Zenith (The Thornfield Affair Book 3)

by Amity Cross

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Jane! It’s this gloomy house,” Georgiana said, beginning to grovel. “The man did seem desperate to contact you, though he did not say what it was in regards to. Perhaps he found some information about your family?”

  “Perhaps,” I replied, thankful our argument had seemed to be defused for now. “I had asked him to assist me in the matter.” Yet another lie slipped from my tongue, causing a knot of guilt to form in the pit of my stomach. It was becoming easier by the day to spin an untrue tale, and my hole was deepening, and the walls hardening to stone.

  “Do you think you could come and visit soon?” she asked tentatively.

  “I’m not sure,” I replied hesitantly. “I’m not entirely set on what I will do next. I’m working at a pub to earn some money at the moment.”

  “A pub?” I could hear the distaste in her voice.

  “It’s honest work and they pay well enough.”

  “No doubt. Come when you are able,” she said. “I would genuinely love to see you again.”

  I assured her I would do what I could, and with a promise to check my messages more often, I ended the call and pondered everything she had just told me.

  What did Mr. Briggs have to speak to me about that was so urgent?

  I assumed it was to do with my circumstances at Thornfield. When I had not accessed my money or displayed interest in my holdings, Mr. Briggs would have gone to the hotel searching for me and had most likely found Alice, who would have told him much of my situation. I wondered if Edward had been in residence and if so, what had been discussed with him.

  Realizing I could never be rid of the memory of the brooding man I’d fallen in love with, I knew I had to face my future sooner or later. With this in mind, my plans to search for new lodgings were forgotten, and I made a call to Mr. Briggs at his office in central London. When he was not available, I made an appointment with his secretary.

  Perhaps he could help me where I could not help myself.

  I went to see Mr. Briggs at his office in Bloomsbury the next morning.

  The offices of Briggs, Farnham, and Associates sat in a grand office space in a converted row house overlooking Bloomsbury Square, a mere two minute walk from the famous British Museum. The oak paneled walls were adorned with traditional paintings—varying from portraits of lawyers and judges past to rolling landscapes, all in gilded frames—and the carpet was a rich emerald green.

  When I entered and made myself known to the woman at the reception desk, I installed myself on the leather couch opposite and waited.

  After I’d spoken to Georgiana and made the appointment for today, I’d spent all night worrying about what this could all be about. My sleep was restless as my mind churned, pulling all sorts of fabrications and scenarios out of thin air.

  I fancied Edward had come looking and found me huddled in Rivers’s spare bedroom, his anger absolute. When he’d heard of the painter’s attentions during the retreat, he’d displayed unmasked jealousy toward the bohemian, signaling he would not allow any other to whisk me away. At least not when he was so invested.

  Sighing, I pushed my overripe thoughts to the back of my mind and decided it could not be all that bad, and if it was, then I would just have to deal with it. There would be no other choice.

  Mr. Briggs didn’t keep me waiting, coming to greet me in person. It had been some months since I’d seen him, though he looked exactly the same in his suit and tie. His salt and pepper hair was a little longer and perhaps a little more saltier, but he was a familiar sight.

  “Miss Eyre,” he said, ushering me forward. “It’s a pleasure to see you. Thank you for seeking me out.”

  “Of course.” I rose to my feet and shook his hand before following him down the hall to his private office.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  I sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk, perching gingerly on the edge as my eye took in the room.

  “I called to see how you were faring, but when I could not get in touch with you, I began to worry,” he explained, closing the door behind him. “The only contact information I had on record was Thornfield and your cousin at Gateshead. No one seemed to know where you had disappeared to.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Briggs,” I said, ashamed I’d worried the man who had only watched out for me thus far. “My circumstances changed quite rapidly.”

  “More than finding out about your inheritance?” he asked with a smile as he sat behind his desk.

  My lips quirked with a ghost of a smile, and I nodded.

  I knew there was much more to his question than a simple ‘how are you’ as I watched him begin to fiddle restlessly with his pen. Nausea began to roll in my stomach, and my chest throbbed, the scars from my stab wounds flaring like a pair of alarm bells.

  Finally, he asked, “What is your relationship with Edward Rochester?”

  “My relationship?” I asked, surprised at his line of questioning. “Mr. Briggs, I don’t understand why you would ask.”

  “You know of my promise to your uncle, Jane,” he said. “I merely wish to keep an eye on you and make sure you are faring well. There is nothing sinister happening, I assure you. Do you understand the Rochester’s have a terrible family history and a reputation to match?”

  I nodded. “I am well aware, Mr. Briggs.”

  “When I couldn’t get in touch with you, I went to Thornfield,” he explained.

  My hands began to tremble, and I slid them underneath my legs to keep them still.

  “You can trust me Jane,” he said with a frown. “If you are in some sort of trouble, you can come to me.”

  The weight of the betrayal I’d been carrying was becoming too much to bear on my own. I had no one else who knew my true identity and the fortune it bore, nor anyone who knew of my true heartache.

  “I was in a relationship with Edward Rochester, it is true,” I said haltingly. “I was lied to, manipulated, hurt, and almost tricked into marriage under false pretenses.” Mr. Briggs listened, his expression stoic as he took this revelation in. “Edward has played with my emotions again and again, attempting to cover his half-truths with declarations of love,” I continued. “I cannot allow him to pull me under again. I know I have done wrong, and I am doing wrong still, but I didn’t know what else to do, so I removed myself from the situation.”

  “Miss Fairfax told me as much,” Mr. Briggs murmured. “She was quite concerned as to your health.”

  “Then I suppose she told you of the event which caused my sudden departure?”

  He nodded and pressed his finger over his heart, mirroring the same place Bertha had twice plunged the knife into my chest.

  “She told you of it all?”

  “Yes, she did, though it took some forcing out of her. I know of the madwoman, the failed wedding, and the cat and mouse games. How you were attacked not once but twice. All of it.”

  Sighing, I turned my gaze away, tired of the complicated chaos my little solitary life had been weathering ever since I dared to love Edward Rochester.

  “Then perhaps you can understand my position and why I wanted to disappear,” I said. “At least until I could calm myself and think about what to do.”

  I waited patiently to hear Mr. Briggs’s reply as he glanced out the window and studied the overcast sky beyond.

  “Now I understand why you have not accessed your funds until now,” he said when he was done processing my patchwork tale.

  “Edward is a cunning man,” I explained. “I did not wish to leave behind a trail, and I was unsure how to proceed, so I left the accounts alone. I’ve not had money before, so I didn’t miss it, not one bit.”

  “He seems to know you are in London.”

  My heart leapt into my throat. “How do you know? I only accessed my account two days ago.”

  “I must be honest with you, Jane,” he replied, straightening up his robust frame in his chair. “I wished to hear your account first before it was tainted by what I am about to tell you.”
>
  I surveyed him warily and told him to proceed.

  “I have spoken at length with Mr. Rochester, and I am aware of all the circumstances, though I have made it clear I am one hundred percent beholden to you and your wishes. I take the oath I gave to your uncle quite seriously. You have nothing to fear from me. You have a loyal ally.”

  “You have spoken to Edward?” I asked, my throat beginning to tighten.

  He nodded once. “I have.”

  I sighed, lowering my gaze. “And you have told him about my name and fortune?”

  “I was not aware you had kept it secret. He seemed quite surprised when it came out.” He moved in his chair, the leather creaking as his weight shifted, and rested his elbows on the desktop. “Why did you not tell anyone, Jane?”

  I shrugged, my emotions beginning to crack under the pressure of dealing with events I’d pushed aside. “I did not wish to be taken advantage of.”

  “Ah, I see,” Mr. Briggs murmured. “You wanted him to love you for who you were, not what you could provide.”

  I nodded, my gaze finding my lap and remaining there. “You must think me a fickle woman.”

  “Not at all,” he declared without hesitation. “One cannot be too careful in these times. I’ve seen it time and time again. Divorce, prenuptial agreements, messy court battles, and all of them over money. Love never mattered one way or another, only how the wealth would be divided when they inevitably called it quits. Though, it is wise to protect yourself.”

  I pondered his words carefully. Perhaps he was right.

  “I do not think myself so special that he would come looking for me,” I began, not knowing how exactly to ask after Edward’s intentions.

  “He’s a hard man to read, and I am a lawyer,” Mr. Briggs said. “I couldn’t be certain, but he seemed quite interested in your well-being.”

  “That may be so, but I am still wary of his intentions.”

  He considered this for a moment, his poker face remaining intact, then nodded. “Tell me what you would like to do, Jane, and I will do my best to help you.”

  “I do not wish to see Edward. Not yet,” I said, attempting to keep my resolve pieced together. “I am staying with a friend for the time being. I have some money, and I’m doing some work to keep myself occupied. For now, I’m quite all right. I’m attempting to find my feet after such an upheaval. When I am ready, I will decide what to do next. I am quite sure I would like to do some good with the money—perhaps some charity work—so I will need assistance in the future.”

  Mr. Briggs nodded, but he did not try to convince me to take another course of action. A true impartial gentleman.

  “Then when you need assistance, please do not hesitate to call upon me,” he said kindly. “I know many upstanding people who would be up to the task of assisting with your charity aspirations.” Fishing around in his desk drawer, he offered me a card he found within. “Call me anytime, Jane. No matter the hour.”

  Taking the proffered card, I stared at the phone number listed and felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Some of the burdens on my shoulders had been lifted. The mere act of confiding in another human being halving a problem I did not know how to handle.

  “Thank you, Mr. Briggs,” I said, tears misting my downcast eyes. “Thank you, with all my heart.”

  7

  That very evening, I returned to the studio with my convictions stronger than ever.

  Mr. Briggs did not have to say it, nor did he have to understand—I knew Edward was searching for me. Soon enough, his feet would bring him to this very spot, his heart wild with wrath knowing I’d turned to Rivers, the man he’d so blatantly warned me about, for assistance.

  Lingering in the studio, I stood before the latest of Rivers’s paintings. It was a large landscape, just like all the others, but this one was different. Where the others were bright, this was dark, the canvas mostly black with various grays giving life to the vista of the moors. Flecks of metallic gold and silver wove through some of the brushstrokes, giving depth to an otherwise bleak image. It had an air of melancholy about it that was unsettling. Perhaps this painting echoed his mood, and I hated to think what it could mean.

  It reminded me of a certain brooding gentleman, the storm that twisted his very being brought to life on canvas. Had Rivers’s painted a representation of Edward? I doubted it, but it was quite accurate if it was.

  My thoughts went back to my current circumstance, and I shivered. Edward would come eventually, but by then, I would be gone. I was not ready to face him.

  “Jane.”

  I turned to find Rivers watching me from across the studio, and I wondered how long he’d been there. Perhaps he’d read my thoughts precisely, for I’d done nothing to mask them since I’d thought I was alone.

  “Do you like it?” he asked, nodding at the painting beside me.

  Turning my gaze upon it, I studied the colors as they blended through the next, and stilled as Rivers claimed the space to my right.

  “It’s very fine,” I replied. “The colors you have chosen make it stand out from the others. It reminds me of black marble in a way, or perhaps a dark emotion of some kind.”

  “Your eye is becoming sharper for art,” he said, sounding pleased.

  “I have had a patient teacher.”

  He laughed softly and allowed the silence to open between us.

  “Jane,” he said after a moment. “Would you reconsider sitting for me? I would love to paint you more than words can express.”

  “I don’t know…” My shoulders tensed, and I wrapped my arms around my stomach.

  “There is nothing untoward about it,” he went on, attempting to put me at ease. “The collection is nothing without its crowning piece.”

  “You once told me you had a way with painting your subjects,” I said. “That you can uncover their true personalities through your work.”

  “That is true,” he replied. “Have you something you wish to remain hidden?” He asked it in jest, but he could not have been any more correct in his assumption. “Please, Jane. I am desperate!”

  My resolve cracked, and I smiled at his playful tone. Perhaps it would not be too much of a scandal if I allowed him to paint me.

  “How would you paint me?” I asked, toying with the notion.

  Rivers smiled brightly and turned to face me completely. “Your skin and flesh as you are, beautiful, naked…glowing.”

  I swallowed hard, my eyebrows raising in shock. “Naked? I…”

  “As I said, nothing untoward, Jane.”

  I glanced away, trembling. Sitting for a painting was one thing, but to be naked under John Rivers’s eyes and immortalized on canvas? It was too exposing and far too much for my closed personality to bear. I could not.

  “If this is to be about Thornfield, then you must remember what you said to me about being an iceberg,” I taunted, attempting to convince him I must remain clothed. “Some mystery should remain, don’t you think?”

  He considered this, then nodded. “You are right. However, I must make an admission.”

  “Which is?”

  “Thornfield is part of it, yes, but each painting represents an emotion or quality I saw in you, Jane. That is why I would like to paint your portrait. Each canvas is part of the iceberg, and you…” He turned to me with a smile. “I need the tip of the monolith, the jewel in the crown, the muse herself to complete the circle. The iceberg and all her hidden parts.”

  “If what you say is true, then all my hidden parts are within the landscapes. Wouldn’t the portrait be of the tip of the iceberg, the outside and the part of me that is showing to the world?”

  Rivers tilted his head to the side, his lips curving into a knowing smile. He looked at me with such admiration that I felt a tremor pass through me.

  Finally, he said, “Wait here a moment.” Then he bounded up the stairs before disappearing into the apartment.

  I stood in the center of the studio, wondering what he was up to. If I was t
o avoid this situation, now was the time to slip away, but I found myself hesitating. I was tired of being alone and constantly downtrodden. The kindness and attention Rivers was showing made me feel special in a world where I’d never been anyone. I knew I shouldn’t encourage him, but I found myself wanting to bask under the gaze of someone’s affection.

  The upstairs door opened, and my chance evaporated. Rivers returned, holding a black button-up shirt and offered it to me.

  “Nothing but the shirt,” he said gently.

  “You wish to paint me now?”

  He nodded, his eyes sparkling.

  Holding the material against my chest, I nodded and stepped behind one of the sheets that hung from the ceiling. He could not see me here, and as I changed out of my clothes and donned the oversized shirt, I could hear him moving about the studio, collecting the materials he’d need to begin the portrait.

  When I emerged, his eyes widened, but it was the only indication of attraction he gave. He did not comment, nor did he act upon it, he only waited for me to begin my approach.

  “Here,” he said, guiding me to the couch at the far end of the studio. “Sit here to one side.”

  I did as he instructed, watching as he shifted his stool and easel into place. Then he turned to consider my position, checking if it would make a good composition.

  “Set your legs onto the couch,” he commanded, and I did as he bade, keeping my knees bent. “Stretch your right leg out a little more, and bring your left up slightly. Good… Allow your right hand to lay softly against the couch. Yes… Place your left hand on your lap.”

  His gaze raked over my body, making me uncomfortable. He looked at me in such a manner it felt as if I had no clothes on at all, and truthfully, I was in next to nothing. What had I gotten myself into?

  “Something is missing,” he went on, tilting his head to the side.

  I did not know how to answer him, so I remained silent and waited for his verdict. Perhaps I was not the best subject for his portrait after all.