Basically, if there was a principal’s office, we’d all be inside right now.
It’s not a typical public school where she attends each day. It’s also not a typical homeschool where I create the curriculum. Instead it’s like a private school using distance learning.
She has teachers, tests, grades—everything another first grade student would have.
But she does it on her own time. Or she’s supposed to.
Dear Mr. Rochester, We are very concerned about Paige’s many absences and her ability to catch up with the work required for her curriculum. Call the administrative office right away.
On a late Thursday afternoon, I leave Paige playing with the kitten, still unnamed, using a cat toy with a string on the end we ordered through the housekeeper. I use that time to step into the next room and call the school.
“Mrs. Rochester?” There’s shuffling on the other end of the line. “Are you her mother?”
“No, no. I’m her nanny. I’m going to be working on her schoolwork with her.”
“I don’t see you here in this file.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I’m pretty new here. Just trying to figure out what she’s supposed to be working on. I understand she’s a little bit behind.”
There’s a muffled sound. Possible rude laughter stopped with a hand over her mouth. “A little behind? Paige is in danger of failing the first grade. Mrs. Rochester—”
“Uh, that’s Ms. Mendoza. Or you know what? You can just call me Jane.”
“Ms. Mendoza. Jane. I really would prefer to speak with Mr. Rochester—” More shuffling. “Her uncle, is he? He and I spoke when she enrolled in the school, but he’s been impossible to get in touch with since then. He’s really the only one authorized to discuss her with us for privacy reasons.”
“I understand.” I can’t exactly explain that Mr. Rochester has been impossible to get in touch with for me as well. In fact I haven’t seen him since that night he caught me in the attic. It’s almost as if he doesn’t live in the mansion. “I’m sure he would love to speak with you about Paige. Her education is very important to him.” This is a bold-faced lie, if the fifty-one unread messages are anything to go by. “But he’s indisposed right now. If she has any hope of getting back on track for the year, basically I’m all you’ve got.”
There’s a pause. Then a sigh. “She’s very far behind. In every subject. The only way she can catch up is by doing all the work she did not turn in.”
I wince because I can’t get her to talk about school. How am I going to get her to do an ordinary workload, much less a massive one full of make-up work? It’s all well and good to shout “go do your homework” on a TV sitcom. It’s another thing entirely when a grieving child who’s lost her parents absolutely refuses to participate. There’s no such thing as consequences in her world. I can’t threaten to take away her board games or ground her from her friends, because the worst thing that can happen in her life has already happened.
We have that in common. I know exactly how she feels.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, my tone sober. “Let me know where I can download all the work she needs to do, and we’ll start submitting it. She’s been having a really hard time.”
“We here at Southminster are not uncaring of her situation.”
“It’s only been a few months since her parents passed away.”
“If she were at a public school, it would be too late. She’d be held back for an entire year. Because of her enrollment with us—” In the pause, I understand what she means. Because she’s wealthy enough to afford a private school tuition. “She has the chance to catch up. But she must do the work. We have an academic reputation to protect.”
I hang up the phone and head back into the sitting room.
How am I supposed to convince Paige to do her schoolwork? I can put dinner on the table and wash her clothes. That’s a different story than making her do schoolwork when she’s determined to ignore it. The dilemma sits in my stomach like a stone the rest of the day. It floats in my body, hard and heavy, as I lay down in bed that night.
I lay there for hours—warm. Warm, because of Mr. Rochester’s blanket. Full of questions, because of Mr. Rochester’s secrets. He’s not even in the room with me but he invades my body. He brushes across my surface and steals through my cracks.
Light flashes across the ceiling.
Lightning?
Or something else?
I sit up in bed and push the covers away. Cold air whispers underneath my nightgown and makes me shiver. I cross the room and look out the window. My stomach turns over from nerves. I’m trembling, but I force myself to search the grounds.
A full moon. Dark grass. An eternity of water peppered with white foam.
Rivulets of water distort the view, but I can see clearly enough. There’s no one there. A shiver runs down my spine. Would I know if there was? There are so many trees. So much land. A million shadows. And frankly, the kitten is a terrible guard dog.
The night shifts, and I see someone walking. Tall. Broad shoulders. He could be any man, strong and large, but something about his gait tells me that it’s Mr. Rochester. His looks straight ahead even as he walks over craggy, uneven rock, hands shoved into pockets. A white shirt has become dark and slick against his skin. The rain must be freezing. I’m cold, and I’m inside the house.
What is he doing out there?
He appears to be walking without a destination.
Why is he so distant with Paige? Some days I can tell he’s trying his best to figure out Pop-Tarts and Monopoly when he never planned to be her parent. Other days I have less sympathy for him. It’s not her fault her parents died.
There are moments I get the sense that he’s hiding something. The feeling becomes stronger now, watching him. His shoulders are not hunched beneath the cold. It’s like he can’t sense the freezing rain. There’s something much worse driving him. A tortured soul beneath muscle and bone.
Is he a monster who thinks of his niece with a balance sheet?
Or is he a broken man fighting a battle I don’t understand?
My heart squeezes. I pick up the blanket that he gave me. I’m loathe to give it back. It smells of him. Ridiculous, I know. It’s been days. But he needs it more.
I run downstairs in my bare feet and fling open the door.
Rain pelts my skin, but I don’t feel it. Maybe that’s the way he is, driven by something deeper. The cold can’t touch how badly I need to soothe him right now.
He blinks at me through water-logged lashes. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m giving you this.” I hold out the blanket. It’s wet. I’m also wet. This is ridiculous, but so is walking around the cliffside when it’s slippery and freezing. “You’ll catch your death.”
His dark eyes look fierce in the moonlight. “It’s no more than I deserve.”
Unease runs through me. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not a good man, Jane. You shouldn’t worry about me getting cold. The best thing that could happen is that I catch my death out here on these cliffs. It would be fitting.”
It feels like he’s punishing himself. That’s why he’s making himself walk in the freezing rain. It’s why he won’t accept help. “Don’t talk like that.”