her hair. Then her skin. I long for that almost as much as I long for escape.

Anger simmering within

 me, I put pencil back to paper.

—ver have to look Edward Rochester in the face again. I will let all memory of him, of this house, fade. Then I will have peace. Then I will have true freedom. For that, I know I would burn this wretched place to the ground.

These are the writings of one Bertha Mason. On this day, I am being held against my will by my husband, Edward Rochester. Any statement to the contrary by him or anyone in his employ is a lie.

I’m startled by the sound of Grace’s shuffling gait coming down the hall, followed by another. She shouldn’t return for another quarter of an hour, and yet I hear the dishes on the tray as she approaches. The rattling is soon drowned out by the pounding of my heart.

Gathering the pages with similar entries scrawled across them, I wrap them in a napkin I kept from one of my evening meals. The words may smudge, but I have no time to be gentler. These writings will be all that is left of me someday, and if they are found, I want the truth of what has happened here to be known.

I take the bundle, along with the last inch of pencil, and hurry to my bedside. Dropping to my knees, I crawl halfway under and pry up a loose bit of wood to reveal a small hole. There are a few other things present: a small brush, a bit of lace, and a beautiful sketch of the gardens. I tuck the napkin amongst my treasures, then slide the plank into place.

The first lock on the outside of my door rattles. There’s a click as it gives.

I nearly trip over my skirts in my haste to reach the window. Wood scrapes against wood as I swing the board up, balance it, and finally press the chunk of frame into place. My hands shake so hard the plank slips, swinging away.

I bite back a curse and try again.

The second lock jangles as Grace fumbles with the key. Sometimes it sticks.

I wrestle with the board. Thankfully, when I withdraw my hands, it stays in place. I turn as the second lock gives and the door swings open.

Grace steps into the room. “Good morning, madam.” Her long, reedy fingers tremble slightly where they grip the tray. Her skin is pale, ashen almost. Dark spots circle her bony wrists. Her black hair, streaked with shocks of white, is pulled into a severe bun at the back of her head. She wears a thin smile.

My gaze lingers on the open door behind her. There’s a buzzing in my limbs, my body preparing to run. Wanting to run. But there is little point to it.

Just outside the door, leaning against the corridor wall, stands Edward’s stable hand. Devin, I’ve heard Grace call him. A younger, not-quite-roughened sort, a deceptively kind smile reclines across his disarmingly handsome face. He or the old manservant Marsters accompany Grace whenever she comes to my room. It has been this way since I attempted to overpower her the first week of my capture. That was nearly a year ago.

“Eggs and a bit of bacon this morning, with fresh milk.” Grace sighs, almost wistfully. She finishes pouring my tea, then nods at her good works. “Such blessings. Go on, then. I’ll be back for your dishes

in half an hour.” Her smile widens, pulling at the flesh of her face, tightening it in odd places. “Enjoy.”

As she turns to depart, a small war rages inside me. I wish to spend as little time as possible with her in my presence, and I want even less to speak to her. But I have questions.

“How is Adèle?” I ask. I keep my voice even, more curious than concerned.

Grace pauses and eyes me with an expression that holds a healthy dose of both interest and caution. “How do you mean?” Her eyes dart about the room, then back to me, as if I can somehow stand before her and simultaneously pounce from the shadows.

I clasp my hands behind my back. This makes me seem both less imposing and unlikely to attempt anything. I want information, and she won’t give it to me if she feels I’m up to no good. “How is she since losing her governess?” I hold genuine concern for the girl. She was present during my confrontation with Sophie, saw us grapple with one another. I surely injured more than the woman’s arm, but the break was the worst. I was comparatively unharmed.

I fought when Devin and Marsters came to drag me away, but through the flurry of my desperation I saw Adèle standing at the far end of the hall, half-hidden around the corner, her face pale with terror. No one else seemed to notice her. I’m glad. Though she has not been to visit me since.

Grace sniffs a laugh. “You mean since you cost her her governess.”

I merely shrug. As I said, I’m not sorry.

“Your concern is touching,” Grace continues. “You would have made a fine mother for the girl. Alas, the master has found another to look after Adèle. Should be arriving today, in fact.”

Those words set my mind spinning. Another governess, after only a month? Surely, Edward could not have convinced someone to join his farce so swiftly. Sophie had arrived with Adèle some time back and was loyal long before. This new governess might not be, which means at best she might be a potential ally, or at least a distraction. With all eyes on her, judging her trustworthiness, her pliability, there will be less attention on me for a time. This could present a unique opportunity.

“You needn’t worry,” Grace says, likely interpreting whatever expression I wear as apprehension. “The tot will be well looked after.” She departs and locks the door behind herself.

As her and Devin’s combined steps wander off, the beginnings of a plan take form in my mind. I look to the meal. The smell of bacon and eggs calls to my stomach, but thoughts of someone new in the house, someone I could potentially reach out to for aid before Edward sinks his claws into her, replace all hunger with a sharp and anxious nausea.

Despite this, I force myself to eat. Not doing so would raise suspicions, and if I finish quickly, I can use the fork to carve away at the steadily widening hole in the back of my closet. It’s nearly large enough for me to crawl through to the adjoining one belonging to the unoccupied room next to mine. That door will not be barred from the outside. If all goes according to plan, by this time tomorrow I will be a free woman. My life will be my own again.

And I will do everything in my power to keep it that way. ...