Despite the title (taken from a U2 song), this is another short Jane Eyre piece that’s a little happier than Awakenings. It’s also another of my little plays on the firebird theme.

Thank you to K. from C19 for her beta-reading services on this one.

****

The sun shone bright today, and though only spring, its rays were as warm as a midsummer’s day. We had come out to walk after breakfast – Jane leading me into the environs of Ferndean, taking care to describe all that she saw so I could visualise the scenes that I passed through. Then she found this peaceful spot by the river bank, a place for us to repose while she sketched, and I indulged in her presence.

How wonderful it was to be out-of-doors, to feel the sun on my skin after months inside my cold, dim cave, to listen to the rushing water instead of the ominous ticking of the clock, to breathe in the scent of the meadow instead of the stale parlour air! And how wonderful it was to be free of tormenting thoughts, of haunting dreams, to be in the company of the most precious being on earth!

It had been but five days since Jane returned – two days since we were married – but during that time I had been transformed from a useless wreck of a man – a man ready to spurn his life – to a man full of hope for a long and glorious future. And it was all due to this wondrous woman who sat by my side.

I heard the scratch of charcoal against paper above the gurgling river; heard it pause now and again as she observed the subject she was drawing. What was she drawing?

“A swallow,” she replied with amusement, “Standing by the riverbank. It is steadily pecking away, trying to catch its dinner.”

In lively detail, she described how the little bird jumped from the fallen log to the grass and back again in pursuit of its meal.

I grinned. “Are you sure it is not a firebird? With grey feathers and red under its wings?”

“I am positive!” she laughed, “It is a swallow – a dark blue fellow, with a white chest and a copper chin.”

“Ah,” I sighed, “I rather hoped that it was a firebird, like the one that resided at Thornfield.”

“And to be sure, a figment of your imagination, since it was so elusive that neither Adèle nor I have ever seen it!”

“Oh, it was – she was – indeed real, whatever you may think. I saw her everyday – sometimes in the gardens, sometimes at my window, sometimes even inside the house.”

I remembered Jane in those early days, a little shy, a little hesitant in my presence, but full of unexpected compassion, humour and spark that brightened even my darkest days. Little did I realise that her tiny sparks would grow to become my sun, my whole source of light and life.

“I was always happy to see my little bird.” I mused, “She was my best companion, you see. I spent many a fascinating hour in her presence, grew to love her – but one day she flew away and did not come back.”

I recalled the horrific morning when I found her gone – recalled the shock, the disbelief, and the frenzy that followed.

“I looked for her everywhere, and when I could not find her, I thought that she was dead. So I clung to my dreams.”

Torturing dreams of Jane in her prim, grey dress, with the heartfelt smile I loved; under the chestnut-tree, declaring her love for me passionately, wildly; but most agonisingly, pure in her white nightgown, her long hair unbound – stroking my face, kissing my lips, whispering my name until I was wild with longing.

“I coveted these dreams, though they tormented me, since I thought that they were all that I had left of her, the only place I could be with her – the only place I wanted to be.”

Jane put down her sketchbook and took up my hand.

“You were not the only one who dreamed.” she murmured forlornly. “I dreamed of you wandering the deserts, the plains, the oceans, lost and alone. I thought it was a sign that you had fled England, so each time I awoke I prayed that you were kept safe, that you would somehow find consolation – but it seems that my prayers were of little use.”

I gripped her hand, feeling its softness and strength. “No Jane, your prayers were invaluable – I believe they were what kept me alive. After the fire I did not know why I was spared, but now I know precisely why.”

Then lifting her hand to my lips, I gently said, “It was so my little bird could return home.”

To my joy, she entwined her arms around my neck, kissing my scarred forehead. “And she did return, Edward, she did.”

“For which I am eternally grateful.” I replied, moved by the strength of her conviction. “So…”

Swift as the wind, I pulled her down so that we lay side by side. “Let us celebrate this homecoming, this marriage.”

And we celebrated in style – with a kiss – well, several lingering kisses.

When we at last rose to return home, I heard Jane say, “I wonder what happened to that swallow. I think we might have frightened it away.”

I smiled. “If I know swallows then I can vouch for its return. They never forget where their true home is.”

“No,” she replied softly, “No, they never forget.”

****

Read more

Awakenings was my first piece of Jane Eyre fanfic, one that I’m quite proud of, actually! I just wanted to recreate the atmosphere of Mr. Rochester’s first weeks back at Thornfield, when he and Jane were just beginning to discover each other…

****

The rain had fallen unabated since last night and battered the casement still. Though the wind blew relentlessly – bending trees to its will, wrenching open shutters – I felt safe in the school room beside the cosy hearth. It was on days like this that I was thankful to be at Thornfield and not at Gatestead where I had warmth but not security, or Lowood where a good fire was unheard of.

Adèle’s school hours having finished for the day, I only wanted a book to amuse me until tea time. There was of course plenty to read here, but none that could scarcely entertain anyone above ten years of age. Only the library held such treasures, but since Mr. Rochester returned home a fortnight ago I had been careful of when I visited that room – the library was only accessible through the study, the room my master seemed to covet.

Not that I feared Mr. Rochester, though some might think him frightful. Not in appearance or manner – he was a liberal employer, his behaviour possibly no different from any other squire – but he had not an open, cheerful countenance. Only this morning he passed me in the hallway with a scowl that would frighten the devil. He nodded distantly to me and continued on, but I paused for a moment, watching him until he descended the stairs.

What manner of dark thoughts could cause such a frown? Were his business matters so straining? Mrs. Fairfax had intimated that he had had disappointments in the past. Could that be what plagued him?

What was clear was that my master was an unhappy man. His deeply-lined face affirmed that a frown had long been habitual to him, yet I knew how he looked when happy. I remembered once inadvertently saying a facetious thing that truly made him smile. The smile was wide, brilliant, with no hint of shadow – so brilliant in fact that I could not help smiling back. I sensed a gregarious character behind that gruffness, but why did he constantly suppress it?

I went downstairs to find the study vacant, but as I crossed to the library door, my eye was again caught by Mr. Rochester’s extensive collection of birds, beetles – and what I liked most – butterflies. I had eyed his collection sometime ago on a previous visit to the room, had gazed with wonder at the fantastic colours and shapes of the creatures displayed there.

I glanced back at the door – the hall was silent – before approaching the display. The colourful butterflies occupied several frames and I wondered what magical places they used to inhabit, how they came to be at Thornfield. But as I examined a frame of blue butterflies I heard the sound of footsteps out in the hallway. Distinctive footsteps that I had just learned to recognise.

Footsteps that paused at the study door.

***

Read more