Some Enchanted Evening

Well this is the final snippet of fanfic that I’ll post for now – because I’ve got no more stories up my sleeve! This one started out as an idea but quickly turned into my longest Jane Eyre piece. So for a touch of whimsy, read on…


Edward had been in a fierce mood since daybreak. He snapped at George for not having his green coat ready, berated Mary for being slow to bring the hot water, and grumbled incessantly as I helped him tie his cravat.

The cause of his moodiness? Our visit to town.

“Why do we need to go to Millcote?” he protested. “Why do you not charge George with your errands and be done with it?”

“George is not so young to be travelling twenty-five miles a day,” I reasoned, “And besides, he has plenty to do here now that there are two of us to keep.”

“Then John or Mary would do just as well. Mrs. Rochester should not be undertaking such common duties.”

“Mrs. Rochester will do whatever she thinks is right! I need to enquire after my packages from Diana and Mary, and post my letter to Adèle. Then we will visit the apothecary for your dressings, and the dressmaker’s after that – my summer gowns are quite worn out and it will be warm soon. Only then shall we rest at the inn for a much deserved dinner.”

When he protested that he would collapse in exhaustion from so much activity, I said teasingly, “You do not have to go. I shall do quite well on my own.”

“No! No, I will come and keep you company. It is a long ride without a companion.”

I knew that he was reluctant to go as he did not want to encounter any of his acquaintances in his changed state – not because he was ashamed of his infirmities, but because he loathed their pity. This was the reason why he had shut himself up at Ferndean since the fire, and considering the arrogance held by such people as Blanche Ingram, I did not at all blame him.

When he had buttoned up his coat, I urged him to sit at the dressing table while I combed his wild mane.

“As unruly as ever.” I jested as I forced his pocket-comb through it, a remark that induced a smile from him.

“Yes, I know,” he chucked quietly, “It is still hideous.”

He sighed, relaxing while I completed my ministrations.

“Edward, you know you cannot stay hidden at Ferndean forever. Even if you will not re-enter society you will still have to venture out sometime.”

He scoffed, but said nothing in reply.

“You have never cared for other’s opinions so why should you care now?” I cajoled, “I shall not leave your side, and if we do encounter old acquaintances I will not let them mock you.”

“I know, my dear.” he finally said, “And neither will I let them mock you. Forgive me for being a foolish old man – I should know such things aren’t worth my worrying about. Besides, Millcote is large enough that we may not meet any of our acquaintances.”

And taking my hand, he gently kissed it before rising straight and proud. “Well, Mrs. Rochester,” he said more spiritedly, “Let us brave the hordes!”

The ride into Millcote was uneventful enough, but when we arrived it became plain that we had perhaps mistimed our visit. I had forgotten that it was market day, the one day in the month when the entire district descended upon the town, causing considerable havoc and delay on the roads.

“Why are we moving so slowly?” cried my vexed husband, “Has John gone to sleep up there?”

The news that it was market day did not ease his irritation. “The deuce it is! There goes my plan to remain inconspicuous. My appearance is sure to give the gossip-mongers food for the next year at least.”

We first alighted at the post office, where my trunk from Morton awaited along with letters from Diana and Mary. There was nothing from St. John, a circumstance that did not escape Edward’s notice.

“That man St. John must certainly be heartless. When I found you gone, I was on my horse scouring the entire county, while he has sent you nary a letter! You were right, Jane – he could not love you.”

The visit to the apothecary passed without incident, but when we reached the dressmaker’s, we were greeted by a familiar face.


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Spring is in the Eyre

To celebrate the coming of spring, here is an uplifting vid to a very lovely song.


And still on a slightly operatic note, I’ve discovered the Jane Eyre Musical Soundtrack. I can’t stop listening to it and wish I could see it for myself.

One of my favourites is Secret Soul.

Aren’t their voices wonderful? Especially James Barbour who’s got a beautiful, rich voice that’s perfect for Rochester. So I was in heaven when I found that someone had done a Jane Eyre vid of this song…

When cuteness rules

I was talking to a friend about My Neighbour Totoro today and I forgot what a wonderful film it is.

I actually saw it for the first time a couple of months ago, after I went to Japan, although I’ve seen and loved quite a few Studio Ghibli films. Of course, since it’s Japanese and because Hayao Miyazaki is the Japanese equivalent of Walt Disney, there was no shortage of merchandise shops:

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There was even a museum, which was so wonderful to visit!

After all that, I did come away with one souvenir…

Can you guess what it is?

Across the Sea

Time for a bit more fanfic. This one carries a bit of a twist!


I awoke in a wave of nausea, the world swaying to and fro. Sitting up, I saw that my candle had not completely burned out, and in its dim light I could distinguish the small cot that I laid in, the small wash-stand crammed beside it, the creaking, windowless hole that was my home for the voyage across the Irish Sea.

We had sailed from Liverpool in darkness, but perhaps it was now morning? Seized with a longing to see the sea, I dressed and made for the deck. In the faint light of dawn, I saw it – a turbulent, endless body of water – an insuperable barrier that struck dread into my already desolate heart – a barrier from my home at Thornfield – and from my beloved master.

Was it only three days ago that he announced his engagement to Miss Blanche Ingram, and that I was to leave him? To be sure, my leaving had been imminent ever since Miss Ingram’s arrival at Thornfield, hence by the time we walked in the park on that warm summer’s evening I was more than ready for the axe to fall. But the anticipation had not eased the pain of severance from all I held dear. And when it came, I was not at all composed.

“Ireland is a long a way away, sir, from Thornfield.” I cried despairingly, “It is along way away from you, sir.”

My plea seemed to strike a chord in him, for he prompted me to sit beside him. Our very closeness caused my tears to fall, knowing that the sea, on top of wealth, caste and custom, would soon separate us. My heart churned in agony. It did not help that Mr. Rochester was exceedingly kind, offering me his handkerchief when he saw my tears, and when I refused, saying so very gently, “We’ve been good friends, haven’t we Jane?”

When I did not reply, he continued, “It’s difficult to part from a friend you know you will never meet again. And you and I, it’s like we’re a pair of Eshton’s twins, bound together in some unworldly way – sharing a spirit – we’re so alike!”

His sincere declaration cut through me like a knife, for it rang true. I had felt a bond with him since our earliest conversations – when I glimpsed vulnerability beneath the sternness as he told me of the wrong path he had taken, how his once pure conscience had been sullied by sin. This bond had strengthened with each look imparted, with each conversation shared, with each act performed, so that I was as convinced as he that we did share the same spirit – indeed, we shared the same soul.

“When we are parted – when you leave me – I believe that bond will snap, and I will bleed inwardly. You will forget me after a while.”

What did he…? How could he…?

Aghast, I stood and cried, “I would never forget you! How can you imagine that? Who do you think I am? I wish I had never been born, I wish I had never come here! I wish I had never grown to love Thornfield!”

The tears rushed from me now – I could not stop them. “I love Thornfield. I love it because I have lived a full life. I have not been trampled on. I have been treated as an equal – you have treated me as an equal.”

I gazed at his dear face, a face so familiar to me, so entirely beloved.

“You are the best person I know. And I can’t bear the thought of having to leave you.”

Then he said a strange thing. “Must you leave me Jane?”

“Of course I must – because you have a wife!”

“What do you-?”

He froze, and then gave me a curious smile. “Jane… You are very astute – you have guessed it.”

“Guessed what?” I cried indignantly.

“You guessed that I have a wife.”

I stared at him. “How can that be? There is no Mrs. Rochester!”

He smiled sardonically. “You have seen her handiwork – how she tore Mason to shreds and nearly burned me in my bed. That demon was not Grace Poole, Jane – it was my wife!”

It cannot be! But I saw that it was – the truth was plainly written upon his face.

Then it became clear: his dark past, his wanderings, his desperate need for redemption, perhaps the very reason why he sought me.

It was all to be free from her!


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