Euphoria (The Thornfield Affair #1)

by Amity Cross

  The front rooms Alice showed me through were quite grand. Their windows overlooked the best parts of the grounds and were very accessible to the dining room and bar downstairs. Some of the third story rooms, though a little darker with slightly lower ceilings, were almost as fine as their predecessors. The linens, carpets, and furnishings were a little tired and could do with some tender loving care, but they were not as bad as I was led to believe. Perhaps a man or woman skilled in furniture restoration could be called in to assess repairs on the older pieces, which looked to be worth quite a bit of money.

  The bed frames looked to be made of an assortment of oak and walnut, the furnishings much the same. Leather and velvet chaise lounges were placed where there was room, paired with low tables of matching style. Along with the usual amenities found in hotels, the rooms had everything their guests would require for a comfortable stay.

  Finally, Alice led me to the topmost floor and told me it had been used as servants’ quarters in Victorian times when the manor was inhabited by an earlier generation of the Rochester family. They were small and dark, the floor uncarpeted apart from plain rugs, and the windows mere slits on the walls. Mostly, the rooms looked like they were used more for storage than for sleep. An antiquity or a page out of history, perhaps.

  “No one sleeps up here,” Alice explained. “The rooms are too old for guests and the staff think it’s haunted.”

  “Is it?” I inquired. “The house is quite old, so maybe there has been a sighting or two over the years.”

  “None that I know of. It’s cold up here, and the chill tends to make one feel as if spirits walk among us even if they don’t.”

  I had to agree with her on that.

  “You must come up and see the view from the leads,” Alice declared, tired of pondering ghosts, which may or may not walk the halls.

  “Leads?”

  She took my hand and pulled me toward the end of the hall. “Yes! We can walk out onto the roof and do a lap of the entire hotel. You can see for miles and miles up there. It’s quite a sight.”

  “Is there a path?” I asked as she let me go and pulled down a trapdoor, revealing a ladder that disappeared into the attic.

  “Yes, that’s what I mean by leads. There’s a rail you can hold so you won’t fall, but watch your feet.”

  I followed her upward again, then through another hatch in the roof, and we emerged from the darkness into the light. I was quite sure I gasped as I beheld the view beyond. Alice was right. It was a sight.

  Leaning over the battlement, I looked out over the land surrounding Thornfield and realized how small we were compared to the moor. It stretched farther than I had seen on my way here and even farther than the view from my bedroom window that morning.

  My eye moved closer to home, taking in the lawn, which looked like it had been covered with green velvet from this height, then to the field with its wild forest, and the winding path that the road took from the hotel all the way up to the village. The sky had cleared some, blue against the haze of the horizon, and I could see the smoke coming from the chimney stacks.

  When I’d taken my fill, I climbed back down into the attic, and I could hardly see where I was going. The brightness of the day had made the darkness within even more profound than it had been before I emerged.

  Alice stayed behind to fasten the trapdoor, and I moved back into the top floor, the one inhabited by ghosts of servants long past.

  Having lost my way already, I waited patiently below for my guide, my boots treading softly on the boards. I was here but silent, so I could fancy myself a spirit as well if I stood still enough.

  I was studying the lines of an old landscape painting when the sound of laughter cut through the still air. It was a curious sound, quite distinct and mirthless. I stopped, listening as it faded into silence. The sound came again, this time, louder but still at the edges of my hearing. It came from the same floor on which I stood, and I became curious to its origin. Alice had said this part of the house was unoccupied.

  Peering out into the hall, I found it empty, the rooms we’d walked through devoid of life. Perhaps it was a ghost? At this thought, a shiver went down my spine, and the air became close, like a thousand pairs of eyes were fixed upon me.

  The laugh sounded again, a madness clinging to its edges, and I called out for Alice.

  “Alice! Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” she asked, appearing at the door. Dusting off her hands, she glanced up and down the hall.

  “Laughter,” I said, feeling an odd chill creep into my bones.

  “It could be Grace and Harry,” she said, glancing up and down the hall. “They’re forever sneaking off for a quickie. I wouldn’t put it past them to come up here for a little action.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the thought of overhearing strangers having sex in an old musty room and hastened down the hall. Alice followed without so much as a word, and I had no trouble finding my way back downstairs to the main gallery.

  I was given a turn around the yard, and then we retired to the office where I set about putting together my first proposal for the mysterious Mr. Rochester. There was a lot of work to do and no time to waste.

  I ate dinner with the kitchen staff that night.

  They were a lively bunch of people, and I had a great time, but all too soon, my energy was depleted, and I found myself wandering the halls, inspecting every little treasure I found along the way.

  That was how I found the library.

  Easing the door open, I ventured into the darkness, my hand fumbling along the wall for a light switch. When I found it, I flicked it on, and the room was illuminated all at once. I gasped as the depth of the space was revealed to me.

  Shelves of books lined each wall, from floor to ceiling on rows of fine chestnut wood, their spines bound in leather and stamped with gold gilt. Most were locked up behind glass doors, protecting them from the sticky fingers of hotel guests, but one shelf remained open. As I walked the rows, my gaze was drawn to that which I could not touch, the leather bound tomes taunting me from their protected placement.

  As my gaze skimmed each title, I wondered why Alice hadn’t shown me this place. The further I explored, the more I fancied I was trespassing, and my skin began to tingle with a rare excitement. There was something thrilling being in a place where one was not welcome, hidden in plain sight.

  At the far end of the room were a grand piano, a long leather couch, and a pair of globes of Earth that looked to be antique. When I ran my fingertips across their surfaces, I found their pictures of the world to be quite outdated.

  Heavy red curtains framed the large windows, the rich light of the fading sun filtering through the gaps and shimmering across the carpet. It was a picture of tranquility, and I found myself enthralled as I picked a book from the shelves that were open to me.

  Settling onto one of the window seats, I drew the curtain shut, enclosing myself in the space that had become my own private reading room. It was cozy, the vent below the seat blowing warm air from the boiler in the basement, and the window beside me gave a pleasant view of the rear gardens and moors beyond as the sun dipped below the horizon.

  Thankful I had found something familiar, I allowed myself to fall into the story on the pages before me. When I was a girl, pages such as these kept me from falling into a deep despair, first under the wrath of my aunt Sarah, and then the hardships endured at Lowood. Imagination, it seemed, may be my savior yet again.

  It had become apparent to me quite quickly that life at Thornfield was to be a quiet affair, with little to occupy oneself outside the operations of the hotel, and I wasn’t sure how to handle it yet. Though I liked to be alone, the comings and goings of the world had kept my mind sharp and engaged, and the odd affair with a handsome man had kept my body satisfied.

  Thornfield didn’t seem to contain much of those things at all.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of the place given my short tour and single morning under its roo
f. The old house seemed to be full of secrets and whispers hidden by the ages, and I was sure the darkened corners of Thornfield would reveal themselves to the light soon enough.

  I just had to give the old girl a little time.

  * * *

  And here, on the road to the manor ensnarled by rose thorns, I was almost mown down by the black stallion, the motorcycle of the man with the stormy eyes and mean temper.

  5

  I didn’t like reentering Thornfield.

  My escape to the local pub did nothing to rouse me from my stupor, nor did it excite my mind. My return to the hotel was to embrace the dreary loneliness from which I wanted to free myself, yet I had no other place to go. My little room and its perfectly adequate bed awaited me though it was only ten p.m. Hardly time for a young woman to turn in.

  After such a nomadic life moving from place to place and only having as much money as I was paid the week before, the sedentary lifestyle with a regular amount of savings should’ve placated me, but it didn’t. I’d longed for calm among the storm I was used to, and now that I had it, I found it didn’t suit me at all.

  I lingered on the lane, slowing my pace as the lights of Thornfield approached. I took my time at the gate, dawdled in the yard, and slowed outside the main entrance. My eyes seemed to be drawn from the gloomy old house to the world beyond, even though it was dark and full of dangers of its own.

  The moon had ascended into the sky, casting a silver hue over the grounds, and everything sparkled under her light. It was a kind of magic that was just out of my reach. I could feel it all around, yet I was apart from it, and once I crossed the threshold of Thornfield, it would dissipate until it was no more.

  I did not want to go inside, yet coldness bade me to enter.

  “Jane!” Alice exclaimed the moment I opened the heavy door. She was frayed at the edges, her usually cheerful exterior frazzled. “Where have you been?”

  “I went to the village,” I replied, shutting out the night and turning to the electric glow of the main gallery. “What’s the matter?”

  “He’s back!” she exclaimed, darting to and fro without any discernible reason.

  “Who?”

  “Rocky!” she cried, then covered her mouth with her hand. “I mean, Mr. Rochester. He’s having dinner in his rooms. I need a dessert… Fruit and cream. No, cake! He likes the chef’s cake!”

  “Mr. Rochester? Back from where?” I inquired, following her through the gallery to the kitchen.

  “Europe, of course!” she exclaimed, directing the chef to prepare a dessert for their master.

  Of course! I refrained from rolling my eyes. Instead, I inquired as to what I could do to assist.

  “No, no,” she said. “It’s all under control. No doubt, he’ll want to see you tomorrow.”

  No doubt. I’d sent him my proposal for the artist’s retreat a month ago and had yet to hear a reply. I had tried not to take it to heart, but I was proud of what I’d put together. Every piece had been carefully constructed to show exactly how much revenue it would raise for the failing hotel. There was merit in my sums. I was sure of it.

  “Then if you don’t need me, I’ll turn in for the night,” I said.

  Alice waved me off, so I retreated to the main gallery. Instead of rising to the second floor and the employee lodgings beyond in the east end of the manor, I turned to the west wing, far too awake to even comprehend sleep. By all means, I should be exhausted from my turn to the village, but my mind was alive with all kinds of musings—Mr. Rochester returning as if he’d been spirited in by supernatural means, and the man on the motorcycle causing my blood to pump more furiously. Sleep was beyond me.

  The only thing that seemed to soothe me when I found myself in such a passionate mood was reading a little until my mind would calm itself into a lull. Thornfield’s library had become my refuge, and as no one seemed to pay it a visit, I pretended it was all mine. It was merely a silly fantasy, but I’d never had such a grand space feel comforting before.

  Upon entering the room, the air felt different from what I was used to. At first, I thought it was because the chilled corners of Thornfield were alive for a change, but as I crossed the room, I saw one of the glass doors, which housed one of the many shelves off limits to me, was open.

  Standing before it, I stared at the books, uncertain as to how to proceed. Another excitement! What was I to do with this one?

  Running my fingers along the spines, I felt a thrill roll through my body. The forbidden was now obtainable but at what cost? Who had opened the doors that had always been closed to me? Surely not Mr. Rochester? He was in his rooms having dinner. He was the only change to happen to Thornfield since I arrived, so it must be he who had the key.

  I was alone for the moment, no sound echoed outside or within the library, so I picked a tome that appeared beautiful to my eyes and plucked it from the shelf.

  Opening the cover, I glanced over the title page—Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austin.

  “Who are you?”

  I shrank back at the booming voice, startled by the ferocity of it, and almost dropped the book on the floor. Turning, I saw a man standing several paces behind me, and my heart leapt at how close he’d come without alerting me to his presence.

  He was tall and broad shouldered, his slate gray sweater clinging to his chest, dark jeans hanging from his hips just so…and his face. It was nothing like I’d ever seen. His jaw was sharp and covered in stubble, his brow creased with a deep-set scowl, and his eyes matched, making his features a perfect set of arrogance and temper.

  His stature was so imposing I could scarcely look at him for seconds at a time without lowering my gaze under his intensity. The man was a predatory figure, indeed.

  “I’m sorry, am I not meant to be in here?” I asked, glancing at the book in my hands like I was a child who’d been caught stealing sweets.

  “Who are you?” he asked again, this time with more authority.

  “I’m Jane Doe,” I declared, jutting my chin out.

  The man’s nose wrinkled. “Jane Doe? What kind of name is that?”

  I clutched the book against my chest, affronted by his lack of sensitivity. “You might think it is strange, sir, but it is the only name I’ve ever had.”

  “What kind of beast gives a girl a name like that?”

  My gaze dropped, disappointed he thought me nothing but a silly girl. I was a woman, and this was the twenty-first century. The world had turned a million times, and yet here in this backwater wild country, the laws of time and space—and progress—had ceased to exist.

  Gathering my nerves, my gaze pierced his, and I said, “I had no name as a child, and that is what they called me.”

  “They?” the man asked, taking a deliberate step forward. “And who are these mysterious ‘they’ who lack so much imagination?”

  “The state,” I said simply. It was my tale of woe, just the same as all the other orphans and wayward souls who inhabited the world.

  Then as if he recognized a familiar face, he grabbed my arm and pulled me to the light so he could see me clearly.

  “You are the woman from the road,” he stated, his nostrils flaring.

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I was caught in his web, unable to move to save myself. The man from the road!

  “You made me fall from my bike,” he went on, looking me over.

  “I did not!” I exclaimed, finally gathering my wits and pulling out of his iron grip. “The back wheel slipped on the ice.”

  He ignored me, going on as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “You look different in the light.”

  I scowled, looking him over as bluntly as he had me on the road. “So do you.”

  “Just as defiant,” he mused, and I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to me or merely voicing his private thoughts. “You have a keen mind, I think. Your eyes say more than your words.”

  “I’m not a puzzle, sir,” I said stubbornly. “If you have a question, ask it, and I will a
nswer if it pleases me.”

  “I have many questions for you, Jane Doe,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue like a rich dessert. “And I shall ask them in due course.”

  So he was to stay a while at the hotel. Too shocked at the course of our conversation, I didn’t dare consider the ramifications. I’d wanted excitement and action when I left Thornfield to venture up to the village for a drink, and I’d gotten exactly what I wished for and more.

  That was the trouble with whimsy. The wanting was more powerful than the achievement itself.

  Staring at him now, I couldn’t decide whether I found him handsome or terrifying. My body trembled under the weight of his gaze, but I couldn’t discern if it was pleasurable.

  If his attitude was anything to go by, he seemed to see me as a thorn in his side. I’d been likened to one of the choking brambles encasing the west wing of the manor, and he did not even stop to inquire who I was underneath the surface. Despite how handsome the man appeared, now he was free of his leather jacket and motorcycle, his disposition left a lot to be desired.

  When I didn’t move, the man glowered. “It’s late, is it not?”

  Eyebrows raised, I backed away, circling him until the door was at my back. He seemed to want to be alone, much like I had, so I nodded. My secret oasis was now compromised.

  “Yes,” I said, gathering myself. “You’re right. Goodnight, sir.”

  I fled, my boots thumping on the carpet as I strode down the hall away from the man and the library. Now that I was torn from his presence, a weight seemed to have lifted from on top of my chest, and I could breathe again, my eyes pulling away from the floor and to the world around me with renewed confidence.

  How a man I’d only spoken a few words to could make me feel so small with a simple glance was beyond comprehension. The farther my legs carried me from him, the more I realized there was nothing simple about him. Whoever he was, darkness lurked inside, twisting and pulling, shaping his outward appearance without restraint.