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

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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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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.

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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.”

****

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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…

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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.

***

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