by Amity Cross
It wasn’t until I returned to my room that I realized the forbidden book was still under my arm.
6
Mr. Rochester didn’t send for me straight away.
Perhaps it was his way of making me stew in my own juices while I waited for his axe to fall. All day, I wondered where I would go once I left Thornfield and where I would find work. It seemed a harsh change of mind from the previous day’s depression.
I’d wanted excitement, but ultimately, not to leave this place. For the first time in my twenty-seven years, I’d found real friends among the staff here, despite the quiet solitude the hotel exuded. My wandering soul had stilled and was floating calmly in the sea of existence.
Mr. Rochester’s stormy eyes haunted me the entire day, through the afternoon, and early evening. I’d been hoping he’d forgotten me when Alice informed me I’d been summoned to appear before the master. For that was how he’d conducted himself. He was absolute.
Alice guided me upstairs to the third floor and opened a door just past the library. Inside revealed a grand study, its decor matching that of the refuge I’d found next door. Well, a refuge that seemed to be mine no more.
A grand fireplace sat to one side, its hearth full with a roaring fire, and a leather couch and armchairs sat before it. Paintings and tapestries adorned the walls while rugs covered the floor. More bookshelves lined the other wall, and a large chestnut desk with a green leather top stood in the center of it all. Large windows with forest green curtains completed the picture of seventeenth century masculinity, and I felt entirely out of place.
Alice offered me a reassuring smile as she closed the door behind me, and I was left alone with the master.
Mr. Rochester sat half reclined on a couch, his foot supported by a footstool. He was looking at a folder of papers in his hands, the firelight shining full on his face, and my heart twisted at the sight if him. Not because he was young and handsome but because I’d seen his face before.
The man from the road and the library was Mr. Rochester! I knew him without a doubt, his broad shoulders, rough jaw, and harsh brow etched into my mind as clear and crisp as Waterford Crystal. Knowing how I’d argued with him without shame, I felt as if the ground would swallow me whole.
He must have been aware of my entrance, but his gaze didn’t move from the papers in his hands. Perhaps he was not in the mood for civilities knowing it was me who would stand at his feet. After all, he had summoned me by name.
Finally, he shifted his eyes to me, and they were full of a grimness that made me pale. Though I had lamented at the stagnation I’d found at Thornfield, I was not yet ready to move on.
“Come,” Mr. Rochester said, staring at me with his otherworldly eyes. “You look ill. Sit before you faint.”
I hadn’t noticed if he had a limp the night before, and my eye lingered on his ankle.
“Miss Doe,” he said, the command clear in his rough voice.
I lowered myself onto the armchair opposite, folding my hands into my lap. My eyes fell to the carpet, studying the pile with intensity. I would look anywhere but at Mr. Rochester.
“This is your work?” he asked, throwing the papers on the table.
Seeing it was a copy of my proposal for the artist retreat, I was offended at the callousness of his dismissal, but I didn’t show it. “Yes, sir.”
“You have a keen mind, Miss Doe?” He posed it as a question, and I hesitated. “Speak, Miss. You have a tongue in that head of yours. The viper lashed me without any hindrance last night, or were you possessed by some spirit which has hence departed?”
“I was not,” I declared, my gaze meeting his.
“There,” he said with a condescending smirk. “She has eyes.”
He remained silent, sitting as if he were a statue, and I was unsure if it was my turn to speak. The teachers at Lowood had drilled into my very soul that I was not to speak until directed to do so, and it was a habit that had lingered in my later years, so I remained tight lipped.
After an awkward amount of time, he finally deigned to ask me a question. “You have been at Thornfield for two months?”
“Yes.”
“And where did you come from?”
“Prior to Thornfield, I worked in various hotels, restaurants, and bars across the country.”
“Lowly work,” he said with distaste. “Where did you come from before that? Where were you educated?”
“I studied business by correspondence,” I explained, giving the man what he wished. “Before that, I was a student at Lowood.”
“Lowood? The reform school?” He said this with an air of surprise, for I hardly acted like I’d been a problem child, though I looked like one, and truthfully I hadn’t been as such. I was more a burden my aunt did not want to deal with, and Lowood was a cruelty she could bestow upon me in lieu of effort on her behalf.
“How long were you there?”
“Ten years.”
“Ten years.” He seemed aghast. “I can only imagine, but perhaps it explains a great deal about this.” He waved a hand at me, and I frowned, not wanting to be told a harsh truth about what I already knew.
“Don’t look so sour, Miss Doe,” Mr. Rochester went on. “When I almost ran you down on the road last night, I thought I’d come across some otherworldly being. You have a rigidness about you, but your face says there is more. Your eyes…” He snorted, turning his gaze to the fireplace.
What a curious man…
“And who were your parents?” he asked. “Where are they now?”
“They died when I was a baby,” I replied. “I have no family.”
“No brothers or sisters?”
“None.”
“Any family at all? Distant relatives?”
“Some but they don’t wish to know me, and I don’t wish to know them. They are family only by marriage. If I have any other living blood relation, I was never told.”
“Then who sent you to Lowood?” he asked. “Was it the state?”
“No, sir. My aunt sent me when I was eight years old.”
“Why?”
“Because she disliked me. I was forced upon her, and she held me in contempt.”
“And what did you do to deserve it?” he asked, looking me over with a keen eye. “You look the part.”
“The part of what? A degenerate?” I challenged him. “Outward appearance doesn’t always match the inner.”
He narrowed his eyes at my story, neither relaying compassion nor contempt. “With a name like Jane Doe…”
“A name means nothing,” I said simply. It was of no consequence where I came from, not to me. All that mattered was the path into the future.
Mr. Rochester didn’t like this revelation, and his disapproval was written all over his face. He had a very expressive way about him. Passionate and angry. I began to understand the things Alice had told me about him now that I had experienced some of it.
“Who were you waiting for on the road last night?” he asked, turning the conversation on its head.
He was very abrupt, and his changefulness threw me off balance. “Who would I wait for?”
“Your people,” he said. “Fairies, elves, or perhaps, thieves, and con artists. You laid a trap with your ice and woeful eyes.”
He was mad! “I have told you nothing but the truth, sir. I have no people. I’m alone.”
He leaned back on the couch and grunted. I assumed he had a little too much to drink, scattering his mind.
There was a knock at the door, and he called out for them to enter, his gaze never leaving mine.
Alice entered, carrying a tray with a crystal decanter full of brown liquor and a single glass to match.
“Who hired you?” he asked me as she set the tray down on the table beside my discarded proposal. “I suppose it was Alice.”
“Yes, I did,” Alice said as she began unloading the burden from the tray. “Jane has been a breath of fresh air around here. Her insights have been invaluable to the hotel.�
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“Did I ask you for your opinion?” he barked at the poor woman, and she almost dropped the decanter as she placed it on the table. “Don’t bother to give the girl a character. I can decide for myself.”
Alice glanced at me, her cheeks turning pink.
“I have Miss Doe to thank for this sprain,” he went on, gesturing to his ankle.
Her embarrassment turned to bewilderment. “Jane?”
“I didn’t think to mention it,” I said hastily. “I didn’t know it was him.”
“No, you did not,” he said. “I doubt you would have spoken to me as you did if you understood.”
His unlikable manner gave me a rush of confidence. Feeling like I could regard him now, I decided his words marked him as a kind of tortured soul who was not yet experienced enough to come to terms with their past, much like I was. Perhaps he wasn’t a day over thirty-five. Neither a young man or old or middle-aged but mature. He wasn’t always angry, but he’d faced his own hardships. As hard as the life of a rich man could be, I supposed. Perhaps he squandered his fortune and was sour about it.
Regardless, I felt drawn to him. Not because he was handsome and powerful, or from my need to bring his pompous temper down a peg or two, but because of the emotion I saw in his eyes. There was sadness about him I was tempted to unravel, but no matter how I dwelt upon it now, I couldn’t make sense of it. Perhaps in time, I would see more of the man underneath the mask.
“You may go,” he said to me as he reached for his glass of whiskey. I rose to my feet, and before I could take a step, he added, “Are you satisfied here, Jane?”
I stilled as the sound of my name rolled from his sharp tongue. I glanced at Alice before answering, “As satisfied as I can be.”
He didn’t answer as he raised the glass to his lips, and taking it as his signal for ultimate dismissal, Alice and I retired from the room while the going was good.
“You were right,” I said as we walked down the hall. “He is very…changeful.”
“Arrogant, more like it,” she replied harshly, her cheery demeanor dulled. “I’m embarrassed.”
“You shouldn’t be. It was his choice to talk to you as he did.”
“You truly caused him to fall from his motorcycle?”
I nodded and relayed the basic elements of the story.
“Why, it must have been funny to see him fall flat on his ass,” she said as we returned to the employee quarters. “I’m used to his whims and fancies, so I can see why he seems so strange to you, Jane. I do think he needs some allowances for it, though.”
“Allowances for being mean?” I asked, my mouth falling open. “How so?”
“Well, partly because of his nature—no one can help who they are to a certain point—and partly because of his past troubles. Painful thoughts drive people to do terrible things, especially if they are constantly reminded of them.”
“What kind of things?” I felt the sinful rise of curiosity and wished to hear more of this gossip.
“Family troubles. Rocky is very rich, but they say he never wanted the responsibility. It was forced upon him when his older brother died. His father has since passed, but apparently, he used the death of Rocky’s brother to pressure him into taking on the family business, among other things. The Rochester’s were famously arrogant in their wealth, or so it was said.”
“And Mr. Rochester didn’t want the responsibility?” I asked, thinking about the man we’d just left. “He was forced?”
“Yes, though I don’t know much more about it. There was a plot against him, and his family forced him into an unforgivable position against his will. Things turned sour soon after, but when his brother died, his hand was forced yet again.”
I thought this over and wasn’t sure any of it made sense. There were a great deal of events unknown to me, but perhaps it explained his present state. I doubted I could give him any allowances for it, my consciousness wouldn’t partake in it, but at least it was a little understanding for my own piece of mind.
“Was Thornfield a part of it?” I wondered aloud as we lingered outside my room. “Maybe it’s why he doesn’t come here often and has neglected it so.”
“Perhaps,” Alice replied. “Thornfield is the ancestral home of the Rochester’s and was to be his brother’s holding.”
The answer was evasive, but I pinned it down to her not being privy to the finer details and thought nothing more of it.
“Did he say anything about your proposal?” she asked before we parted.
“No,” I replied, realizing he’d said nothing at all about it. I suspected the meeting was merely a ruse for him to gauge what kind of soul I was.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll grant you your money. It’s a fine idea.”
I didn’t like my chances, but I accepted her commiserations with grace. All I could do was ask and ask I had.
When I slid between the covers later that night, I couldn’t help my mind drifting to the stormy eyes of Mr. Edward Rochester. He slipped into my dreams as easily as the wheel of his motorcycle slipped on the patch of black ice. Perhaps it was an omen, or perhaps it was just misfortune. I was powerless to change the fate of my soul if it was already destined.
The feeling I’d had when I first beheld Thornfield was solidifying, my path becoming clear. However, the destination was still just beyond my grasp.
My beginning and end.
7
For several days, I saw little of the master of Thornfield.
Occasionally, he’d pass me in the hall, his eye hardly acknowledging I was present before he strode away to whatever meeting or delight he had planned for the day. Sometimes, he’d mutter a greeting to go with his cool stare and other times, a curt nod. I began to realize his changes in mood had nothing to do with me, so I didn’t allow it to offend. I just let it wash over me as I went about my work.
One day, he had guests for lunch in the dining room, and he sent for my detailed sums on the artist retreat—hopefully, to exhibit its contents for appraisal. But other than this one occurrence, I never heard a word about what he thought or if he’d approved my scheme. There was nothing I could do to press for action lest I annoy him to the point of tossing it out completely.
Still, Mr. Rochester presented a puzzle I couldn’t stop myself dwelling on.
I thought upon his handsomeness every time he brushed past, and I wondered at his tenseness. Truthfully, it was hard to ignore how pleasing he was to the eye with his powerful stature and hypnotizing eyes. It didn’t help that the housekeeping and dining room staff flirted non-stop and chattered about him when he was not present. Mr. Rochester was a keen sort of man, and I was positively certain he was aware of his outward appearance and the spell it wove over every female in his vicinity.
I wasn’t one to dwell on a fantasy or harbor schoolgirl crushes, so I let the notion of Mr. Rochester looking at me as more than a paid subordinate disappear before it even became a solid thought in my mind.
It was also several days before I gained the courage to slip into the library to return the mistakenly stolen copy of Pride & Prejudice. In my natural curiosity, I’d read the whole thing from cover to cover, only to realize once I was done that it was a very old and very expensive piece of literature, so not wanting to be accused of taking it, I ghosted through Thornfield to steal it back in before it was missed.
The hallway was empty as I approached, the night having drawn the few guests and staff downstairs for dinner or into the solitary warmth of their rooms. No one saw my path as I lingered outside the door. Opening it, I peered inside.
A fire was lit in the hearth, the electric lights turned off in favor of the natural glow of flame. I paused, listening and watching for movement within in case I was discovered by the last man who should find me here. Being caught trespassing once was more than enough.
Satisfied the room was empty, I slipped inside and darted to the shelf where I’d found the book. The glass panel was still unlocked, so I opened it hastily
and found the empty slot. The book slid back into place like it’d never been gone, and I released a relieved sigh. There.
“Here is Jane Doe and her standard tale of woe.”
I almost leapt out of my skin at the sound of Mr. Rochester’s booming voice and pressed my back against the shelf, my hand flying to my heart.
He stood behind me, a crystal glass in his hand, likely full of the same whiskey he’d had the other night. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were dark, and he seemed in the mood to spar once more.
“Yes, my tale is standard, I suppose,” I said. “I don’t think I’m special because of it, nor do I require concessions.” I declared the last part with special care to emphasize the point Alice had made to me the night after my first meeting with the man.
Mr. Rochester tensed, and I swore he was going to burst forth like a tightened spring, and I steeled myself.
“I was wondering when you would appear. For it was when, not if,” he said, holding his glass up at me like he was toasting his own cleverness. “If you insist on stealing into my library uninvited, you must remain. Sit.” He nodded to the chair beside the fireplace.
He moved away from me and took the other seat, leaving the couch unattended. Knowing I was caught, I didn’t dare defy his whimsy, so I sat where he directed. Instead of shifting toward the fire, I turned to the darkness, edging away as if to protect myself.
“Don’t move away from me,” he said, peering at me with his strange eyes. “Come closer.”
He had such a direct way of giving orders that I found I could not disobey when he gave them to me. His voice echoed through my flesh and reverberated through my bones, bewitching my limbs to follow his command.
“There,” he said as I moved back into the light.
The fire was rich and bright, the red curtains hanging heavily behind him, framing his stature so he looked quite regal sitting there. If it weren’t for his modern clothing, I would’ve been forgiven for mistaking I’d been transported back to the sixteenth century.
