Free My Mr. Rochester by L. K. Rigel

chapel fell quiet as bishop and superintendent locked eyes on each other. Brocklehurst’s face was filled with burning resentment. I couldn’t see Miss Temple’s expression, but I so wanted her to admonish him!
    Without a word she turned away. She walked up the aisle and out of the chapel, and I never saw her again.
    The measles epidemic scandalized the ladies of Lowton parish. Many had known Naomi Brocklehurst, and all made a religion of her memory. They insisted the bishop install a board of supervisors—composed of their members—to oversee the school’s day-to-day operations. As he was running for public office at the time, he was relieved to disassociate himself from the place.
    Under the guidance of the new Ladies Board, conditions improved. To the Lowton Ladies, “self-denial” was a spiritual endeavor that didn’t include freezing or starving. Our shoes still came from the donation box, but their first fundraiser bought an extra blanket for every bed, and our meals became nutritious and ample.
    For five years Lowood was my home. When I was seventeen, I passed the state exams to become a certified instructor with both public and private licenses.
    When I was nineteen, I woke up.

« Chapter 9 »
I Scandalize Myself
    Anno Domini 2085
    Bells jingled on the door like magic as I crossed the threshold into Blackstone’s. A fire crackled on the grate in a corner of the cozy shop. Shelves lined the wall to my right from ceiling to floor, covered with shoes, boots, small purses, satchels, and wallets.
    “Out in a moment,” Mr. Blackstone called from the back room. “Feel free to look at anything you like!”
    Those who’ve had money all their lives don’t know what a delicious feeling it is to carry undedicated cash in a normally empty purse. The power in it. The control. I choose. I decide. I say no or yes.
    I’d never had money of my own, and my teacher’s salary of $1500 seemed like a fortune. Still, in my first year I’d ripped through my paycheck every Teacher’s Day—what the merchants in Lowton called our quarterly paydays when we swarmed into the village with our small vouchers and our little desires.
    At first it was all about provisioning.
    Once free of the dreadful brown frocks and white pinafores supplied to students, I had to buy teaching uniforms, two navy calf-length dresses with three-quarter-length sleeves. I was also required to own a good dress for Sundays of any modest color. In honor of Miss Temple, I had chosen a simple purple jersey (the low-cut neckline hidden by a black lace collar), covered with tiny pink and yellow roses.
    And shoes! My very own shoes that fit. I hadn’t let myself dwell on it, but the worst aspect of receiving Lowood charity was the utter powerlessness in it—symbolized in my mind by wearing another person’s cast-off shoes. I bought new ready-made flats and a pair of dark violet pumps for Sundays. I hadn’t owned two pairs of shoes at one time since leaving Gateshead.
    Then there were the incidentals: a supply of black and white lace collars, underclothes, and whatnots like gloves and hats for church. I splurged on candies and colored pencils for my students, and in a shocking moment of weakness and vanity I bought a shawl for myself. The black jersey knit with red, blue, and green paisleys and black fringe made me feel invincibly stylish.
    Between the shoes and the shawl, I considered myself quite spoiled.
    After deductions for my room and board, by year’s end I’d saved $17.45. The second year I fared only a little better. Lowood never provided enough supplies for my art class, and I liked to keep candies and notions in my pockets as treats for my students. At the end of the year, I’d saved two hundred dollars and change.
    No matter. I didn’t want the money. I wanted the sense of self spending it gave me.
    Today was Teacher’s Day at the beginning of my third year. Earlier I’d dressed in my purple and dared to leave off the collar as a symbol of