Jane Lewis is dead

Jane Lewis is dead.

I dare not cry.

But I am hollow, as if a part of me has gone with Jane, wherever she is now. She jumped from Clayton Bridge into the rushing river, her body swept away by the current. Now my soul feels miles away.

The grass is damp from last night’s rain, and the scent of petrichor hangs heavy in the air. In the distance, the church bell tolls mournfully. Solemn faces gather around the grave where they will soon lower Jane’s empty casket into the cold ground. Mr. Lewis’s face is contorted with insurmountable grief. To his right stands Mrs. Lewis, whose fingertips have been peeled raw, her nervous tic exacerbated by the loss of her granddaughter, while beside her Jane’s mother wails, playing the part of distraught parent quite well.

“Oh, my poor girl,” she sobs loudly.

Jane’s father, outwardly stoic, keeps his gaze fixed a few paces past the ancient oak nearby. If he glanced at me, would I be swept away by the storm in his eyes?

Miss Abigail Whitmore, her best friend, fights her own internal battle. Her brows furrowed angrily, eyes glossy but refusing to shed a single tear. Abigail’s lips move almost imperceptibly. I imagine she is muttering under her breath. “Heartless Jane, leaving me all alone in this world.”

I see some of our peers gathered near the Lewis family: Reggie Barrett stands alongside siblings George and Victoria Holloway, who were among the few in this town who ever showed Jane any kindness. George keeps discreetly taking out his handkerchief to wipe at his eyes. Victoria stares fixedly at the casket as though she expects Jane to climb out of it at any moment.

And then I see Olivia Pembroke.

She must have some nerve, showing up to Jane’s funeral. She stands stiffly near the back besides her and Anne Ellsworth’s mother, glancing every so often towards the grave and quickly away again. Catherine and Anne themselves are nowhere to be seen.

A cold breeze rustles through the leaves of the old oak near Jane’s grave, making its branches creak softly. The scent of moss and damp wood fills my nostrils. I shiver, thinking about everything that led to this moment, and the part I played in the events that led to this day. Forgive me, Jane.

Jane Lewis was an outsider. From the moment she stepped foot in this town three years ago, it became painfully clear that she was not like the other young ladies. Though well-mannered and of friendly disposition, Jane had spent her childhood under the care of her grandparents, while her father, who was a merchant, traveled around the country for business. Her mother had run off with a sailor when Jane was but three years old.

Books became Jane’s closest companions. She was wholeheartedly devoted to her studies, and her governess, pleased with her pupil’s diligence, provided her with a more than thorough education. On the rare occasion that Jane’s father found himself at home, he would take her hiking through the countryside and taught her how to swim in the lake beyond the hills.

While other young ladies fussed over ribbons and potential suitors, Jane spent her time running barefoot through grassy fields and splashing her feet in the riverbank. Only Abigail Whitmore, whose mother ruled her life with an iron first, admired Jane and her easy freedom. They became fast friends, and spent as much time together as they could whenever Abigail managed to tear herself away from her mother’s grasp.

Of the young ladies in town, Olivia Pembroke was the most haughty and vicious, and along with her loyal companions, Catherine McMillan and Anne Ellsworth, soon decided that Jane Lewis was a black mark upon their righteous community. Her family history was scandalous enough, and her outdoor adventures did nothing to put her in their favor. As soon-to-be debutantes who would join society at the start of the season, it was their moral duty to check Jane’s behavior, if no one else would.

The teasing began subtly enough: whispers when she entered rooms, girls giggling behind feathered fans.

“Oh dear,” Olivia remarked just loud enough for Jane to hear, “Miss Lewis has dirt on her hem again. How quaint.” Catherine and Anne snickered.

Playful gestures and pranks soon beget upon her more often than not and poor Jane became the town's laughingstock. It was too much, too often, and without remorse. They finally took it too far when they convinced young Mr. Wilcott to corner Jane in a side alcove during the debutante ball, then gathering a crowd around to witness Jane’s ‘indecency’.

Jane had had enough. Months and months of unwarranted, spiteful deeds. With violent anger flashing in her eyes, she hurled clenched fists at Olivia and her devotees. It was Jane’s misfortune that in her blind rage, she accidentally knocked over a lamp, setting the place ablaze. The alarmed attendees made it out unscathed but immediately accused Jane of witchcraft, permanently damaging what little reputation she maintained.

I watched helplessly as the townsfolk descended on her. What was to be done? Suddenly, the answer was there in front of me, impossible to believe and inescapable all at once.

I had to kill Jane.

That night, the cold chilled my bones as I ran. The ball was held not too far off from the river’s edge and I soon reached Clayton Bridge. I remembered all those times swimming in the lake with my father, slowly wading further and further in until I could confidently swim in deep water.

The night air was filled with shouts and the sound of running. In the distance I saw lights which grew bigger and brighter as the townspeople got closer.

As I stood teetering on the edge of the bridge, I realized there was no coming back from this. They had besmirched my name, ruined my reputation…the crime of something for which I was not to blame wrapped itself around me like a shadow.

I jumped.

The old oak near my empty grave groans, as if impatient for the funeral to be over. A small aperture on the side of the oak would reveal to anyone willing to investigate that the tree is hollow on the inside. I can watch the proceedings of my funeral unseen. I can’t help but wonder whether there are any amongst those who did not attend whose absence is due to the shame of what they did to me.

It’s not like any of it matters anymore. They will carry on with their lives and any memory they have of me will fade from existence. They will never feel remorse, never repent or beg for my forgiveness. If they cared at all or had any desire to “redeem” themselves, they would have come to bid my soul farewell.

Do you see why I had to fake my own death? Even if I somehow managed to convince the town that I was not a witch, I had been through too much. I could no longer be Jane Lewis, their venomous accusations seeping through my veins, torturing my soul.

My darling father waited until the townsfolk left the riverbank, satisfied that the ‘witch’ had drowned. Then, he followed the river downstream searching for me in the darkness. He finally found me sitting in a crumpled heap upon the muddy shore, my ruined gown discarded at my side. My father nearly collapsed with relief, even though he himself had taught me to swim, and held me in his arms as I sobbed.

"Jane," he breathed hoarsely, pulling me tighter into his embrace.

I beseeched him not to tell a single soul that I still lived, not even my grandparents, though it broke my heart to ask such a thing. If the town was not convinced I was a witch before, surely surviving the river unscathed would have cemented their belief in my guilt.

There simply was no other way.

The last mourners disappear down the hill. At last, I step out of the dark hollow and take the long way home, calmly walking barefoot through the countryside. My father has arranged a carriage for me to slip me out of town this evening.

Jane Lewis is dead.

I am free.