Zenith (The Thornfield Affair Book 3)

by Amity Cross

  Zenith

  The Thornfield Affair - Book Three

  Amity Cross

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  VIP Newsletter

  Other Books by Amity Cross

  About the Author

  Zenith (The Thornfield Affair #3) by Amity Cross

  Copyright © 2016 by Amity Cross

  All rights reserved.

  Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë is a public domain work and is legally out of copyright. Public domain works can be freely used for newly copyrighted derivative works, and as such this work is protected by copyright from date of publication as stated above.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All song titles, song lyrics, products, networks and brand names mentioned in this book are the property of the sole copyright owners.

  Cover Design © Amity Cross / Nicole R. Taylor

  1

  Dear Jane,

  What do I write about your dear spirit? Words fall short when I try to set my thoughts to paper or screen.

  It is difficult to compose all the things I wish to tell you in this letter knowing you will never read it. Even if I send it at its completion, you are not here to receive its arrival. Perhaps it will help soothe my aching heart to know that the truth of my feelings for you resides in physical form. For if it exists, then I can no longer hide from it.

  I have told you I was tricked into marrying Bertha Mason, but I never told you of that time.

  I was a young man eager to please my father. You know he doted on my older brother Rowland, and I was a mere thing to be bargained with. I had only seen and spoken to Bertha twice before we were married. I didn’t think much of it at the time. My head was clouded with lust—for she was once a beautiful thing—and the desire to become a worthy man in my father’s eyes. It wasn’t until much later that things began to deteriorate.

  Her character began to change quite suddenly, and fits of violence would take her. She would strike out to all who came near, curse the foulest words, and spit and strike without provocation.

  I pleaded with my father to keep the marriage secret so that none should ever know the truth of the demon I was tricked into taking as my wife. It was agreed upon, and to the world, it seemed I remained a bachelor, and Bertha was hidden, being much too volatile to be set loose.

  I kept her with me at first, locked away in the far reaches of a house I kept in Paris. Then, as you know, she took Rowland’s life with a knife she had spirited away like the cunning beast she is. She would have done the very same to you, dear Jane, and she almost succeeded if not for the scene she created stalking you that day.

  After Rowland’s death, I employed Grace Poole to care for Bertha. She is a queer sort of woman, but she is tough, though she seems to have let her own faculties slip this past year. With Bertha installed with a warden, I was free to go about my life as though nothing had ever happened.

  I became my father’s protégé, but my heart had changed dramatically. Where once I wanted to please him, I now resented all that came with the Rochester name. I traveled the world, I indulged in sins and fantasies, but nothing could fill the darkness in my soul. I took lovers and mistresses. I engaged in sexual acts so depraved I am ashamed to admit them to you. I could not go through life with pleasure without causing myself pain. I did not deserve happiness. I felt responsible for Rowland and Bertha for bending so easily to my father’s will that I could not see the trap the Mason’s had laid for us.

  You know what my father did next. How he had attempted to murder Bertha, and then how I had her hidden at Thornfield to keep her safe from both our families. Her younger brother, Richard Mason, was my only ally and sole confidant to what had really happened in those years.

  After my father passed, I floated through life made up of nothing but anger and humiliation for what I’d become. I tried to take my own life. Did you know that? Unlikely. It was a lonely evening alone with my self-loathing, and I could not go through with it. I’ve told no one, not until this very moment. Knowing you will never see this letter, all knowledge of the lowest parts of my life will pass with me into the grave.

  I have not always been so wretched and despicable, but for the last ten years, I have known nothing else. Truthfully, I wanted nothing or no one until the night of a certain motorcycle accident. I was stone. Closed to feeling to survive my treacherous and cowardly life.

  It was a frosty winter night when I almost ran down a lonely woman on the road to the forsaken place I am bound to. Thornfield. What a despicable place it was until I saw you walk through her halls and linger in her library. Those books had belonged to my mother. Did you know? If there was any purer soul in the world other than yours, dear Jane, it was hers.

  I’d purchased that motorcycle a month prior to riding to Thornfield. I don’t know what whim took me when I purchased it. Perhaps fate led me into that dealership, though at the time, it was a keen sense of despair. I had not lived in a long time, and I wished to feel something other than the darkness my life had become. If I had not bought that motorcycle, I would not have been on that road the night I happened upon you.

  I did not know when I laid eyes on the wild and stubborn woman who sent me flying into the dirt that she would be the cause of such fascination to me. She was unafraid to speak her mind even when my temper was raised. She would not leave me alone until I took matters into my own hands and rode away.

  When I found you in my library pawing at my mother’s books, I did not recognize you at first, but when I looked into your eyes... I cannot find the words to describe what I felt at that moment. I had to be careful, Jane. I knew not who you were or what intentions you held. I subdued my desire to take you for my own then and there. I could not be tricked a second time.

  I listened and watched, determining your character when you were not in my presence. Outside of my influence, you were quiet, thoughtful, and spoke plainly. You helped wherever you could without complaint, you offered others sound advice, yet I discerned an air of worry in you. You were involved in the workings of Thornfield, yet you were apart from it. I saw you turn from frivolity to wander the halls deep in thought.

  I wondered if you thought of me and if you would seek me out, but you did not. You kept to yourself, attempting to hide your depression, and snuck away to the library time and time again. You had little hope in you, and it worried me, though when I presented myself to you, Jane, you fought me to the point I was completely intoxicated.

  If you think I never saw who you were, Jane, you are mistaken. A name is nothing compared to who a human being is at their core. You showed me your true face time and time again. My most griev
ous mistake was not trusting you with mine.

  I want for nothing more than to marry you and live in this world by your side. I had a wife before, that is true, but she has not been so for many years. It is you I wish to give myself to. You and no other.

  You…you unearthly creature. I am lost at scribing words of endearment, and I cannot aptly explain what I see when I lay my eyes upon you. I am much better at showing you my affection, but you are gone. I long to touch your soft skin, kiss your fiery lips, and tangle with your sharp tongue. I ache without you in my arms. Without your love to guide me, I am nothing more than a shell—empty and soulless.

  You are my match in every way. You master me like no other, and I cannot let you go so easily.

  I know I have hurt you gravely, Jane, and for that, I am deeply sorry. I understand why you ran, and I will give you the time you desire but know this. I will come for you. I cannot let you go, my love, my light, my salvation.

  I will come.

  Yours forever,

  Edward Rochester.

  2

  Depression is a terrible thing.

  When one’s heart has been broken so continuously by the one they love the most, it becomes hard to go on in their company. Their presence is a constant reminder of what you long for but never quite obtain. The world goes on around you, and every soul besides your own seems to achieve that which is just out of reach, only exacerbating the dark maw you are desperately attempting to save yourself from. It is a person of strong conviction who can sincerely claim complete happiness for others and not succumb to bitter jealousy. It is all part of the human condition, after all.

  Humanity is flawed, and I was not immune to it. This person I was, Jane Doe—no, Jane Eyre—was not perfect, nor did I claim to be. I had wronged just as I had been wronged. To claim otherwise would be dishonest.

  The train I was riding on came to a gentle stop, and the doors swished open. Raising my head, I eased out of the seat that had borne me from the village directly uphill from Thornfield to central London. Other passengers filed off as I eased my duffel bag from the shelf above me, my shoulder and chest aching from the movement.

  Seeing that I was struggling, an elderly gentleman stopped beside me and reached up to assist. Placing my belongings on the seat, I thanked him, and he shuffled off the train with everyone else, none the wiser for what he’d done for me. The a small gesture of kindness almost brought me to tears after such a long journey. I’d been wracked with all sorts of pains—the physical pain of the wounds in my chest and the many emotional pains that constantly threatened to drown me. I was broken and alone, adrift in a world where I never seemed to belong.

  Stepping onto the platform, I wandered toward the ticket barrier, my heart heavy. My hand felt lighter without the ring upon it, and I wasn’t sure what had become of the jewel. I hadn’t seen it since I was set upon. It was of little consequence when I had no direction.

  What was I to do? Where could I go? Those questions taunted me as I exited the platform and entered the railway concourse. I could go left, descend into the Tube, and climb onto a suburban underground train, or I could turn right, go out onto the street, and alight wherever my feet took me. Anywhere was a daunting prospect, and I was at a loss.

  Holding my bag in my hand, my fingers started to go numb, my shoulder and chest aching. I wondered if the scars would ever heal, both figuratively and physically. The mad ex-wife of the man I loved—the same woman he’d hidden in the eaves of Thornfield and had kept secret—had stabbed me, and it was a terrible shock. I knew Edward had secrets, but this… It still pained me to think I’d been so grievously harmed.

  My gaze followed the vast swath of commuters walking in every direction imaginable with fascination. They were all determined to get to their destinations, and I was jealous they had someplace to go. It didn’t matter if it was work, school, errands, or holidays. They had a purpose. A reason to live. I was lost.

  The bright yellow facade of a sandwich shop pulled my attention, and as my stomach rumbled, I cut across the flow of commuters and purchased a baguette laden with cheese, ham, and salad. I sat on a bench, my bag at my feet, and ate half, putting the rest aside for later. What was I to do now?

  I remained for another twenty minutes, watching the world go by, racking my exhausted brain for what I should do. Obviously, I should consult my own holdings, withdraw some cash, then travel to one of my newly acquired properties, and begin anew there, but I found myself hesitating. Edward was a man of considerable wealth and power. If he searched for me, it was only a matter of time before he learned I was not Jane Doe but Jane Eyre, and that would lead him directly to me. I could not turn to my cousin Georgiana at Gateshead, for he knew of her, also.

  Reader, it might seem strange to you that I did not want to be found or draw on my fortune, but I didn’t know how to use the funds to hide myself away. It was an alien concept to me, for I’d always had nothing, and there’d been no need to learn of bribes, false identities, and the comings and goings of secret people. I’d never had to hide myself away. I was too afraid to claim what was rightfully mine, so I labored to think of where I could go with only fifty pounds in my pocket.

  All my friends were back at Thornfield…apart from one. My heart began to beat wildly as I realized I might have aid where I least expected it. I had an invitation, but would I be welcomed unannounced? And would Edward think to look for me there? I knew my money would not last through tomorrow,‬ so I had no other option but to take a chance. ‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬

  Taking out the mobile phone Georgiana had helped me pick out months ago, I searched for the address of John Rivers’s art studio. Luckily, it turned out he had a prominent Internet presence, and I was able to find its location in Shoreditch. Outside the train station, there was a bus that took me most of the way there, and I was left to walk a few blocks.

  Unfamiliar with this part of London and having acclimatized to the sleepy ways of the country, I was soon confused, not knowing which direction corresponded with the map on my mobile phone.

  I stood on the street corner, looking to and fro, not sure which way I was supposed to go. No other soul lingered near me, and I began to fidget, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to myself lest my confusion was taken advantage of. What would people think when they saw a tired looking young woman hovering by a sign post at a back alley looking lost and forlorn? I might be questioned, or I might be ignored. It was hard to tell.

  I began to fancy the walls around me had eyes, so I hastened on, moving in the direction I thought I was meant to go.

  Soon, I realized the numbers on the passing doors were increasing, and I was at last on the right track. Venturing over another crossroads, I came upon the entrance to Rivers’s art studio.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect, but an industrial garage sat at the address, and not many businesses sat around it. It was the rear of the shops on the high street, and a variety of doors, skip bins, and driveways were present. Hardly a refined art gallery, but I suppose he merely worked there, not showed his paintings to rich buyers.

  The roller door was open, letting in the afternoon light. Music filtered out of the space along with the chemical scent of paint and turpentine. Lingering on the footpath, my eyes discerned spots of color all over the concrete floor and even where it had flowed outside onto the street. Within was a cavern of canvas, drop sheets, rickety old cupboards, and metal lockers all dashed with splashes of color. The walls were adorned with a variety of posters, sketches, and an assortment of works in progress.

  Once, I would have put my head down and kept walking, thinking my arrival foolish, but I was no longer plain Jane Doe. My experiences at Thornfield had changed me irrevocably, and I was no longer afraid of what others thought of me. Let them have their judgments, for I could not change them if their minds were set.

  Curiosity drew me in, and I stepped across the threshold.

  “Hello?” I called out, not seeing anyone at first. There were definite
signs that life was here, but Rivers was absent.

  Moving further within, I called out again, “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  A crash echoed from further within the maze of easels and assorted surfaces, and then the music was turned down. A moment later, Rivers appeared through the chaos, and I was flooded with such a sense of relief at the sight of a familiar face I almost crumpled to the floor.

  He looked just the same to me as when I saw him six months ago at Thornfield. His dark hair was a little longer at the front though just as unruly, and his state of dress was just as bohemian. He wore a pair of black jeans spotted with paint, his feet were in a pair of sloppy leather combat boots, and a fitted, washed-out black ribbed jumper completed his ensemble. A long piece of black leather wove around his neck and disappeared under his clothes—whatever was hanging on it hidden from view—and a rather hipster trilby hat sat upon his head. I saw the edges of a tattoo peeking out from beneath his collar and supposed he must’ve gotten that rather recently because I hadn’t noticed it before.

  When he saw me, his expression lit up like a Christmas tree, and I began to hope I’d made the right decision coming here.

  “Jane!” he exclaimed, opening his arms in greeting. “What a surprise!”

  “Hello,” I said as he stood before me. “I hope you don’t mind me showing up like this.”

  “Not at all. It’s been a while…a rather long while. What brings you to London?”

  “It’s a complicated story,” I replied, wishing I’d thought of a tale to tell him before I’d arrived.

  There were some things best left alone for the good of all involved, and the circumstances I’d left behind were one of them. It was not my place to tell the world of Edward’s shame, and it would not make me a better person, nor would it soothe my broken heart. Spreading it around London would not serve any purpose other than to humiliate, and it was not in my conscience to do so. I would remain silent.