His wine Butler had just told him what time it was. Eight-twenty.
"Mr. Caesar," he eyed the man pouring in his wine, freshly brewed from the grapevine in his garden. "Are you sure about the time you saw?"
"Yes, sir. It is exactly twenty minutes since the bell rang out."
"Leave me!"
Rochester pushed out his facial muscles, grinding his teeth. It was one thing for her to outrightly disobey his strict breakfast-hour rule. But it was another thing, an entirely different sin for her to willingly accept to dine in her room as opposed to answering his call to have her dine with him.
How audacious!
Yes. Rochester could feel his fingernails burrowing painfully into his palm due to how he'd wrapped his arm into a fist following Caesar's departure. He could no longer accept this. Her audacity was becoming far too outrageous and not even the flavour of his wine sifting into his nostrils could assail his mood.
"Gretta!" He shouted.
