I dried my eyes. This would not be an ideal life, living with a tiny gouge where my heart had once been; but it would be a possible one, one which would make waiting to die more tolerable.
Since he could not touch me, what was it to him if I was here or in London? I had been accounted a good enough writer to earn my stout and oysters by it; if the endearments I showered him with, all the languidly falling petals of my shaken tree, were written rather than spoken, so much the better—he could read them over whensoever he liked, shove them in a drawer if he preferred, and my love would have some permanence, the way whispers made in the dead of night do not.
I retained his first letter by accident, the one regarding my ankle—I had set it upon the mantelpiece and simply forgot to bin it. Standing, I went to fetch the artefact; for a few seconds, I studied the curve of his e’s, and then I carefully refolded this as well as the latest note and placed them in the grey reticule I had bought at a slop shop off Covent Garden, thinking it would suit a governess.
Then I went to the mirror to survey the carnage; my features were so petite that eighty percent of them were blotchy, and my eyes so large that the whites appeared bloody pools. Washing my face in cold water helped a bit, and—when I beheld myself again—I realised that there was a third reason to go to London other than escaping Mr. Thornfield and finding Mr. Sneeves.
If I could settle this dark affair for the residents of Highgate House, would that not be a fine thing?
Resolved, I took a quiet moment to regard Aunt Patience’s old room with all its lovely new trappings, the draperies in impossible shades of lavender and plum, the melancholy patina of winter moonlight . . . and then I set to packing.
? ? ?
Getting my things in order was not difficult, and I spent the rest of the night in a downy laudanum haze, only stopping the small doses when I collapsed into bed a mere few hours after quitting it. A brightly scouring sun woke me early, for I had forgot to draw the curtains; this was for the best, however, and I did my hair up carefully but looser than usual. Lifting my trunk, I carried it downstairs and left it in the hall.
The coward in me wanted to avoid Mr. Thornfield entirely and simply ask one of the Singhs in the stables to drop me in town. When I thought of the crags of his cynical brows, however, I knew I must explain myself or go mad to the tune of hearing, Do you think me a blackguard following that terrible account, Jane? So I went to the parlour and dining room and, finding them deserted, approached his study and knocked.
“Enter.”
I peered in; Mr. Thornfield was writing a hurried correspondence, but he levered to his feet, rounding the desk. Either his gloves had been cleaned or he owned multiple pairs, for his linens were spotless and his cravat a rich flourish of burgundy; his cheeks below their sharp angles were sunken, however, and his eyes clearly questioned whether he was about to receive a greeting or a curse.
“The heroine emerges.” The accompanying smile was a faintly glinting sickle. He approached me. “Oh, Jane, have you been crying all this while?”
“Some.”
“God help us, you have every right, only I cannot bear to see it. You are unaware, I think, of the effect your misery has upon me.”
“Perhaps so,” I owned as another drop escaped.
He brushed it away with an almost reverential touch, then gestured at a chair and abruptly returned behind the desk. “Had you been a precious lamb and I a doting shepherd who found it rent by wolves, I couldn’t feel any more harrowed over this—but you are not a lamb, thank Christ for that, you are a lioness and have no need of my bloody incompetent safeguarding. I shall make this all up to you in any way I can, however.”
“I wondered . . .” Lowering myself into the chair, I hesitated. “I would appreciate an advance upon my wages.”
“Of course.” He was already pulling the cheque-book from the drawer. “How much?”
“Whatever you think fair, Mr. Thornfield.”
An efficient scratching sounded. “Will a hundred pounds do?”
“You don’t owe me a hundred pounds!” I exclaimed.
“Must I listen to her talk utter tripe so early in the morning?” he muttered, gripping the blotter. “Here—payment for initial services rendered, including delivering historical, scientific, deportmental, and elocutionary lessons translated into equine form, not to mention reparations for medical disasters. If you want more, you have only to say.”
Swallowing, I placed the cheque in my reticule with the two letters. I did this, reader, because the most idiotic thing that Jane Eyre ever did other than to leave in the first place was to depart without her pearl necklace and half Mr. Rochester’s fortune, which he would gladly have given her. If she had been eaten by a bear upon fleeing penniless into the wilderness, I should have shaken that bear’s paw.
“How cheerless you look still,” he reflected, stormy eyes feathering at their corners. “Come, ask me for something else so that I can say yes, saving only a trunk containing half a million in bauble-draped dolls, for damned if I’ve got it.”
“So much?”