Jane: A Jane Eyre Retelling

by Lark Watson

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, as there seemed no other statement to be made that fit the circumstances.

  “Jane is here to make sure you get out of this without killing yourself by accident—or me killing you.”

  I glanced up at Mr. Thorneton, unsure how literally he meant either of those statements.

  When Mr. Mason glanced at me, I gave him a nod, as if of course this was my job. Again, I wondered what Micha would do in this situation. But, Micha was gone—and he knew of Mr. Mason’s presence, so the added need to worry about his thoughts was nothing to me.

  “Jane, come around here and hold the lamp so it shines on the wound.”

  As I approached the bed, it became clear that Mr. Mason’s shirt had been torn to allow for Mr. Thorneton to see the gash on his shoulder.

  The wound itself was grisly. I hadn’t known what to anticipate, but a shoulder with glass still protruding from it was not something I’d expected to find.

  “Closer, Jane.” Mr. Thorneton leaned over the bed, taking out shards of glass with a pair of tweezers. “Mason, you’re going to live through this, although I doubt you deserve to.”

  I watched as the two men bickered, trying to figure out how much of the back and forth was animosity and how much was a distraction tactic.

  As the blood seeped from the wound, I attempted to help by blotting the area lightly with the towel that sat next to Mr. Mason’s head.

  Mr. Thorneton glanced my way and gave me an approving nod. He continued to pick at the glass as the pieces got smaller and smaller, dropping them in a bowl he had set next to him.

  “If you hadn’t—” Mr. Mason’s accusation was cut short by a scream as one of the glass shards twisted from the tweezers.

  “Jane, go and get a new towel and empty this bowl.” He nudged the broken glass-filled bowl my way as he took the lamp and set it aside.

  I glanced between the men, sure there was more going on than I was aware of. How could there not be? The man had glass sticking out of his chest like a knife wound might. I knew for myself he’d stumbled through the courtyard from outside. But even if I hadn’t, the fact that he was wet and his skin chilled would have been evidence enough.

  I dumped the glass into the wastebasket and strained my ears to make out the low tones from the other room. Their urgency was obvious and I struggled between my natural curiosity and my respect for Mr. Thorneton’s privacy and dominance here.

  When I returned, the men had once again fallen silent. I crossed the room to join them, but, before I reached his side, Mr. Thorneton reached out and took the bowl and towel from me.

  “There’s a magnifying glass strip in the library. Please fetch it here.” He did not spare me a glance as he issued this directive, but continued to look down at Mr. Mason who lay pale against the bedding.

  When I returned with the glass, whatever disagreement the men had was put aside, their mission again to finish the work at hand.

  I held the lamp again as Mr. Thorneton finished the finer work with the glass. Then, I assisted with closing the tears with the gauze and tape available.

  I knew instinctively that this was the best he would see—that there would be no hospital visit for this injury. I didn’t know why, but as I stood, piecing things together, I couldn’t help but wonder how deeply the game at Tower House was being played and if I should worry at all for myself and my charge. Mr. Thorneton’s earlier words about my safety notwithstanding, things were going far, far off the expected rail now.

  When the work was done, Mr. Thorneton straightened, his gaze clashing with Mr. Mason’s who had barely stayed conscious through the ordeal. I did not envy him the pain he felt—or the ache he would feel perhaps for the rest of his days if the muscle was damaged.

  I stood, wondering too if my role here was complete, waiting to see what the two men would say to one another now that the task at hand was finished.

  But, that was to be a mystery I would not solve.

  Mr. Thorneton turned to me as he set his tools aside and gave me a hard look, one that I knew was meant as a warning as much as anything else.

  “That will be all, Jane.”

  The words that would have followed were left unspoken. There was no warning to be silent or explanation. I took it with great pride that Mr. Thorneton did not see a need to speak such. That he understood my loyalty and that my assistance in aiding Mr. Mason was a private matter.

  For sure, if Mr. Mason had addressed the situation differently, I would have had more difficult decisions to make. But as he had introduced himself as a friend and had gone to Mr. Thorneton when injured, it was obvious to me that the case of the matter was to stay between the two men.

  But, as things were, there was no need for me now. The gentlemen would handle their situation easily enough without aid. And so, I laid the towel and gauze aside, knowing better than to ask questions.

  Glancing down at Mr. Mason, I tried to give him a reassuring smile. “Feel better, sir.”

  If he noticed my parting words, he did not show it—his gaze never wavered from that of Mr. Thorneton’s. The men’s battle was apparently not over; it was just not one I was privy to.

  And so, I passed again, through the short hall, to Mr. Thorneton’s office, unlocking the door to make my escape, and up to my room—my former sanctuary, which had now become a prison of confusion due to the world it had been set within this evening.

  I could not help but glance down into the courtyard and across the way to those closed French doors. Who could guess what new mysteries were held within?

  It was not my place or worry to say…and so, I changed back into my nightgown, realizing I’d left my boots and coat along the way, and stretched out on my bed.

  Tomorrow would bring what it may. Tonight had brought more than its share already.

  Chapter 34

  When I awoke, Mr. Mason was no longer in residence.

  I could not tell you what became of him, only what I heard through the grapevine.

  Mr. Thorneton had apparently told his guests that Mr. Mason, a friend from school, had drank too much, stumbled out into the courtyard where he had cut himself in a dramatic fashion on some barely exposed piece of fencing, then wandered back in, screaming for assistance and waking the house.

  As the maids told it, Mr. Thorneton had made it known that Mr. Mason, while a jovial enough fellow, was want to drink more than he could hold and these situations were not unheard of. He had, of course, hoped his former acquaintance had outgrown the habit, but sadly, it was an addiction that seemed to still have him by the throat.

  Mr. Mason, overcome with embarrassment, had left later that night when he had sobered up.

  In addition, the lights and heat were back on in the house, allowing everyone to relax in whatever form of comfort that wished for. The women with long baths, the men sitting by the fire reading their newspapers.

  The snow had stopped, the roads were clear.

  All was as it should be again.

  And so, the houseguests had their drama with no true risk to themselves. It was, in their eyes, the perfect way to end their holiday…a brush with danger and a story to tell when they returned home.

  The cars were scheduled to arrive in time to get the guests back to the city for a late dinner, and then they could—as they wished—head off to whatever holiday destination they were to celebrate at. Jetting off to elaborate, exotic locations to enjoy the warmth and sun or snow and skiing.

  I couldn’t help but wonder where Mr. Thorneton would be—would he be with his Ms. Ingram or somewhere else. Was there a separate exotic location for him? Would he return here later, browned by the sun of a foreign beach or frosted by the wind on the slopes? Wherever it was, it would not be with us. I was sure of that.

  Just after lunch, as people were beginning to pull their things together and make plans for their return, Mr. Thorneton sent for me.

  I went to his office, expecting my parting instructions. A word about the goings on while the guests
were here, what he expected while he was gone, perhaps a request to purchase Adelia’s holiday gift for him.

  Instead, when the door opened, Mr. Thorneton stood with his back to me, gazing out the front window at the drive. At first I thought, is it possible he hasn’t heard me arrive? But no. After a moment, he waved me in, instructing me to close the door behind me.

  When the click sounded, he finally turned and gave me his attention.

  “You left your boots and jacket behind last night.” He motioned to the articles where I’d left them sitting next to the door the prior evening. He looked at them as if they confused him, then back at me with no further clarity. “Did you think I would send you on an errand in a storm?”

  “No, sir.” That hadn’t crossed my mind in reality. “But, I knew Mr. Mason had been outside when his accident occurred. I feared something or someone might need to be fetched. It was better to come prepared.”

  “And were you?” he asked, alluding to the surprise of finding a wounded man in his rooms.

  I looked away, recalling how I had felt last night when I arrived. In some ways it had been a shock, but in others—it was just one more thing.

  The necessity to act had made the reasons almost secondary. There was no time to ponder the bleeding man when having to care for the bleeding man. Do the task, fix the problem. It was, if anything, a path I was accustom to.

  And when considered, it was less fraught with danger than the night I found Mr. Thorneton in his bed, his life hanging in the balance of waking or dying…

  “Prepared? As one could be, I suppose.” I let him make what he would of that. My job—all of my jobs—as well as my upbringing taught that no matter the situation, cool heads not only prevailed, they typically won the day.

  “Do you not wish to know what happened to Mason?” he asked, studying me closely.

  “You said he’d gone on his way. I doubt very much that after taking so much time to patch him up, you killed him and buried him in the yard.”

  The joke fell flatly between us, like a boulder rolling off a cliff and dropping straight to the ravine below. I felt it as it hit, making an impact like a punch.

  “Is that what you think I do?” he asked.

  The question sounded terse, as if he didn’t really wish to know the answer. But it seemed as though my issuing the question brought the possibility more forward than just letting it fall as the joke it had been meant to be.

  I stared at him, looking for some clue as to what he wished me to answer with. Was it the truth, were we here to discuss maybes and might-have-beens of Mr. Mason’s disappearance? If so, I wasn’t sure I was on strong enough footing to discuss them as I had no true idea of what they were or might be.

  It was true that I did not think he had killed Mr. Mason. It was also true that the man I’d seen him to be might be able to.

  But capable and willing weren’t even distant cousins. They revolved around completely different questions, not to be confused or joined.

  And yet, to dodge the question seemed like a worse idea, one that would pull up issues between us that had not been previously formed. With these thoughts at the front of my mind, I answered him the only way I knew how.

  “I do not know, sir.” He jerked as if my answer was a slap, convincing me that perhaps I’d swayed too far the wrong direction because of his question. “If someone else had asked the question, I would have said, no of course not. But when you yourself ask, you make it seem as if it isn’t out of the realm of the possible.”

  His hand slammed down on the desk.

  “And that’s what you think of me? That I bury my guests in the backyard?”

  I saw his rage for what it was, a defensive ire, and moved around the chair to meet him across the expanse of the mahogany desk. “Is it possible to bury a body in this snow?” I glanced out the window to make my point, hoping to diffuse his rage.

  “Do not cajole me, Jane.” He stared at me, perhaps thinking to cow me into an argument. He was obviously in a mood—and one I was not wholly responsible for.

  I stared back, doing exactly as he commanded, not cajoling him.

  After a moment, he glanced away, shaking his head and running his hand across the back of his neck.

  “Jane, you are a constant challenge to me.” He came around the desk, opening a closet hidden in the wall and pulling out his jacket. “Come. Walk with me.”

  I took the moment to pull on the boots and coat I’d left there the night before. We passed out the front door, walking down the plowed lane instead of through the courtyard.

  We strolled in silence until we began to round the first curve of the drive, the one which would be the last upon arrival, offering the best first view of the estate for guests. It was until here that Mr. Thorneton was silent.

  “Mason is fine and on his way,” he said, as if I needed the reassurance.

  “I expected so, sir.”

  “I wish you expected so for more reasons than I patched him up first,” he said dryly.

  “And also, because I doubt that if he were buried in the backyard, there would have been such a warning first,” I said it as a challenge because the idea of backing away from the conversation seemed cowardly.

  Mr. Thorneton gave me a look that made it clear he did not find me amusing.

  And yet, I suspect he did.

  “Oh, Jane. I’ll miss you when I’m gone.” He glanced down at me, and then away. “Or perhaps when you’re gone.”

  “Am I going somewhere, sir?” A rush of fear swept over me. My happiness had become so tied to this place…and this man. I would go when he sent me away, and hadn’t I realized earlier that the situation may be closer on the horizon than anticipated?

  And yet, now—in this moment—I found myself stunned by the prospect.

  “If I were to take a wife…would she have need of you?” he asked it as if I were able to answer it myself.

  “I supposed that depends on the wife.” I glanced back toward the house, thinking about Adelia and the progress she’d made. Perhaps she would be ready for a private school by year’s end. But I suspected not. “And your plans for your ward.”

  “Ah.”

  We walked on.

  I turned away, pondering my uncertain future.

  “And, if I were to marry, who is it you suggest I ask?”

  It was such an odd question. I did not know the whole of his circle by any means. And yet, I had an honest answer, one that would not be kept inside my heart.

  “You should marry she who loves you best,” I answered, my head still turned away.

  It was, as confessions go, a meager one. One that would go unheeded—perhaps unnoticed. But, it was one I felt greater for having made.

  The fact that a choice could be set in front of him, of this or that, her or another, was a life I did not live within. One I had never contemplated before my time at Tower House.

  Choices were an extravagance.

  And yet, “Ah,” was all he said again.

  We walked along the drive, the quiet of the snow-muffled yard broken by the crunching of our steps. It wasn’t long before Mr. Thorneton brought forth another question.

  “And, let’s say, for instance, that a young man who had had the best of intentions found himself in a world where he couldn’t win no matter what path he chose. That he, having been raised in that world, did everything he could to escape it, but along the way committed some horrible wrongs. Would you condemn such a man?”

  I could not understand the leap in his thoughts, but I did know that the world I seemed to have stepped into involved too many shades of grey for me to be the arbiter of where the lines stood.

  Had I not, myself, made some mistakes in the past when growing up in the government’s care? Were there avenues that would have saved Michelle’s life? I thought not at the time—but teenagers view the world so differently with a few years more experience.

  “Intentions are a complex thing, are they not?” I asked because wasn’t th
at what he had left unspoken?

  What the boy would have meant by the opportunities he had taken, wrong or not.

  “Perhaps marriage to a woman of great popularity could bring such a man redemption. There are women so loved by the world that their sunshine is cast over the shadow any of those in their circle carry.” He glanced my way, down at me as I tried to continue on, not stumbling over what I suspected he was saying. “Have you not noticed this?”

  “Popularity is a tricky thing. So difficult to win, so easy to lose.” I considered the question further, digging beneath what I suspected was the surface. “And, would that popularity once lost tarnish those in the circle it once had shined on as well?”

  “Yes. Exactly.” He walked along, hands clasped behind his back and finally said, “I’ve done things I didn’t wish to, things that I know were wrong. And now I do things that may be wrong but that I wish to. It is a complicated path to righting the past filled with missteps and mistakes.”

  I knew this path. Had I not questioned my own actions often enough after Michelle’s death? It isn’t as though we could always know the best action at the time.

  “Do you,” he continued, breaking into my thoughts, “believe that intentions matter at all?”

  We all knew where intentions supposedly lead. But, wasn’t it also true that there were times in life when all we had were our intentions? That when one is standing on a sinking ship, you must do something, must move. There’s no option to stay where you are. And so, when you act, as you must, is it with selfish intentions or ones that are not strictly to benefit yourself. And, is either the right thing?

  We live life second guessing our actions, but our motives should be clear at least to us. They should, in that way count.

  Before I could answer, Mr. Thorneton gave a decisive nod and said, “Well, then.”

  I wondered what he had taken from my moment of silent consideration, but before I could ask, he nodded again, almost a bow of his head, said, “Jane,” and walked back at a pace I was sure not to keep.

  I watched him go, entering the house with his purposeful strides and wondered where he would be when morning came.