My Mr. Rochester by L. K. Rigel Page B

“Come with me.” She led me behind the counter and through a door to a store room.
    “Oh!”
    Boxes and stacks of books filled the room, and it dawned on me that the books I wanted weren’t the only ones missing from the shelves in the store. Something had seemed off when I entered the shop, but I was so intent on myself I’d missed it.
    “Are you leaving Lowton?” I asked.
    “Yep.” She went through a stack on the floor. “Back to Washington. I can’t take it here. I thought I wanted the slower life of New Judah, but no. I can live without television, but the lack of communication and no internet is driving me crazy.”
    She found the three books and handed them to me: Northern Lights, The Subtle Knife, and The Amber Spyglass.
    “How wonderful.” I hugged them to my chest. “The books, I mean. I’m sorry our pace of life doesn’t suit you.”
    It was one of the things the Secessionists fought for. Along with the right to our religious freedom, the New Patriots also won our freedom from the constant bombardment of images and propaganda—information overload, they called it—that made a righteous and serene life nearly impossible.
    “The slow pace suits me fine,” Mrs. Dean said. “It’s the slow minds I can’t stand.”
    I bristled, but said nothing. Another freedom Secession gave us all: no need to argue. The heathens had their country, and we had ours. “I’m sorry you’re losing your lovely store, though.”
    “I’ll be all right,” she said. We went out to the counter where I paid for the books. “I’ll open a new one in Seattle. Brocklehurst paid a great deal for the shop.”
    “The bishop?”
    “His daughter and new son-in-law want to run it.” She motioned over her shoulder toward the stockroom and laughed. “He turned down most of the stock. His loss.” She wrapped the trilogy in brown paper and handed it to me.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Dean.”
    “It isn’t Mrs. Dean,” she said. “Not Mrs., anyway. I’m not married.”
    “But…” Goodness. What would Miss Miller say? What would Miss Scatcherd say?
    “I wonder how you Judeans get the courage to marry at all with no divorce allowed.”
    “Marriage is a sacrament of God,” I said. “It can’t be rent asunder by man.”
    “Amazing.” She seemed amused, as if I’d said something childish. “When I was preparing to take over my grandfather’s store, his lawyer told me no one in Lowton would accept a single woman as anything but nurse, teacher, or secretary. I didn’t believe him. I thought it must be one of those things people just give lip service to, but he was right.”
    I walked back to Lowood, partly shocked that not-Mrs. Dean had lied to everyone, partly admiring her cleverness, and completely mystified by her statements. She didn’t understand.
    The Edicts, Decrees, and Laws protected the weak in society. Gone were the days of divorce when men cast their wives aside for younger partners. I was grateful that Mrs. Reed was bound by her oath to raise and educate the helpless infant she despised. In the United States, I would have been sent to an orphanage. Of course I wished Mrs. Reed had brought kindness to her task, but love is beyond legislation.
    Like a bookend, the cart boy who’d delivered me from Lowood Halt to the institution’s gate returned me to the train in his one-horse conveyance. Five years hadn’t worn well on him. He seemed down in spirits, all business and no talk. This time he didn’t offer to come to me the back way.
    At dusk the train passed through the factory city, its buildings lit up inside and out, factories and barracks alike. I didn’t think it wonderful this time. This time I understood fluorescent light, and I was better aware of factory workers’ lives. Brocklehurst regularly threatened to ship Lowood’s kitchen staff or gardeners off to a factory.
    Factory work was how those in the poorhouse earned their keep, all the daylight hours spent on their feet at assembly lines or bent