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Beyond the secure walls, the untamed tempest wailed miserably. A dismal grey painted the sky above, shrouding the sunlight’s warm rays. Instead, the heavens above looked upon us with sombre pity as they wept tears which ceaselessly pelted down and hit the windows. Barren trees stood hauntingly, skeletal branches scratched against the glass.
In the waning hours of Mama’s life, I knelt by her bed as Eliza whispered solemn prayers beside me. All was quiet except for the wind beating against the window glass. The room was a dismal scene. It was lit only by a small flickering candle which created spectral silhouettes of the branches that scratched at the window. In the corner, lay Mama, her proud spirit now lifeless and wraithlike on the great four-post bed. So many times in my childhood, she had towered above me, Godlike and autocratic, a distant figure to be treated with deference. She reigned over the household as a puppet queen, its strings pulled by a society that governed our lives. Yet as her mortal hours neared its end, she appeared meek, almost small, in comparison to the grandiose chamber that loomed large and impersonal. Regardless, mama’s face remained a haughty, stone carving. Outside, the rain beat harshly against the glass while the wrathful winds continued to rage outside. Still, I laid whatever bitterness remained in my heart to rest as I gripped Mama’s frigid hands. I wished for nothing more than for her gaze to finally look upon me with contentment, perhaps even fondness, for the daughter who would forever follow her directions like a loyal servant.
Instead, she offered no looks of endearment and merely stared soullessly at me as if wishing for John to take my place. Her perfect son, her Godsent gift. She spoke often of our feminine duty, to land a strategic marriage and provide an heir. To Mama, Eliza was merely a first trial, the first attempt, but my birth was a failure on Mama’s part, a bitter disappointment after months of prayers for a son. After all, what use could a daughter serve other than to marry?
“Georgiana, I have found you a suitor.” Her voice, although frail, seemed to cut through the howling winds.
I suppose I should not have been astounded by Mama’s words. After all, it was hardly something she kept locked away. It was a song that had been sung for centuries, a song that every woman of high standing knew, to be a delicate rose with no thorns, to smile graciously at any hint of attention men bestowed upon them. All these talents I had to the full extent, but nothing could satisfy Mama until I was wed. We were to be well dressed, well spoken, well behaved and succeed in marrying a nobleman of higher standing than us, provide a son, then live the remainder of our lives as a faithful, dutiful wife and mother. Any woman of my standing would know that they were born to be a perfect English Rose put up for display in a nobleman’s home.
At twenty Mama landed herself a respectable marriage, to a respectable man, of a respectable birth. She had been a dutiful wife and provided her husband an heir. I was the family darling, with golden ringlets and pale skin with a hint of soft crimson. At every event, men whispered amongst each other whilst women looked on in envy. I was the object of every man’s desire and every woman’s jealousy. Yet at twenty, I remained unmarried, failing to live up to Mama’s expectations. However, with Eliza’s plainness, I would be the perfect rose. Mama would do whatever it took to ensure her little darling would never be like her own sister. Married into destitution with only one thankless daughter to show for it. The daughter, whom when I finally laid eyes upon, was nothing like the devil’s vessel Mama had described. Jane Eyre was wild, bereft of any captivating features. Still, she carried herself with a confident ease, which I, for all my talents, could only hope to have. The living embodiment of the untamed tempest which raged outside, unapologetic and free. Mama considered her a negative influence but I saw her as a symbol of everything I could be, released from my cage. Instead, I would forever be kneeling by Mama’s bedside, vicariously living through the unrestrained wind that wailed outside.
Out of the periphery of my vision, I watched Eliza’s continuous prayers. I felt a surge of frustration rise within me. She was no magnificent beauty. Her hair lacked the regal ringlets that mine boasted, nor the same fullness in the face. Rather, she appeared more puritanical. She was similar to a watercolour painting, faded with age. Sunken and colourless. Had she been more blessed in her appearance, she could have fulfilled her duty as a daughter. Instead, it was I whom Mama placed all her aspirations and ambitions upon. She allowed Eliza her freedom but the graces I was born with made me nothing more than an English Rose to be gifted away.
There had once existed a man I truly wished to marry, Lord Edwin Vere. Though he possessed an exceeding intelligence compared to others, characterised by true compassion I seldom saw in other men, Mama clung to whatever preconceived notion of him she held. I allowed myself to trust my own sister. Had she not told Mama of my plans, I could have been content with my marriage, knowing I finally made a choice of my own and was unbound by the rules of society that Mama enforced upon me.
After years of obeying every word Mama spoke, uttering no complaints nor arguments, blossoming for every man Mama pushed in my direction, I found myself wilting underneath all her demands. My legs shook as I stood from where I had knelt and walked towards the window. Outside, the thunderstorm roared, resembling a wild beast whilst the heavens relentlessly wept, raging against the windows, as if echoing my own emotions. Gusts of the wind rushed against the glass gate preventing the uncontrolled nature from entering. I was separated from the liberating rush of freedom, the untamed world outside. With the continued downpour, I felt my desperation for a life outside my confinement grow. I wished to open the window which had kept me from the untethered wind that raged ceaselessly, pushing against the glass gate of my prison,
Regardless of my own wishes, I, Georgiana Reed, am to become the wife of some nobleman Mama has found for me, some man I didn’t choose. I would be the dutiful wife Mama and society expected of me, to produce a son and serve my husband as his precious rose, put up on display. With each passing day, my petals would shrivel until I was limp and wilted. Eventually, he would discard me, with all my colours and beauty drained. No matter what I did, I would never break free. No matter my dreams of freedom, no matter how far I stood from Mama. I would have been everything she expected of me: the perfect daughter, the perfect wife, and the perfect English Rose.