Chapter Text
Part One
In his lifetime, Edward Fairfax Rochester has known many bad decisions. That he ever came back to Thornfield is his most recent. Or, to be precise, it is the decision to stay beyond what is his custom—those fleeting visits that mainly served as a reminder to his dependents that he did, actually, still exist.
That he should now leave again is incontrovertible. He would do better in escaping beyond the shadow of Thornfield’s battlements for another twelve months or more. It would be the correct thing to do; it would be the proper remedy for the impossible situation he finds himself in.
The reasons for warranting a hasty departure are twofold. There is the metaphorical, ever-present, shackle about his neck—the one he had a hand in placing there. Its weight drags him down, and, by fits and starts he fights it, but it's never defeated. The key to releasing it haunts the attics of his accursed hall. A place he, once again, chose for it. Ten years have elapsed since they have spent as much time in such close proximity (distance being the only cure thus far for the persistent dread it brings). In adjusting to it, he knows there will be danger.
In the dark silence of the library, he sits alone and he senses the peril all about him. It permeates the quiet of the old mansion and clings to its walls. He hears it taunt him and laughs at him. It heartily mocks him for his predicament. He is not a strong man—a fortnight of this torture is usually as much as he can withstand (until recently, that is).
Moreover, in spite of the heightened disillusionment with his nomadic existence, he had not returned home with the intention of vowing to correct his path toward reformation, and foregoing his former life. Nevertheless, it is what he proudly pronounced, and to a stranger, no less.
Neither is he a principled man. For so long he has spent hiding his secrets that he almost believes in his own omissions. It is almost second-nature to convince himself of the truths and reparations that he is owed.
Almost. For he owes them, too.
Why else did he pluck Adele from the grime of Paris if not for reparation? But therein lies another bad decision. To install her in Thornfield Hall had not been a good idea. He knows it now. Playing the part of silent benefactor would have suited, but instructing Mrs Fairfax, with little to no thought, on the recruitment of a governess was another aberration. The consequence of which is the true reason he is spending his sixth consecutive week at the hall.
By day, he is involving himself in business affairs, as if he had not hitherto always delegated their importance to his agent. More pertinently, by night, he is availing himself of the company of a strange, quiet girl who has no obvious right to warrant his notice. Early on, some paltry effort at distance he made, but that pale figure haunts him—disconcertingly so.
If he did not know it in Hay Lane, he certainly knew by the end of their first tete-a-tete that he was in trouble. One could not spend as much time in the company of beautiful, sophisticated women as he had, and fail to notice the warmth Miss Eyre roused in him was unlike anything he felt before. Therefore, study her he must.
Envy is not something he feels often, having always thought it beneath him, but he envies Jane Eyre’s youth and her clear conscience. He is fascinated by her detachment and reserve, and he has dwelt on it, deciding that neither are borne from an innate coldness, nor are they a thin veneer of affectation. She has a deep-rooted goodness that should be celebrated and protected. He once ascribed to her the life of a little nonette, but it was flippantly put and an over simplification. He senses her life and experiences have not been easy.
He envies, but he does not begrudge her these virtues. Rather, he wishes only to hold them in his hands and admire them; hope they might impart some of their wisdom and grace that he might learn from them. There is much he can learn from Jane Eyre—it does not dent his pride to admit it. Her other-worldly wisdom is always sincerely and innocently imparted.
A sudden, terrible, sense of irony seizes him that makes his fists curl and his insides quail—that he should have wasted so much time, compromised himself, and almost ruined himself, in the pursuit of love through beauty and money, when a kindred spirit could be found when one wasn't looking. One which, being so innocuous, you could even blink and miss it.
He is a fool. Trite and commonplace.
And he should leave Thornfield.
But this night, his internal posturings are, as ever, superfluous, for he has already rung the bell, ten minutes since, to send for her. Temptation will be the victor. He has rung it despite knowing as soon as it is done that he will internally remonstrate with himself. The result of which, depending on his mood, may be framed either as the rightful pleasures he is owed, or the torturous self-punishment that he deserves.
The clock strikes the hour loudly, seven times. In a moment, she will enter with a careful smile and will enquire after his day, and then she will ask how she might please him that evening. Such is the pattern he has encouraged. At times they simply talk; rather, he will mostly talk and she will mostly listen, offering up polite questions or insightful observations when she desires to. She likes to hear of the places he has been and he likes to tell her about them.
Never does he mention the West Indies.
Some evenings he chooses to play the piano, or she will play (depending on his whim). But when his body is listless and his mood joyless, as now, he prefers to request that she read to him. If he must call her to his presence (and it appears he must), then it is the safest option.
The first time he asked it, she registered some mild surprise. Maybe even trepidation. He knew where her mind went and she need not have feared, because he has no desire to make a fool of her. The books he gives her are always perfectly respectable.
He suspects she now enjoys it as much as he does. Yet, he cannot read much into it. She is a teacher and governess—it is an undertaking that is second nature to her. Occasionally, he has turned his head to watch her read, wondering if she thinks him the very devil of inconvenience that, after a day in the schoolroom, she should be expected to spend her free time entertaining the master in such a fashion. Her expression rarely signifies (unlike her eyes), and rather than be irritated by his demands on her time, he prefers to consider she might enjoy the curious intimacy of the act as much as he.
There are other evenings when he has let his eyes close and allowed himself to be carried off with her voice. That voice which, very quiet usually, starts to possess a quality to it when, by turns, it becomes amused, engaged, happy, distracted, or, rarely, piqued. He has learned quickly to understand its inflections and tone. Apart from the birdsong, it is the only sound he enjoys hearing at Thornfield.
When she reads, he is required to say nothing and therein lies the sense. Even in his more collected moments, he has been far too indiscreet in their interactions. She is entirely to be blamed in that regard, however. She draws self-reflection to him, and from him, in a way he never knew he needed or wanted. It is as though he wishes her to know every dark and dank part of him—all those parts he usually keeps to himself. It must mean it is her approval he wants, something he has never wanted from any other before.
Forget the sanction of God, if Jane Eyre sanctions him he will be reborn.
The sudden thought of her wide, innocent, yet knowing, eyes fill him with both shame and delight. It is an ever painful paradox; it makes his temples pound. Leaning forward in his chair and propping his elbows on his knees, he puts his head in his hands and digs his fingertips sharply into his hairline, as if they might forcefully dislodge the vein of his thoughts.
He has always hated being weak and subservient to his emotions.
Quiet footsteps approach through the hallway and, even as the door opens, he does not lift up his head. Let her think him a moody old man, he thinks grimly, but then inwardly scoffs. Therein lies his ultimate conceit (and he scowls to comprehend it)—the idea she thinks of him at all, beyond what is necessary.
‘Sir?’
He begrudgingly lifts his head. ‘Miss Eyre.’
He really should leave Thornfield.
But not yet.
A few weeks later, luckily or unluckily, his hand is finally forced.
There is an error, one which he manages to spectacularly compound.
It begins with Grace Poole allowing her charge to escape the confines of the third storey. He dwells not on the point why, on gaining freedom, burning him in his bed is the priority, instead of trying to escape the confines of the hall (he has long given up applying rhyme or reason in that regard). He dwells instead on his own subsequent actions and what he has unwittingly committed himself to.
Awakening first from a dousing of water, and then from the acrid smell of smoke, and finding that Jane Eyre alone, a mere slip of a girl in her nightclothes, has managed to extinguish a fire engulfing his bed, he might be forgiven for being rather wrong-footed. What is less forgivable when the full import of what happened is comprehended, is that he did not then collect his wits better.
When his saviour moves to breeze back to her room, casual and unmoved, as if she routinely runs around saving the lives of her fellow creatures, a strange feeling that he never felt before overwhelms him. He forestalls her with no real understanding of what he wishes to achieve.
Later, after he has retreated to the library and he is alone, he frantically tries to recall the words he used—compromising and improper words! But… truer words he has never spoken; he is certain of that.
Jane! So, Miss Eyre is dispensed with, along with all other conventional propriety, and she is now Jane. Her hand! Her small cold hand that he could not let go! For what purpose had he held her there, despite her attempts to depart? She could very well be in her room now, considering her options, disturbed by his intensity.
No.
She is not frightened—not of him, at least. He is quite sure. But if she is as moved as he, only she is privy to it. It is perhaps better he never finds out.
In his in-most heart, he knows Jane Eyre is not for the likes of him. Though she imparts little of her own life and experience, he knows, with no doubt, there is a strength of character within that might prove ultimately impenetrable. He has seen it in her eyes, heard it in her voice, observed it in her poise, and interpreted it even in her drawings.
What will he say to her when he sees her next? What will he do?
There is but one answer—he will have to leave Thornfield. Has he not vowed to do better with his aims and motives?
He settles it, whilst failing to fall asleep on the library sofa. There is an invitation from Eshton to a gathering. He had intended to journey over for a night at some point, but Eshton will entreat him to stay longer, as usual and, this time, he will not refuse. Following his sojourn at the Leas, with the time and the distance, he will surely find the impetus to push further from the long reaches of Thornfield Hall.
It is a noble resolve and it pleases him to think of it. When he rides across the countryside, hours later, he feels invigorated, determined, and at ease. His charred bedchamber and the grave little governess fades a little further from his mind with each passing mile.
But it is to be a short-lived reprieve.
His arrival is initially taken up with much chatter and some business, and he acknowledges there is much benefit to be gained from not being confined to one’s own company. Some figures he has not seen in a year or more, and in the ensuing talk, part of which he is interested in, part of which he is not, he feels calmer. They are his people—his society; maybe he ought to do better to remember it.
Yet, again, it is the sound of the clock striking seven that undoes his serenity. As the final chime fades, the face of Jane Eyre is immediately conjured in his mind's eye and he is back in his bedchamber, clutching her hand in both of his own. Did the news of his departure affect her? Has she awaited his nightly summons? Is there disappointment that it will not come? Does he now desire the meeting he secretly would have dreaded, had he stayed?
He is not sorry, however, to miss the inevitable upbraiding on the matter of Grace Poole.
There are ladies in attendance at the Leas and they are all beautiful and accomplished. He enjoys employing charm with them—he is practiced at it and they enjoy being in receipt of it. Something in him has changed for good, however. There is a veneer of superficiality to the proceedings that, whilst he has never been immune to it, it now disjoints him, to the point he has to regularly bite his tongue. Or take care to school his features, lest contempt take unassailable hold.
Miss Blanche Ingram makes a particular show of interest in him. Her overt regard, but one which is thinly lined with a hint of ice, is an initial surprise. Later, Eshton tells him there is a rumour circulating and it is concerned with the reason for his extended stay at Thornfield. It is purported he is finally looking to take a wife and to secure an heir to the Rochester fortune. He knows not from whence that rumour has propagated, but he chooses not to dispute it, despite its inaccuracy. His very presence at the Leas has unwittingly lended legitimacy to the scheme, but better they believe it than guess at the real, sorry truth.
At least Miss Ingram’s interest is now explained, but it is no surprise. Lady Ingram has long desired well-made matches for her daughters. He has been where Blanche is and he almost feels sorry for her. He nearly tells her to save her efforts, but, at the last he does not. Instead, he decides to use the society of the occasion in the hope he can transform his irritation into the strength he needs to quit the country once more.
All the while, every evening, the clock continues to strike seven and he curses each and every hollow chime. He wonders, what is she doing with her time? Is she well? Does she desire news of him? Edward Fairfax Rochester realises, grimly, that he wishes he were back at Thornfield Hall.
Eventually, he drafts a missive to Mrs Fairfax. He is supposed to write that he is leaving for the continent once more, but the increasing prospect of returning to his weary and empty existence is intolerable; he cannot even scribe it, let alone enact it. It is of no use; he is deluded to think his path to reformation lies in the far lands of Europe, no matter what (or who) awaits him at Thornfield.
For several more hours, as his mind churns, the page remains steadfastly blank.
His time at the Leas, he allows, may prove to be one of his better-made judgments, for it has allowed him to uncover some truths about himself. Hitherto, he thought himself a gregarious creature. He is not. He craves companionship, but it would matter not if he never saw any of these people again. There is only one person's companionship he needs— Jane has spoiled all others for him. He cannot resent her for it, indeed, it is a liberation.
He is in love with her; it cannot be denied now.
It is a quick, ill-thought out decision, as is his want: he will return to Thornfield and he will see Jane again. He feels happy now that his decision is made, whether it be for good or for ill, he knows not, but he permits himself to think of her with no censure of himself. There will be high stakes in pursuing her. He will need some assurance of success before being able to make his offer, otherwise, all may be lost.
That assurance may not be verily determined, however. Jane Eyre, he knows, is both master and mistress of her emotions. She enjoys his informality and is unmoved by his caprice, but she does not let his behaviour guide her own. She is ever respectful, dutiful, proper, mindful, calm, and collected… He could list virtue after virtue.
But she is not unfeeling. There is an undercurrent of fire that he knows exists, and which she keeps at bay. He thinks there may be hope of him accessing it. Instinctively, he realises the person afforded the gift of carefully freeing Jane Eyre’s inner self will be forever blessed. He would treasure such a gift, if he could be trusted with it.
When talk in the evening turns to where the party will next find their amusement, he makes another quick, bold decision. There is a new seedling of an idea in his mind. He has always had something of the reckless (or feckless) trait in him. He could never iron it out and it bade for his attention now.
In the corner of his eye, he sees Blanche Ingram circling towards him under the steely, watchful eye of her mother. She prevails upon him to accompany her on the piano and he graciously bows his acquiescence. Seating himself at the instrument, he watches Blanche arrange the music before him and then she turns to ensure all other attentions of the room are commanded. She really is very handsome; he wonders if, stationed together, they present a nice image to their compatriots? Would Jane think so if she were to see it? Would she care?
Abstractedly, his mind conjures Jane and, instead, it is she sitting at the piano. Leaning over her, he sees a handsome suitor, serenading her—smiling at her. Jane even smiles widely back, a rare smile, and then—
‘Signior Edouardo?’
Blinking, and unclenching his jaw, he nods at Blanche. He attacks the keys with rather more vigour than is necessary, but the confounding image is banished at least, leaving his earlier seedling of a thought to germinate:
Jane Eyre never felt jealousy before.