I have just about had it with everyone in this place! Don’t I have enough to tend to at Thornfield without this band of merry pranksters complicating things even more? It is like this every Halloween, Mr. Rochester loves this blasted holiday and we all have to suffer for it. When I first arrived, I never could figure out why Mrs. Fairfax’s sister always fell ill this particular week, requiring her to take it off; far be it for the head of the staff to give the new Mrs. Rochester an indication of this type of thing. Heavens, everyone I know is ailing, I could have gone on holiday as well.
About a month prior to Halloween, Mr. Rochester starts discussing our costumes; I have no desire to wear any sort of costume, it is hard enough to get into the pinafores, petticoats and peplums as it is. By the time I select a bonnet, I need a moment’s repose just to get out the door. Not to mention Mr. Rochester always suggests something inappropriate for the evening like Stern Constable or Wanton Blacksmith – why in Heaven’s name would I want to be any kind of Blacksmith? He pesters me until I am forced to remind him he is blind and my dressing up will do no one any good. He argues the blindness being an advantage as he has to feel his way into guessing; with only one working hand, we will be here all night and into tomorrow!
But You-Know-Who is certainly happy; nothing says Halloween like some banging and hollering in the attic. Per Mr. Rochester’s instructions, Cook makes some terrible creature that oozes raspberry jam when bit as treats to pass out to the little darlings in the neighborhood; they are as delicious as the are vile and the children covet them. Every time some poor precious soul comes to the door, Bombardier Bertha starts her Irish Step Dancing and the kids scatter in every direction, trampling my violets in the process. Of course Louis Braille there doesn’t have to address the furrowed brow of the parents because he can’t see them. So I am left to apologize and assure the neighbors no harm was every going to come to their children. This is about the time Bertha decides to cry out one of the blood-curdling wails she’s perfected in Crazyville and I am adding another address to the list of people we must send some scones and lavender tea. I slam Thornfield’s door shut only to turn and see Mr. Rochester grinning like a jackal, why he is just pleased as punch with his efforts. And don’t you tell me he isn’t running up in between courses during dinner to encourage the first Mrs. Rochester, because somehow three of my nightdresses go missing each year.
I have attempted to rein in this nonsense at Halloween but to no avail. That twit Grace Poole just does what Mr. Rochester says from stringing cans across the darken hallways to taking my best linens and hanging them up to flutter outside seldom used windows; I have to pad my household budget just to pay for frayed nerve medical bills. Never once does she think to ask why Mr. Rochester and my portrait from above the mantle needs to be left on the first step of the attic the morning of October 31st. If I didn’t retrieve it every single time, my beautiful painting would be confetti floating out the dormer window on to unsuspecting passersby. And Grace forgets almost as soon as she executes Mr. Rochester’s orders so I spend the entire night spilling my tea when she screams at the sound of the cans she put in place. Honestly, I don’t know why I put up with this. I send every one of those confounded fools to church the next morning to pray on All Saints Day for my forgiveness.
Well, I don’t send the Crazy Bitch in the Attic; that could get out of hand quickly. And honestly, with all of them out of the house, no one can prove that I am the one that hung my wedding dress outside her window.