“How dare you,” she said. She spoke in a tone of mock outrage, though she also secretly felt a small piece of real outrage, too. She added this to the outrage she already felt about him not acknowledging what had passed between them in the hospital and found herself wrapped up in a ball of agitation, full of real emotions and fake ones.
“I was supposed to read Emma in secondary college, but I watched the film instead,” he said. He winced, as if preparing for her to slap him.
“I’d hit you if you were not moments from death’s door. Are you not a teacher of English literature?”
“I am.”
“Someone led me to believe my books sat on the school syllabus for English.”
“They do.” He flinched.
“Well, then? You don’t teach them?”
He shrugged. “I don’t teach every book on the syllabus. I’ve never had to teach your books, so I’ve never read them.”
“And you never picked one up, to read for pleasure?”
He laughed. “I’m sorry, no. I feel terrible.”
Jane crossed her arms. “You should read them. I’m told they are masterpieces.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “I want to.”
She pushed her shoulders back. “You can do so anytime you wish. They are locked in the liquor cabinet.”
“How about now?” he said. “There is a spare key in the drawer. Don’t tell Sofia.”
Jane went to fetch one of her novels. She was excited to get a book for him. Not to read it, as this led to erasing self and universe, as Sofia had warned, but she could at least smell its pages.
Jane stopped at the glass cabinet. Six of her books were once there. Then five. Before Fred went to the hospital, there were four. Now there were just three. Another of her books had joined the others in disappearing.
Jane returned to the sitting room. “No book?” Fred asked her.
“No time; we must get on with your exercises,” she replied, and said no more on the subject.
Jane fumed. She continued to erase her novels, and for what? There was no declaration from him. There was no sign of any regard at all, except his thanks for her being his servant. And now with another book gone, Jane found her position in this place increasingly foolish. Mrs. Sinclair had brought Jane to her one true love, but that did not mean she had brought Fred to his. Jane had given her heart to someone who did not return the affection, and the price she paid was removing her life’s work from the world.
Jane wondered what she was doing there. She was in limbo. It was beneath her dignity to linger so. She was conducting a love affair with herself, playing both parts. The longer she remained like this, waiting for a declaration that would not come, the longer she made herself ridiculous.
She would tell Sofia to fetch the letter. It was time.
“PLACE THE LETTERS on the board, please, or you shall get the cane.” Jane spoke in a stern voice.
“I’m being taught words by Jane Austen,” Fred said with a grin. “I should feel privileged, but I feel annoyed.” They had moved to the kitchen table. Between them was a board with a white surface. Letters of the alphabet painted in shiny colors were spread across the table. A blue L, a red M. They were a teaching aid for children, with a magnet on the back of each letter.
They were engaged in a rehabilitation exercise that was the result of a conversation Jane and Sofia had had with the medical staff before they had left the hospital. “The electricity has fried parts of his body,” one of the nurses had explained. “His memory has been damaged. There will be a list of exercises which he will need to do every day.”
“That sounds like a lot of work.” Sofia grimaced.
“The occupational therapist is booked up for the next month.”
“I will pay them double,” Sofia said.
The nurse scoffed. “You can’t bribe a healthcare professional!”
“I can do whatever I want,” Sofia countered. “I am a celebrity!” She pointed to her chest, as if the title were branded there.
Jane lowered Sofia’s arm, which had been raised dangerously close to the nurse’s face. “That won’t be necessary,” Jane said. “What are the exercises? I will be happy to do them until the language teacher is available.”
“It’s a lot of work,” the nurse protested. “Are you any good at English?”
“My skills should suffice,” Jane said.
The nurse had given Jane a list of the exercises and since Fred had arrived home they had done one lesson every day. She regretted accepting the commission now that it was obvious Fred did not return her affection. She would continue the lessons, as his recovery was important, but she insisted on doing so with a governess-like frostiness.
“Recall the associated word I told you earlier and spell it out on the board,” she commanded. He did not move. “Do you not recall it?”
“Remind me of the rules again?”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Earlier I provided you with a list of word pairs. Do you not remember?”
“I don’t know. My memory is broken, after all.” He chuckled.
Jane scowled. “I provided you with pairs of words: ‘ball’ and ‘tree,’ for example, and ‘triangle’ and ‘candlestick.’ Your task is to remember which words paired with which in the list. So, when I say ‘ball,’ you must recall that its word pair is ‘tree’ and spell it out on the board.”
“You never said ‘candlestick,’” Fred said.
“I most certainly did,” she countered.
She saw him laughing. “Perhaps I forgot,” he said. Clearly, he did not share her determination for cold, professional instruction.
“Have you forgotten the next one also? What word goes with ‘bottle’?”
“Actually, I remember that one.”
“Good. Then why do you not write it down?”
“I don’t know how to spell it. The word is ‘descant,’ right? I don’t even know what that means.” He grinned and scratched his cheek.
“‘Descant’? A melody over the top of another melody. It is a wonder you have survived thus far.”
“You remind me of a
