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Just when her day has begun to turn quiet, Mr. Rochester whirls around the corner into the corridor, nearly colliding with Jane. His hair is soaked from the rain outside, his eyes invigorated with the exercise of riding. You could never call him handsome--it’s easy to imagine how the girls at Lowood would snicker together at his ugliness--but there is something fascinating in his face. She would like to study it closely, capture it on drawing paper.
“You again?” he growls, brightening.
She looks up into that face; what reason has she to blush and look away, no matter how flushed she suddenly feels? He can be nothing to her that would merit a blush. “Yes, sir.”
He takes a step closer. “Still haunting my deuced house, I see.”
“I do live here, sir.”
“And you’ll still claim to be the governess, no doubt, and not confess to your fae heritage.” Another step.
Jane lifts her chin. “I can tell you Adele has just finished up her lessons for the day--a fact that’s important to a governess, but nothing to a fairy.”
“Pfft!” His black eyes are warm, even as he keeps his scowl. “Just as any fairy in disguise would claim to throw me off the scent.”
“If I were a fairy, I would not spend my time in tricking you. I’m sure I would have things of much more importance to do.”
“Moonlit dances? Ritual sacrifices? The stealing of souls?”
“I suspect fairies don’t make a habit of telling mere mortals the particulars of their business.”
“And I’m a mere mortal, hmm?”
“You’ve given me no reason to believe otherwise.”
“Haven’t I? That’s disappointing.”
They look at each other, suddenly closer than they were before, as if a few moments were lost in a daydream and reality has woven them together in the meantime. A raindrop falls from his shaggy locks and lands on the back of her palm.
“Should you like to be a monstrous thing, sir?” Jane discovers herself asking. The raindrop sends a shiver through her, shocking the words out.
She watches something flicker across his face, torment or bitterness. Then he puts on that scowl like a smile once more. “No, no. I think I would like to be a handsome master--you have already confirmed you don’t think me so; don’t try to deny it!--yes, a master with fair locks and a fine nose and bright blue eyes, very merry and gay, and mild in temper. Then there would be no chance of our Miss Eyre ever departing from under our roof, with such a fine soul to try to steal away to fairy land.” He pauses, leaving only the roar of the rain outside. “Can you deny it?”
“Indeed I can. I would have no liking for such a person. I would think him worse than a monster, and much less interesting. I cannot imagine the fairy folk would have much use for him, either.”
“What girl of eighteen doesn’t lose her wits for a handsome man?”
“This one.”
He tilts his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with interest.
She steps back. A good, solid distance dwells between them again.
“I suppose I have no qualities that would tempt you to steal me away under the earth,” he goes on, quite pitifully.
Jane smothers a smile. “Perhaps you will do something to anger the fairy folk on your own and get stolen anyway. But you needn’t fear. I would argue on your behalf if they took you, and drag you out with my own hands if need be.”
“And hold me close, cursed as I am, through my transformation into all manner of beasts--and perhaps a man at last?”
It would be easy to hold him now. To put her hands in his wet hair and pull his face down to hers. If she did it, he would not resist for a moment. He would surrender to it, like being caught in a storm. Join in like a dance to irresistible music. He does not want to snuff out the burning thing in her, like everyone else she has ever known. He would rather feed the flame.
But she is poor and he is rich. He has a right to all the world, and all the well-bred ladies in it, and there is nothing more than that.
“You speak like Tam Lin,” she teases, to break the spell of sameness between them, “but you are just Mr. Rochester.”
“A fact I would much like to forget,” he agrees with a playful sigh, matching her tone. “But you will always speak the truth to me, won’t you, Janet?”
“I will,” she says.
Again, he studies her. Perhaps to him, in these odd moments, her face is fascinating too.
“And the truth,” she says firmly, “is that I am very hungry, and must go down to join Mrs. Fairfax and Adele for tea.”
“Yes--get, go.” He waves his hands at her. “I have important matters to tend to, and cannot stand in the corridor, caught in your bewitching web, all evening. Already I expect I will succumb to fever from staying in these wet clothes so long--but you fairy folk never spare a thought for feeble mortal flesh.”
She smiles. “I think you are made of stronger stuff than that, sir.”
“Tell me that tomorrow when I am all aches and sneezes. You have at least one handkerchief you shall condescend to lend me then, don’t you, Jane? One with ‘J’ and ‘E’ embroidered prettily on its edge, so I might look on those initials and think upon the giver?”
“Certainly not one finer than those you already have. I see no sense in giving one of my few handkerchiefs when you have many.”
“I tire of reminders of ‘E.F.R.’ I would like sweeter company.”
“And yet he is the only person in the world guaranteed always to be your companion. It would behoove you to make peace with him.”
“Cruel, shrewd thing,” he says, eyeing her. “Wise advice generally, perhaps, but in this case you know not what you ask. Now, uncast your spell, enchantress, and set me free.”
“You are free to do whatever you wish, Mr. Rochester. As always.”
He gives her another of those looks, his face contorting with something hideous and sad--then a broad smile, to make up for it. Before she can smile back, he strides away briskly, as if she’d never stood in his path in the first place. She listens to his sturdy footfalls. Each one thrums in her like a heartbeat.