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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.

Chapter Text

Part Two

It is from Mrs Fairfax that Mr Rochester learns Jane Eyre, his errant governess, is expected to return from Gateshead within the course of a week. He is mildly irritated that no specific time or date is settled upon, but it does allow him some release of tension to have it confirmed that her return, whenever it be, is imminent.

The preceding three weeks have been restless. He is now spending his free time with the farm hands at the upper reaches of the fields around Thornfield. Why, when he has never before assisted in the task of gathering in the hay in his lifetime? It is because she will walk in from Millcote, unannounced; he knows it.

Outwardly, he uses Adele as an excuse for his sudden interest in farming (he knows he is not the only one lamenting a loss). Nevertheless, he is grateful for the labour—it diverts his thoughts from what troubles him. Days pass and still Miss Eyre does not come; eventually the hay is all gathered in.

Thwarted, he resorts to taking his evening walk up near the road. He knows the duration of her journey, not accounting for any unexpected delay, and therefore has approximated a time of her arrival at Thornfield. What he intends by his behaviour, he does not know, but he cannot rest.

Reaching a stile, he pauses and takes in the elevated view that opens down towards the hall itself. Its grey facade stands out proudly from the surrounding green fields and hills, and he exhales to see it. He not so very long ago pronounced that he dared to like it. He longs to like it now.

But he is at an impasse.

His attempts to provoke Jane into revealing the secrets of her heart have all missed their mark. Each time, just when he thinks he might have a way forward, she has out-maneouvred him—neatly side-stepped him. He thinks he is being obvious in his regard, but Jane persists in either denial or willful ignorance. It cannot be from utter indifference, for he has observed the mild, but steely, glint of contempt in her eye when the subject of Miss Ingram is raised. Fleeting though it may be, he regrets its provenance all the same for he does not like Jane’s contempt. At inopportune moments, the prospect of it seems to grip him by the throat. Catching sight of one of her smiles is often enough to loosen it.

Grimly, he turns from the sight of the hall and sits down onto the stile. Doffing his hat, he rubs a hand over his face and through his hair. He has done much that might warrant Jane’s contempt. Not least of which is his ill-thought out, hastily arranged, social gathering at Thornfield, which he regretted almost as soon as it started. Certainly he regretted it after that first evening in the drawing room.

How could he have failed to consider that anything he could inflict on Jane would be revisited upon him—sometimes with vengeance? His first defeat at Jane’s hands (in a series of many) came after having his haughty disregard comprehensively returned and she, cool as you like, simply left the room. No word nor a look. What was a man to do? It is lucky that, for a proud man, he has no pride when it comes to her, therefore, follow her he must.

That evening, he learned he does not like bearing witness to Jane's sadness, either. Not being at liberty to either interrogate or ameliorate that sadness he liked even less. Irritated, he fell to the role of over-bearing master, knowing he would be able to rely on her deference to get his way, if nothing else. It was but a hollow victory.

She subsequently played her part well by dutifully sitting there each evening, infinitely superior to all about her (especially those that insult her). She never once acknowledged him, and only if he addressed her would she look him in the face. There was sometimes a hardness to her look that he was unused to and it seemed to signify disappointment, possibly, or disapproval. Whatever it was, each time he saw it, he shrank a little inside.

Were it not that he knew Jane regarded him with Miss Ingram when she thought he was occupied, he would have given up the charade sooner. It mattered not where or what he was doing, because finely attuned to her presence, he knew the gaze that bored into the back of his head was Jane’s. Yet, how could he learn her thoughts when they could never be left alone to converse? Thornfield was full of prying eyes and ears. He wished for the library and their evenings alone each time the damned clock struck its evening hour.

In his subsequent desperation for answers, enter the fortune-teller. A debacle. In hindsight, a small part of him could almost be grateful for the distraction of the appearance of Richard Mason. It is yet another wretched recollection, however. The service Jane rendered him that night he would not soon forget, despite resenting bitterly that he ever had to ask it of her in the first place. The debts, oh, they were accumulating, to be sure.

In the orchard, the next morning, he very nearly confessed it all. All of it. Even he could not be easy at the layers with which his deception was shaping and he longed to unburden. Jane thwarted him yet again, however. Deftly and acutely, and without even realising it, she skewered his hopes with her implacable sense of what is right and proper. And the worst of it is, he admires her even more for it, rather than resents her.

Her approval for his situation, he knows he cannot gain. It is clear she will never accept and consent to be part of the life that he has to offer—that much seems assured, and it should be the end of it. Yet, he can’t stop picking at the same old wound.

In the weeks since Jane left Thornfield (unwittingly playing her best hand yet) he has not been idle. After dispatching his guests, he journeyed to London under the pretext of acquiring a carriage, but in truth, travelled there simply to provide himself with an occupation. There was yet another benefit to his absence. On his return, he called to Ingram Park, where Lady Ingram received him, coolly, but Miss Ingram did not receive him at all. His other pretext for his visit to London—crisis talks with his banker—had clearly found its intended mark.

Taking out his pocketbook and pencil, he flicks through the pages, looking at the dates he has written. A whole month has gone by with no word. Nothing. A wave of helpless frustration buffets him and he vows to give her only a few additional days before taking action. He will travel to Gateshead himself if he must. Turning the page, he sees the words he wrote on his journey back from London: ‘Let her be.’ It is his latest resolve. He means to keep it and reinforces the words by re-writing them again, beneath. What he means by them is they will continue as before—before the fire. He will master himself and they will all live respectfully and properly until such a point that she gets bored and desires to move on. To get married, maybe.

He does not dwell on that. It will be enough for now.

Fool, he writes crisply, in large letters.

At which point, he hears the quiet trip of footsteps up ahead. There is no need to turn and look, because the gait is quite familiar. He keeps his eyes trained on his pocketbook even when, in his peripheral vision, he spots her figure materialise. When she visibly hesitates, he snaps the book shut and looks at her. He will not allow her to get away easily—it is his favourite vocation, after all.

So he speaks and deliberately stays seated, blocking her path. There is a damned veil obscuring her face that she does not immediately lift. He is aware his manner is more exuberant than any governess should ever have the right to merit or expect from their master. She knows it too, which must be why she chooses to stick in the penknife and turn the conversation to his upcoming marriage. The one which he knows will not happen, but the misconception on the part of others he has failed to correct. Neither does he correct it now.

Still, it is worth knowing what sits in the forefront of Jane's mind.

The words written in his pocketbook subsequently vie for his attention, but he quashes them for the sake of a dig with his own penknife; though he makes at his own expense, at least, referencing his physical shortcomings. Her riposte is as quick as lightning and designed to cut, but the words barely register. At odds with them, and infinitely more interesting, is the accompanying softening of her eyes and open appraisal of him.

Momentarily tongue-tied, he can only smile—one which pulls at his features in a way that might mean he does not smile often enough. He is so pleased, from nowhere he manages to coin a new nickname for her.

She is now Janet.

To save himself from embarrassment, he lets her pass without further ado. Unusually, she delivers a parting shot, but it is no pointed barb—the words are soft, shy, and delivered with such quiet sincerity that he is left rooted to the spot long after she has scampered away.

‘Thank you, Mr Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely glad to get back again to you; and wherever you are is my home—my only home.’

The words reverberate around him until he rouses himself and considers that he too ought to be getting back to the hall. When he gets to his feet, his pocketbook falls to the floor, dropping open onto the page he had lately been writing on.

Collecting it, he places it inside his coat and decides that he would do better to start a new one.

He sets off—hope is renewing again.

The fortnight that follows eclipses any that he has spent anywhere else in the world. Jane is happy and, in turn, he is happy too.

It should be enough to content him, but, instead, he is constantly reminded of what more there could be between them. He loves her completely and aches to express it. It threatens to burst from him at any moment. How many times has he nearly bitten through his tongue? Certain looks and expressions he has less control over, so much that Mrs Fairfax has taken to wearing a permanent frown of disapproval in his presence.

He cannot be certain Jane loves him in return, but there is much to take hope from. That she does not wish to leave Thornfield seems assured. That she enjoys his company is, similarly, certain. And if she has become somewhat more guarded around him recently, he flatters himself that she does it for her own protection. For he still hasn't denounced his engagement to Miss Ingram, yet, it is surely increasingly obvious it does not exist.

Interminably, he oscillates between what is right and what is wrong. Once again, his internal wranglings are superfluous. Deep down, he knows he has already decided his fate. His loneliness clamours within him, louder than anything else, asking to be tempered. Jane will temper him. Jane will complete his reformation.

Jane’s fate is yet to be determined. If she accepts him, he can give her many things in return. He can give her a life unlike any she has lived thus far. He can give her wealth. He can elevate her station. More importantly, he can give her his heart, which he keenly hopes she will prize above all else.

A dark voice in his mind quietly reminds him of that which he cannot give her. Jane would prize that too. The pulse in his neck suddenly reverberates loudly in his ears. He staunchly refutes it. It does not matter; it will not matter. In the future, other priorities will come to matter more. Their love and dedication to each other can transcend all else. Unlike Jane, he knows what happiness and bliss await them, but she will come to know it, he will ensure it, and then she will not ever wish to let it go.

He is convinced of it.

That evening, he drinks a glass of whisky, he takes up a cigar, and he waits for Jane Eyre to pass by the library window on her late, summer evening walk.

It will be this night, he decides. He will play his last card.

It is time for Miss Eyre to go to Ireland.

Chapter Text

Part Three

There are many chapters to the life of Edward Fairfax Rochester. They are by turns long, varied, and often torrid, passages of time that do not bear many re-treadings. For the sake of simplicity, he prefers now to split the story into three distinct volumes, that is life before, during, and after Jane Eyre.

No part casts him in the auspices of greatness. All are filled with pain and regret, but life after Jane Eyre has, at least, brought with it real objectivity, remorse, and repentance. He once told Miss Eyre to dread remorse when tempted to err. Advice he needed to hear more than she did, and still he willfully, repeatedly, chose to ignore it. 

The final volume he feels is but half-written; this he re-treads almost daily, hoping and praying there may yet come a conclusion. It could also equally be termed life after the fire, such are the events intertwined. The strands are knotted and tangled; it has taken much time, but he thinks he may finally have unravelled them.

The despair wrought by her departure from Thornfield, he thought, must be punishment for his sins and deceptions. What could possibly be worse than tearing through Thornfield and its grounds, searching desperately to conclude that she was indeed gone. Flying off on horseback to Millcote to find not a sighting of her had been noted anywhere. Returning empty-handed, apart from sick feelings of anguish and self-hatred, having to acknowledge it was all his fault. In the long days after, tormenting himself with ways he could have, and should have, acted. It felt like a reckoning.

How wrong he was; it was simply a precursor. It was the fire that smote him succinctly for his sins and his deceptions. At times, he can still feel the heat of the fire and the taste of smoke still seizes his throat. When he relives carrying an insensible Grace Poole down from the second floor, he can still hear the sound of the hall protesting around him. He remembers the intense roar of the flames as he gained the roof—too late. In his darker moments, in the immediate aftermath, he used to think he would have done better to follow her over the battlements.

He no longer thinks of that; he has long since accepted he had a price to pay and pay it he will. In many ways he is now diminished, but in others, he is enlightened.

His recovery, if one could call it that, has been painful in all senses of the word. His physical pain is reduced, but it is not gone. His internal anguish, however, has evolved, but not loosened its death-like grip. Blind and maimed, the struggle to rise out of the gloom is impossible. There is no distraction from it. He does not receive social calls. His business affairs he keeps abreast of, but is wholly reliant on third-hand information that he must trust to be accurate. Truthfully, he cannot find it within himself to care if it is not.

He exists now in ever-present darkness. He seeks the outside when he can, where the sun, the wind, and the sounds of nature provide for some respite, but it is always short-lived. Back in the darkness and stillness of the house, for an occupation his mind resorts to playing visions: memories and imaginings, some of which he struggles to recall into which category they fit. They all play out boldly and brightly, and he thinks he is slowly losing his mind.

He is tired. Sleep rarely brings with it the welcoming bedfellow called peace. Only when he is truly exhausted does he sleep easily. He often dreams wildly now, as he never did before. He dreams of the fire, where sometimes he rescues his servants, and sometimes he does not. He dreams of the fire where sometimes he lives, and sometimes he dies.

He dreams of Thornfield often; sometimes he is happy there, and sometimes he is not.

Mostly, he dreams of Jane Eyre; sometimes they are together, happy, and sometimes they are not. Sometimes, he staggers out onto the leads at Thornfield to find it is Jane swaying between the flame-filled battlements—sometimes he reaches her, and sometimes he does not.

The months have waxed and waned slowly and he is dimly aware it is nearly twelve months since Jane disappeared. The increasing frequency with which he now dreams of Jane’s death has a significance which he cannot ignore. His hope that she is alive, he senses it is slipping through his fingers. There has been neither sight nor sound of her in all the time since. Were she still alive, he cannot understand how he could not have heard. No expense was spared in the search. How far could she have reasonably travelled in the time between her departure and his discovery of it?

For so long he has talked himself out of it, avoided thinking of it, but he begins to feel he must accept she is dead. Long dead, even. She took nothing with her. She had no one else in the world but him. He, who professed to love and to cherish, drove quiet little Jane Eyre to her death. He thinks of her body, laying undiscovered still on some god-forsaken moor. When he thinks of it, of her solitary suffering, he feels his heart is liable to burst.

This acute torture he is unsure he can take much more of.

The desire only to know that she lives and that she is well has been the only reason for his continued existence. If she lives and wants for anything, he has subsisted these months only to be able to provide it.

But… after twelve months, it is surely a useless objective to cling to.

He is quite sure that he shall meet his own maker soon. By whose hand, he cannot be sure, but the tedium of his life is killing him slowly. His brain is sick and his heart too. He wishes they would simply give out, so he might finally find peace. Jane said they should hope to meet again in heaven. If Jane is there, he has prayed to God to end his suffering. If he knew her to be there, he would hasten the end.

In utter anguish, he repeatedly cries out her name, through the open window.

And in his utter desolation, his cruel, weary mind conjures for his ears the sound of a far-off reply:

‘Wait for me; Oh, I will come!’

The clock chimes seven times.

What is noticeable is the chimes do not hasten despair for the first time in many, many months. For, on this night, Edward Fairfax Rochester has a lapful of Jane Eyre.

It is little more than a day since her sudden apparition into his drawing room. He still cannot comprehend how it came to be. There could be nothing more Janian than months of absence culminating in a spontaneous conjuring onto his carpet. How composed she was! His ever pragmatic Jane. With her elfish ways she casts off his darkness as though it were a mere trifle.

Presently, this evening, she has come into the drawing room to enquire as to how he would like to be entertained. They have apparently resumed their old ways as if there had never been any gulf between them. He is unmoored by it, though he tries his best to match her composure.

Not everything is the same, of course. She did not await formal invitation to his presence—he is now at the mercy of her whims. He smiles inwardly at the thought (luckily for him, her whims are never changeful or abrupt). She has persisted in maintaining certain civilities from the days of her governess slavery. Yet, there is not so much of her former deference behind them than there is knowing impishness. This amuses him also.

He spends barely more than a second in deliberation of her question and requests that she read to him. This pleases her, for he can hear the resulting smile in her voice. She chooses the material; he cares not a whit about the choice of text (though he’ll be damned if he'll sit through anything to do with India).

Picking up on the sound of her moving a chair closer, he raises his right hand expectantly, forestalling her. When she takes hold of his fingers, he tugs gently. She says they will scandalise the servants, but it is no real effort at a demur. She perches across his lap and he stretches out his legs, propping his feet on the footstool.

He scoops his maimed arm about her waist—she is still a mere sparrow of a thing—and she enquires if he is comfortable. Comfortable? Woefully inadequate term!

Her proximity brings him relief. There was always solace to be found in Jane’s touch—as he had learned from the very first, but hitherto, his primary sustenance would have been found in the delight and pleasure of simply looking at her. Which he can no longer do. In its absence, he is grateful to hear her, but to touch and to hold her lifts his perpetual darkness. When he holds her, her presence is no distant, unseen echo—it is assured. Solid. Perfectly formed.

How long will she be able to tolerate his needfulness in this regard remains to be seen.

She begins to read. Her voice is close to his ear and he is interested in the sound of it, if not in the words. It affirms within him a realisation that this Jane Eyre, that now sits with him, is not fully the same as the one that left him. There is a new quality in her voice that he has discerned. It is something of confidence or self-assurance. It doesn’t offend him, on the contrary, it fills him with pride. He is prepared to yield to her in any and every way—it seems more the natural order of things and they will both likely thrive on it.

He lets his eyelids drift shut. There are things he is now thankful for, that hitherto, he could barely countenance. There is gratitude, and with it, there is acceptance and peace, all within touching distance.

The soothing lilt of her voice pulls him and his thoughts into a welcome lull. He tips his head a little to rest on her shoulder, feeling he is either on the verge of sleep or about to die in a state of pure contentment. Jane notices and shifts her arm to sit about his shoulders, affording his head a comfier resting place. Her fingers alight at his temple and repeatedly smooth away some of his unruly hair. The hair on the back of his neck stands up.

‘Take care, Jane,’ he murmurs. ‘An inferno may not finish me off, but those delicate fingers of yours just might.’

She pauses in her reading. A thought occurs to him and he smiles. ‘Unless this is your plan: to put me out of my misery once and for all?’

‘Credit me with the good sense to wait until after we are married, Mr Rochester, before I enact such a wicked plan.’

He laughs.

‘In all seriousness, sir, is it not a pity that I must restrict myself in these matters, on account of your delicate constitution?’

‘Hmm… Far be it for me to restrict my Jane in any way. Let us hope I have merely grown unaccustomed to your torturous ways; I shall require exposure often to build resilience.’

‘Oh, undoubtedly.’

She continues reading and he is quiet. He is thinking now of their marriage—their second attempt at a wedding, which she has agreed to, in three days time. Until the deed is actually done, he would prefer not to think of it. It still seems inconceivable. How can it be that only days from his lowest ebb, all is changed? How do the fates align so perfectly?

Today she has told her tale, insofar as she is willing. She has not told him all. He is grateful, because he is not sure he is ready to hear it. His mind persists in turning to those long dark months where he almost drove himself mad from the anger, the worry, and the regret. The times he spent imagining her dead. The times he contemplated his own death—the times he fervently wished for it.

What if Jane never ventured beyond sending letters to Thornfield? What if she travelled to India? What then?

Belatedly, he realises Jane is no longer reading.

‘Jane?’

He hears the book close.

‘Sir, forgive me—’

Her voice is filled with tears and he immediately sits up straighter. ‘Jane, what is amiss?’

She begins to shift, as if to stand, but he retains his hold easily even with his fistless arm. From his waistcoat he pulls out a handkerchief, which she takes.

‘You must entrust to me your thoughts and feelings, Jane; how else am I to know what you are thinking? I am at quite a disadvantage.’

She gives a watery sounding laugh. ‘You were not always so good at it even when you could see me.’

‘Nonsense! Your expression was my favourite book to read.’

Her body relaxes against his again, and a hand alights at his scarred cheek. 'I am crying happy tears, sir. I was reading, and watching you, and I was struck so very strongly by how grateful I am to be here with you! I was caught by a terrible vision of myself, in India, never again feeling the warmth of your love that I so crave, and never being able to give to you the love that I feel, and which delights me so to indulge. It is as though the course of my whole life was set out for this one moment and to have veered from it so egregiously would surely have drained the very life from me.’

His eyes sting. ‘Well... Let us be forever thankful you are a tenacious little thing for seeking me out, despite not knowing what you would find.’ He raises his own hand in order to determine the proximity of her face (curse his blind vision!) so that he might seek out a kiss. ‘Enough maudlin thoughts, Janet; pray continue your reading for I was very much engrossed.’

He senses her smile.

‘Is that so? Then tell me, what is it I am reading?’

‘Oh…’ He thinks frantically. ‘Ah…’

She laughed. ‘Pre-cise-ly; enough maudlin thoughts, Mr Rochester!’

Very well, he will listen, but only after the echo of her happy, clear laugh, which rebounds off the dark walls of the old manor house, finally leaves his ears.

If leave it must.

FIN