Jane preferred to take her johns to the brothel’s attic room. Somehow, she still bonded with Roch’s first wife, Bertha. She had taken to wearing a wild unkempt hair-do. The bangs were tangled and thick and she could hardly see through them. Bertha had popularised this style as the Mad Woman coiffure. Such a daring change from Jane’s demure governess ringlets. Her johns never failed to get turned on when she peered through that matted fringe with her purple-glitter shadowed eyes.
She found many imaginative uses for the attic chains. She recalled the early days of cuddling with Roch in their four -poster canopied bed. Jane often had heard strange clanking noises from above that aroused her curiosity. Roch urged her to relax, explaining that old houses were full of strange noises and that some of the roof tiles needed replacing. Then, there had been the tragedy of the fire and her flight away from Roch and ultimately, their joyous reunion.
In time, Roch’s ardour cooled; Jane realised that, at heart , he was nothing but a stuffed shirt and she could not tolerate his prudish side. She had been banished to the corner to wear the dunce’s hat often in her early years of schooling. No more!
Roch took to dozing by the fire after dinner and ceased to be the life of her party. She knew a thing or two about arsenic having gotten rid of a few rats in her time. God knows, that school dormitory had been full of them. She spiked his dinner wine night after night ; Roch’s naps got more frequent and one morning, he didn’t wake up.
His death was attributed to the trauma that he had suffered from his former wife and the fact that he had barely survived the house fire in which Bertha had perished. Jane stood by his graveside wiping away many a salty tear. The servants blubbered loudly and even his horse looked sad-eyed. Adele, his daughter, was visiting with her French Maman and missed the sad occasion.
Liberated at last, Jane found the right profession. In her working hours, she insisted on a huge roaring fire in the fireplace. Sparks flew everywhere, recalling that fatal night, when Bertha met her demise. Jane habitually stood, silhouetted against the firelight, cracking her whip to the delight of her current gentleman caller.
Why hadn’t she gotten into this line of work years ago? She had loathed the mealy-mouthed little brats that she tutored. Especially Adele, who was so far ahead of her in French that it was positively embarrassing. The brat inherited her language skills from her mother, Roch’s French mistress.
Roch could hardly string two words together, even in his own language, beyond “yoicks “ and "tally-ho”. Hunting terms and even at that, he had managed to fall off his horse: probably his most exciting adventure. She finally had had the good sense to realise that he was no match for a spirited woman like herself. Nodding sagely, she festooned her whip with bright ribbons in anticipation of yet another entertaining evening.
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