by Amity Cross
It was cold comfort.
Alice stood beside me, shivering despite the sun warming our backs.
“It’s a terrible business,” she said, her voice loud in the silence. “I’ll never forget the sight of it lit up by the flames.”
My gaze flickered to the part of the driveway where Bertha had lain after she jumped, and I felt my stomach roll.
“I wish things had gone differently,” she went on. “I wish Rocky had put Bertha into a proper facility that could have cared for her. Perhaps she may have even become better over time. Not healed, for I think she was too far gone, but at least better. Happier.”
“I’m not sure it would have mattered,” I replied. “I fear this would have been our end, no matter what we could have done to avoid it. Destruction would have been served in another way.”
She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “I shall miss it, though. It was my home for five years.” She turned her back on the house and sighed. “I don’t know where to go, Jane.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, turning away from the charred rubble. “I shall see that you are all looked after. You’re my family, after all.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
Her eyes sparkled with hope, and I smiled, my heart feeling lighter than it had in days. At that moment, I knew the chapter in my life labeled ‘Thornfield’ had snapped closed. Whatever I’d come here to witness had been seen in its entirety, and I was free of the spirits of this place once and for all.
Reaching for Alice’s hand, I murmured, “Let’s go.”
On the way back to the hospital, I was silent.
I thought long and hard, slotting together the last pieces of the puzzle that I was now referring to as the Thornfield affair. The story had begun long before I ever crossed its threshold, and the plot of destruction was already ten years in the making when Blanche Ingram happened upon it. It would have ended thus even without her hand stirring the storm.
Bertha had tried to burn down Thornfield once before, and who knew how many other attempts she’d made over the years. Perhaps she had wanted this all along, and the woman who wanted to destroy Edward and me had manipulated her despair. I was certain we were all pawns in a game that had no master.
It was a great deal of what ifs, and I no longer had the energy to think over them. Everything was gone, and so it had been done. The cycle was complete.
We could wallow in the pit of our misery, or we could break free of it and forge ahead into the light. Knowing we had remade our lives into something great would drive Blanche absolutely crazy. It was always the way with bullies and their jealousies.
I knew the kind of person I was, and now I knew Edward. Thornfield did not define us. We may be manipulated by people, our circumstances, our wealth and class, or even our upbringing, but once everything was stripped away and our souls lay bare, only we had the power to make the decision of who we truly were.
And who was I? I was Jane Eyre. Mistress of my own destiny.
When Alice returned me to the hospital, Edward was awake.
“You went to see it, didn’t you?” he asked as I sat beside him.
I knew he was talking about the remains of Thornfield, and there was no use hiding it. He’d seen how badly the flames had consumed it.
“Yes.”
He’d been sleeping a great deal over the past few days, the treatments the doctors put him through for his burns were severe and drained his strength completely. I was glad to see him awake and alert and hoped it was a sign he was finally beginning to heal. I only wished I could say the same for his heart, for I knew he hurt gravely for not being able to save Bertha.
“It is a ruin,” he muttered. “It’s in the newspapers. All of it.”
I didn’t know what to say because it was true. There was nothing left. Instead, I took his hand in mine and edged closer to the bed.
“I have nothing, Jane,” he whispered, his voice ragged beyond compare. “Everything is gone. My company, my holdings, my fortune, Thornfield… It is all gone.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, tightening my grip on his hand. “Surely…”
“It was the only way to satisfy her,” he murmured. “I gambled it all, and she still won.”
“Blanche?” I asked, my mouth falling open. “You gave it all away to her, and she still…”
He nodded.
“You understand she was behind this? Bertha’s escape, the fire… This was her final move, and we played right into her hands. She did this to you, Edward. She tried to kill us all.”
“I know, Jane. I’m the greatest fool there ever was.”
“You’re not a fool.”
“It is not within me to take another’s life,” he went on. “That would have been the only way to stop her, and I knew it even as I gambled everything to avoid it. Perhaps Blanche could stoop that low, but you know I cannot. She bested me.”
I sighed, stroking my fingers across his knuckles. “It is not a failing to care for others, Edward. Even those you consider your enemies.”
“I have you, don’t I, Jane? You are well?”
I nodded. “I am well, and the doctors say you will make a full recovery,” I said, attempting to be cheery for his sake. “In no time, we will be off on our grand adventure across Europe. I intend to hold you to your promise, you know.”
He snorted, his scowl deepening. “I have nothing to finance it. I shall have to break my vow, Jane.”
“Nonsense,” I declared. “You’re forgetting I’m an Eyre. I own a textile mill that supplies the finest fabrics to the Queen herself! And at least five houses, along with all the rest. Do you fancy a stay in Madeira? I hear the weather is lovely this time of year, and Google tells me it’s very tropical and secluded. It’s Portugal’s own little version of Hawaii. Mr. Briggs tells me that my uncle James lived the last of his life there and loved it dearly. I would love to share the discovery of his life with you. You can recuperate in the fresh air and sunshine. Isn’t that a fine idea?”
“You would care for a witless and broken man such as I?” was his reply.
“Of course,” I said incredulously. “You cared for a poor, plain, unwanted nobody named Jane Doe long before it was proper to do so.”
He turned to me then, revealing the extent of his injuries. The entire left side of his face was a raw and red tangle of burns, his eye completely milky—he’d likely never see out of it again. My heart twisted, knowing he was in agony, and it was only the medication the doctors had prescribed that was fending off the pain.
“Am I hideous, Jane?” he asked, a tear slipping from his eye.
I smiled, not caring in the slightest what he looked like. Raising my hand, I cupped his unblemished cheek and swept away the moisture on his skin. One brilliant stormy eye stared back at me, the other milky and sightless, and I nodded.
“Very,” I said. “You always were, you know.”
23
Reader, I married him.
Everything I was, everything I am, and everything I will be I gave to Edward Rochester. It was a quiet affair, just the two of us and a celebrant on the terrace of my late uncle’s house in Madeira, Portugal. It still felt alien to describe that fine property as being mine, and I was sure it would take a very long time to acclimatize to the life I was bequeathed.
It was a beautiful place. The tropical island was rugged in its turbulent volcanic past, but it was reminiscent of an oasis in the center of a chaotic world. Its solitude from the coming and goings of England and the media storm the fire at Thornfield had created was a welcome relief. Here, we could let our worries go and lose ourselves in one another.
Edward’s burns healed as well as could be hoped, though he would bear the scars for the rest of his life. The sunshine and peaceful vistas of the island archipelago that was Madeira eventually brought back his spirits, our time for mourning well and truly passing.
We slept on the private beach more often than not, falling asleep i
n one another’s arms after making love under the stars. I never thought it was possible for the universe to be so bright, and surely the heavens shone more brilliantly than they ever did over the moors that surrounded Thornfield.
After the fire, I saw to it that Alice, Bessie, and all the staff were well looked after before they went their separate ways, for that was what family did for one another. They may not be of the same blood as I, but it was irrelevant. Each one of those souls cared for me when I could not care for myself, and it was the least I could do in the wake of such tragedy.
We never heard from the Mason’s or the Ingram’s—whatever became of Blanche was unknown to us—and life was as it should be. Calm, tender, and full of love and hope. Treachery was forever behind us.
It was safe to say we never returned to Thornfield. I heard in later months—after Mr. Briggs assisted Edward in selling the land—the remains of the building had been demolished, and revitalization works had been carried out to preserve the original foundations. It seemed the land had been acquired by the National Trust under the advisement of Georgiana, who had taken hold of her own future and had become quite involved with the organization. I was proud to call her family.
Everything had finally found its rightful place.
On the morning of the first day of the third month since arriving on the island, I found Edward on the terrace, his palm over his good eye as he stared out over the ocean below. He’d taken to wearing loose-fitting slacks and short-sleeved shirts, which he often left open so I could salivate over his toned abs, and he was dressed thusly with bare feet.
“What are you doing?” I asked, standing beside him. “Are your scars worrying you?”
“No,” he replied, lowering his hand, then placing it back again. “I fancy I can see a little out of this eye. Perhaps it’s a trick of the mind, but it doesn’t seem so dark anymore.”
I stood to his left, on his blind side, and studied his features. His skin was twisted, and those he’d first met had all given him looks with varying degrees of concern and repulsion. He never blamed them for it. It was a confronting sight to see his shining white eye staring back at them, and it would put anyone on edge if they weren’t expecting to see it.
I smiled, hoping he was right that his sight was returning at least a little, though it would never change my opinion of him. It was never his beauty I fell in love with but his stormy spirit. Edward Rochester was my likeness, my equal, and the lost half of my soul. I would never be parted from him again, sightless or not.
“Shall I make an appointment for you with the ophthalmologist?”
“No,” he said, taking me in his arms. “I feel it is a metaphor more than anything.”
I smiled, placing a kiss upon his lips. “Indeed it is.”
He was right, as usual. For all that he and I had been through, for all the scars we bore, life did not seem so bleak. No, it was bright, shining and happy. The world lay at our feet, open and waiting for us to discover all it had to offer.
No, it wasn’t so dark anymore.
24
Dear reader,
I wrote this story, this autobiography of a girl given the name Jane Doe as a babe—a poor, plain, unwanted nobody—so you can finally see the whole for what it is. The years have passed, and the story remains, twisted by time and embellished by naysayers.
The madwoman locked away in secret inside Thornfield. The treachery of Blanche Ingram. The hopelessness of Edward Rochester’s lot in life. The toil and tribulations I faced at the hands of others. The pure innocence of Alice Fairfax. The unashamed bohemia of Adele Varens. The unwavering loyalty of Bessie. The desperate love of Georgiana Reed. The faltering of John Rivers’s brilliant mind. The spite of Sarah Reed.
Here lies the euphoria, the paradox, and the zenith in all its gory details. It is the truth, and finally, the world can see the legacy of the Rochester dynasty for what it really is. Defined by despair but guided by love.
I only hope that others are as lucky as I am to have found their match in life, for despite the hardships I have faced, it came to me, and I have embraced it with open arms.
Truly, forgiveness is the final form of love.
Yours,
Jane Eyre.
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Check www.amitycrosswrites.com for new books and series!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amity Cross is the International Bestselling author of wicked stories about rock stars looking for redemption, gritty romances featuring MMA fighters and dark tales of forbidden romance. She loves to write about screwed up relationships and kick ass female leads that don’t take s**t lying down.
Amity lives in a leafy country town near Melbourne, Australia and can be found chained to her desk, held at ransom by her characters.
Don’t send help. She likes it.
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