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And because I can’t help being perverse, I decide impulsively to make myself dinner and force Sam to join me under the threat of causing him more trouble. When I glimpse the older man’s tortured expression, I shake my head in exasperation.
“Relax, Sam. He knows he won’t blame you.”
Sam doesn’t look convinced.
I sigh. “Okay, look at it this way. Your boss has this huge crush on me so trust me when I say I’ll keep him from getting mad at you.” I try not to laugh when I see Sam visibly mulling my words over.
And then the old man starts to smile. “You’re right, Ms. Reed.”
I was, huh?
As Sam dives into his food, he shares with me how there’s this guy who accidentally bumped into his boss at a hotel lobby—-
“And Mr. Rochester got him fired an hour later,” Sam exclaims after finishing his second plate of pasta. “That man begged Mr. Rochester for his job back, got down on his knees and all, but the boss was like stone.” Sam shakes his head at the memory. “That’s why I know you’re right—-” And he turns to me with a grin. “You’re special, Ms. Reed.” He reaches for the ladle and serves himself another bowl of pumpkin soup. “This is good, by the way.”
I manage a smile. “Have at it.” Good thing he’s got his appetite back, I think numbly, since I just lost mine.
A guy bumps into Mr. Rochester by accident and he gets fired.
So what happens to me, considering I’ve sidelined him with a serious hand injury?
MR. ROCHESTER’S PLACE is a sprawling three-story manor hidden behind tall walls. Made entirely of natural stone, the imposing structure has a rather distinctly Tudor feel, and I can’t help but notice how it’s very much a facsimile of Thornfield Hall—-
But you’re not going to tell him that or make any kind of Jane Eyre joke, I remind myself swiftly. No point adding fuel to the fire, especially since I now know for a fact Mr. Rochester is indeed a moody son of a bitch—-
And petty as hell.
I suspected as much from the start, but even so having it confirmed makes me feel oddly...sad.
The main doors of Mr. Rochester’s home are quite the statement piece, made of heavy oak with quarter-sawn panels. They kind of remind me of dungeon doors, only prettier, and when they finally open, I feel like I’m about to enter my own cage.
“Good evening, Ms. Reed.” The housekeeper lets us in with a warm smile, and as Sam brings in my luggage, which he insists on carrying himself, the beaming middle-aged woman introduces herself as Consuelo.
Her uniform reminds me of those worn by higher-ranking servants in the Victorian age – a white no-frills apron over a dark, high-necked dress – and I blurt out, “Is that your uniform?”
Consuelo’s beaming smile widens. “Si,” she answers eagerly.
I knew it. Mr. Rochester isn’t just petty. He’s also vain as hell. Housekeeping uniforms are just so archaic, not to mention discriminating.
“Do you like it?” Consuelo asks.
Fuck no, I think. Uniforms are just another device rich people use to pander to their own egos, wanting a visible reminder of the class division-—
Or at least that’s what I want to say. But for once I manage not to be a bitch and say nicely enough, “It looks the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Gracias,” Consuelo exclaims happily.
Sam bids us goodbye then and Consuelo takes over as she gives me a quick tour of the house.
The interior of Mr. Rochester’s home is dark and heavy, a reflection of sorts of its owner. The mood, however somber, is also made beautiful by the elegant mix of wood and leather. Its open layout from foyer to living room also adds a certain sense of illustriousness to the home, making it feel like the kind of place you need to mind your Ps and Qs.
Which is just like Mr. Rochester, too, I think, being the tyrannical, manipulative bastard he is.
“Now, I shall take you to your room,” Consuelo says.
And so we go up to the second floor and the room Consuelo takes me is as luxurious as the rest of the home and more spacious than I expect it to be.
“I’m really supposed to stay here?” I ask warily.
“Si, Ms. Reed. I have given it a proper cleaning just this morning, as Mr. Rochester has requested.” Consuelo glances at my luggage. “Do you need my help to unpack—-”
“Oh, no, I’m cool.” I manage not to wrinkle my nose at the idea that Mr. Rochester’s habits may have made the housekeeper expect her boss’ guests to be similarly helpless. God. I must have been out of mind to be attracted to someone like him.
“Are you sure, Ms. Reed?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I shall leave now and let you rest. You must still be tired, after last night’s incident.”
