Don’t mind me – I am just dragging all the musty old things out from Thornfield’s dank walls to air them out and get ready for Spring.  Unfortunately, of those items, half the staff is included.  I am not one to get bothered by the dark, grey, sogginess of winter but this winter has been a little longer than most; about a week ago I begged Mr. Rochester to let me light the study on fire just to have a little color in the place.

Thornfield is a grand estate, of course, but I question whether the contractors employed to build it were proper builders or recruited from a woodwind assembly line; I understand why the attic whistles, but I am not as convinced the west dining room wall should be playing the Colonel Bogey March through its bricks every time the wind blows. My hallway runner has absorbed so much moisture, it is sporting it own ecosystem.  And I am quite accustomed to dust, mold and mildew so it’s not me being fussy, but I fear Mrs. Fairfax’s new cologne is named Postmortem.

No, after years of enduring winters harsh embrace at Thornfield, I have been able to solider on lo these many months but the bleak color palette of the never-ending grey skies has me envying Mr. Rochester’s blindness.  I decorated Grace Poole in old Christmas tree trimmings just to watch something of shiny moving about this pile of sad bricks.  A short time ago, partially due to frustration and partially due to my sanity being linked to never being allowed to leave this prison, I railed against the Sun Room for misrepresentation.  A person cannot be expected to live a colorless existence for an extended period without a few causalities; so I hired Peter Max to paint the Master Suite.  When I showed it to Naomi, she dumped out the martini Grace had just poured her claiming that she had clearly had enough already.  I don’t care; I love it – even if I haven’t been able to sleep in a month.

But all that is behind us now, at least it should be.  We are emerging from the drab of winter; the crocuses are breaking through the ground, the birds are singing from their nests and it is not difficult to shove Mr. Rochester out of the single ray of sunshine peeking into the salon.  I can already feel my soul coming back to life.

And Mrs. Fairfax can holler all she wants, she is not coming down from that clothesline until her scent ceases to make Pilot bay.