by Amity Cross
“We must toast your success,” he declared, picking up his beer and holding it aloft. “To Jane and living the life of adventure…now with added finance!”
Picking up my pint glass, I clinked it against his and drank as Adele watched me with renewed curiosity. No doubt, tomorrow I would be questioned thoroughly, and I should have my story in order. There was no need to worry these people with the circumstances of my arrival. Edward certainly did not want to physically harm me, but I still did not want a single thing to do with his emotional torment. The less I spoke of him, the faster his memory would fade, or at least, I hoped it would.
Settling by the bar, I sipped at my beer, listening to the sounds of the pub around me. I was a master of new beginnings and hoped this one would fare better than the last.
I went back to The Gossiping Shrew the next night and was immediately handed a cloth and a tray.
My first tasks were to bus tables, scrub clean glasses and dishes, and be on hand with the mop and bucket. I knew this was Mr. Gibbons’s way of testing my resolve, so I accepted without complaint. If I could handle the lowest of tasks without making a scene, then I would prove myself to be a good employee and worthy of keeping around.
Adele took me under her wing from the moment I stepped through the door. Her forthrightness was unsettling since I was such a private kind of person, and she had no trouble telling me what had brought her to the United Kingdom from her native Paris.
With all the flourishes she could manage, she told me of her mother’s life as a dancer in Montmartre and her moonlighting as an escort. She didn’t know who her father was—it was down to a fifty-fifty chance between a wealthy Italian businessman and a poor artist who sold his paintings to tourists in the shadow of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica—but it didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. To her, life was a romantic journey, no matter what she did. Her mother had neglected her in favor of the company of the rich men who kept her mama dressed in silks as Adele grew up, and when Adele was old enough, she ran away to find her own place in the world. Her current adventures had led her to work at this particular pub until she had enough money saved to journey again.
When she asked after my story, she was satisfied with the version of events I had told Rivers. She commiserated over my attack and immediately offered her services and experience in my own adventure. She was very outrageous, and her overexcitement tended to exhaust me, but I was glad for her friendship. Surely, if I had to weather my heartache alone in these first days, I would suffer greatly. Having a friend or two was a welcome comfort.
To my surprise, Rivers came in at six p.m. after he closed up his studio and spent most of the night drinking and keeping us company. I suspected he’d come to look out for me after the story of my stabbing and subsequent uprooting from Thornfield—and he’d expressed his deep concern the night I’d arrived—but he needn’t have worried himself. I was an expert in caring for my well-being. I was aware Adele watched him watching me and waited for her imminent words of warning.
The moment he vacated his stool and went to the bathroom, she accosted me.
“Have I done something wrong?” I asked as she pulled me into the back of the bar where we couldn’t be seen.
“Are you sure nothing is happening with you and Rivers?” she asked. “He is quite attentive.”
“He expressed interest when we first met,” I admitted. “But I let him down. I don’t like him romantically.”
“All men are the same,” she said with a concerned frown. “They come, they take, they leave. Rivers is an expert.”
“But I’m not interested in starting a romance,” I replied. “I needed a place to stay for a while, and he was kind enough to offer.”
Adele raised her eyebrows, signaling she wasn’t convinced. I didn’t know for sure if it was my motives or his that she had an issue with, but she didn’t explain.
“If you say it is so,” she declared. “Just make sure he doesn’t demand payment for services rendered. Men like him always attempt to sneak in a clause even when there is no contract.”
I nodded and turned back to the bar, continuing my cleaning duties.
“He loves a pretty woman, Jane, and I saw the way he was looking at you. In all the time I’ve known John Rivers, he has not helped anyone find employment.”
I paused, my brow furrowing.
“Just be careful,” Adele went on. “That is all I’m trying to say.”
“I’m not afraid of Rivers and his wandering eye,” I said, discarding the cloth into the sink. “I am not as meek as I may appear.”
If my abrupt comment offended Adele, she didn’t show it, she merely smiled. “I like you, Jane. You listen, you learn, and you seem very strong considering your ordeal.”
“You can see all of that after knowing me a few hours?”
“To get by in this world, you need to be able to discern motives,” she explained. “People lie, cheat, and will rob you blind if given half the chance, but I can see you already understand this. There is more to your story than meets the eye.” She smiled as I began to pale, wondering what I had done to give myself away. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, and I certainly won’t tell anyone I have a suspicion. I know a thing or two about secrets. All I want to say is be careful about who you tell them to.”
My heartbeat began to steady, but I was still uncertain about trusting Adele’s motives for approaching like this at all.
“In other words, do not tell Rivers?” I asked, neither confirming nor denying her accusation. I doubted her motives were dark—although, I didn’t really know her—and there was no way she could know of my fortune or Edward Rochester and his mad ex-wife.
Adele laughed and declared, “I knew my feeling about you was right, Jane. Tread lightly.”
Returning to the bar, I spotted Rivers. He’d returned to his stool while we were talking in the back, and he smiled when our gazes crossed. I’d already learned a hard lesson about trust, so Adele didn’t have to warn me so I could understand it.
My secrets would remain mine and mine alone. No matter what.
Beware the greed of humankind.
4
A fortnight passed, and I neither heard nor saw anything of Edward, so I began to relax.
The stab wounds in my chest worried me less and less until one day, the pain stopped altogether. The scars would remain for the rest of my life, but I was free of the burden of their reminder tickling my nerve endings every time I raised my arm.
I was now working three nights a week at The Gossiping Shrew alongside Adele and three other bartenders—Freddy, Guido, and Francesca—and my purse was beginning to fill once more. The work wasn’t particularly exciting, but the company made the time fly.
I spent my days off sleeping or wandering the streets around Rivers’s studio, getting to know the neighborhood. I wished to observe the works my housemate worked on all day long, but I was much too wary of provoking a renewed interest in his pursuit of romance. There needed to be a distance between us.
Still, curiosity won out over practical thinking, and the second Friday after my arrival, I lingered in the garage instead of going for my usual walk.
Rivers was absorbed in his current painting, and I observed closely, just as mesmerized as I had been the day I’d first seen him working in the grounds of Thornfield.
He hadn’t noticed me, so I edged closer, watching him dab his brush into the paint on his palette, then swish it across the canvas. The colors built, and the image solidified, and it mystified me how he knew what he was doing. It all seemed chaotic to me, the blending and the angles, but it was beautiful in its madness.
It appeared to be a landscape, but it wasn’t anything like the paintings that hung throughout Thornfield. This one was made up of a strange combination of white, blue, gray, and purple. It was a very modern interpretation of a traditional concept, and the style reminded me of a mixture of Monet and Picasso. I knew next to nothing about art save for
the few things Rivers had told me at the retreat, but I did know that Monet was an Impressionist.
“I was wondering when you would come down here,” he said, not turning from his painting.
“You were?” I asked hesitantly, moving to stand beside him.
“Of course. You showed a great deal of interest in the mechanics of painting when I was at Thornfield, and I assumed you’d want to see more.” He set down his brush and smiled at me.
“I’m not disturbing you, am I?”
“Not at all.” He nodded at the painting. “Do you recognize this vista?”
I glanced at the painting and knew it was a landscape of the moors surrounding Thornfield, but it was unrecognizable in the colors he’d chosen.
“You’re still painting the moors,” I said, loathe to speak the name of the hotel aloud.
“I am. Upon returning to the city, I set about constructing an entire series of works inspired by the landscape there.” He turned and pointed to the canvases set against the wall. “Six months’ worth of them, to be specific. I was a bit obsessive about it.”
Counting the paintings, I ended up with twelve—thirteen with the one he was working on—all in various sizes and variations on the same color scheme.
“There are so many,” I murmured, wanting to reach out and touch each one, but I curled my fingers into the sleeves of my top instead. “What are you going to do with them all? Sell them?”
Rivers nodded. “Sometimes, I merely list them on my website, and they sell quite well. Other times, I fancy a big showing at a gallery and allow the curators to have their bonuses. It really depends on my mood and how invested I am in the subject matter.”
“I can’t imagine it,” I said. “Not being beholden to an employer like you are. Your whims sound delightful to me, though I suppose it’s just another day to you.”
“Money is nice, Jane, it keeps the lights on and food on the table, but it is nothing compared to adoration.”
I laughed at his unashamed bragging. “So that is your wish? Not to be rich but to be remembered?”
Rivers studied me for a moment before saying, “That’s the ultimate goal, isn’t it? To create something so profound you’ll never be forgotten.”
It was a lovely notion, though I couldn’t think of a single thing I would be remembered for. Such a quiet life wouldn’t amount to a page—not even a passing mention—in the history of the human race.
“Are you working tonight?” Rivers asked, and when I shook my head, he smiled brightly. “Then let’s have an adventure. Tonight some of London’s most famous art galleries are open late, and I wish to take you to one.”
The thought sparked a flame of excitement within my aching heart. It was not a date or anything close to romance, but a man like Rivers thrived on experience, and he wanted to share some of it with me. After being looked over for most of my life, being thought of in this way, no matter how small it was, was a great gift in my eyes.
Edward had never taken me anywhere outside of Thornfield—other than that horrible morning at the church. Granted, there were not many places he could have shown me, but he’d never wanted to experience life like this. I would take a chance and go.
We departed the studio half an hour later, took a bus, and then rode the tube across London before finally alighting at a station named Pimlico. A short walk through the streets and along the Thames brought us to a grand building along the riverbanks.
Rivers guided me through the front doors, a look of excitement on his face.
“Welcome to the Tate Britain,” he said. “It houses the largest collection of British art in the country.”
“Have you ever had work hung in here?” I asked as my gaze drank in the cavernous entrance hall. I wondered how far it stretched up and back from our current standpoint.
Rivers laughed, the sound echoing through the foyer, causing some people to turn and search for the source of the sound.
“Goodness, no,” he said. “I am not famous enough, nor have I changed the world and its thinking substantially to deserve the honor of remembrance. See, even in art there is hierarchy. The trick is to not take it personally. Every piece that is hung in this building is subject to review, and each has its fault. It’s neither here nor there if my paintings are hung beside them. I have found my audience, and it is out there.” He pointed back to the doors we had just entered through. “Art is ever evolving and is not solely reserved for the walls of a gallery. It is found everywhere and in everything.”
“Much like beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I mused, turning back to the interior of the building.
“Exactly. Now,” he declared, threading his arm through mine. “Let me show you some of my favorite works. I’m sure you’ll be surprised.”
We wandered through each gallery, making a game of picking out our favorite piece in each room. The one that caught my eye over all others was a painting by the name of Ophelia by a man called Sir John Everett Millais. It was an image of a lady floating in a river surrounded by an emerald wilderness, and when Rivers explained to me that it was Ophelia from Shakespeare’s Hamlet in the moment before she drowns, it began to form a melancholy beauty about it.
We laughed at a painting titled Satan Smiting Job with Sore Boils, delighted at some of the modern offerings, and finally, Rivers positioned me in front of a grand triptych of paintings. A series of three images that were linked together by a common theme.
“These are some of my favorite paintings in the whole of the Tate Britain,” he explained. “John Martin was famous for his works depicting moments of apocalyptic upheaval. There are many references to the Bible, like Sodom and Gomorrah and Adam and Eve. Also events like the destruction of Pompeii, the fall of Babylon, and many others.”
The painting to the right looked like the world was on fire, and on closer inspection, there were anguished faces swirling into the darkness. The one in the center looked religious in nature with a host of heavenly bodies watching over a torn world and the desperate faces below them. Finally, the one to the left was a beautiful landscape with a shining sky—a paradise where no chaos touched.
“And what are they about?” I asked, wanting to hear his explanation rather than to read the plaque on the wall.
“This is called The Last Judgment,” Rivers explained. “It depicts the rapture as told in the book of Revelation in the New Testament of the Bible. The one on the right is The Great Day of His Wrath. The one in the middle is The Last Judgment and the one on the left is The Plains of Heaven.”
“It’s very depressing,” I mused, knowing a little about the end of the world. “To wipe the world clean in such a terrible way seems awful to me. To forget the past…”
I trailed off, wondering if Rivers had shown me this particular triptych to bring something out of me. My immediate past felt much like the subject of The Great Day of His Wrath. The feelings the painting conjured—upheaval, destruction, burning, agony—were all emotions that swirled deep within my soul. The images before me may signify the rapture of mankind, but the metaphor for my own life did not escape me. Was I being judged? I did wish to reside in a world much like the painting on the left. The Plains of Heaven.
“Jane?”
I glanced at Rivers and realized I’d been staring at the paintings with an odd look of anguish. I took a deep breath and turned away, embarrassed that he’d seen it.
“Were you really harmed how you said you were?” he murmured, keeping his voice low so we were not overheard in the hushed gallery.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I was.”
“Are you sure? You can tell me, Jane.”
Adele’s warning came back to me as clear as the night she’d spoken it. Be careful of his motives. I was caught between a man of stone and a man of intoxicating freedom, and I did not know which way to turn. I was grateful to Rivers for helping me these past weeks, but I could not allow him to trick me into a relationship I did not want.
“I am sure,” I said firmly
.
“Why did you really leave Thornfield?” he pressed, signaling he had never believed a single word I’d told him about my circumstance, and I was shocked at his blatant manipulation. “Was it Rochester?”
“Is that why you brought me here?” I asked, my ire rising. I did not escape the clutches of a master manipulator to be flung into the orbit of another! “If you wanted to throw all manner of accusations at me, then you did not have to bring me here and manipulate what you wanted to hear. It is a dreadful scheme you have laid.”
His eyes narrowed. “So there is no more to it?”
“No!”
“Then you must forgive me, Jane. I misjudged your reaction and did not think speaking so forthrightly would be received like this. It was my attempt to ease a confession out of you, a confession that I now see had already been given honestly when you arrived.”
I sighed and crossed my arms over my chest, attempting to subdue my annoyance. He did not realize how right he was, but it was not his business. Why should it matter? My secrets weren’t hurting anyone but myself…were they?
“I think I should leave,” I murmured.
“I humbly apologize, Jane,” Rivers declared, looking quite distraught. “Please, don’t leave on my account. I only worry about you. You seem much changed from those days at Thornfield, and I only wished to make sure you were not fretting unnecessarily.”
With words such as those, I could not remain angry with him despite his penchant for arrogance. He’d been kind, not pressuring me to move on from his spare bedroom, only asking for me to contribute to the household expenses when I was able. Surely, I could not be sour with his misstep forever as long as I was clear it was unwelcome?
“Allow me to escort you home,” he said hopefully. “Perhaps we can get some food and wine on the way. My treat, of course.”
“You do not need to placate me with pleasantries,” I said. “You have my forgiveness. How could I allow this irritation to carry on? It is not my hope to make you suffer.”
