My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(37)

“I figured out what happened,” he said breathlessly. “It is as I thought.”

“What was it?”

He folded his arms and looked at the floor, and then said in a peculiar tone, “Um . . . I forget. Who did you say you saw in the corridor?”

“No one,” Jane said. “I only heard someone laugh.”

“And you have heard this laugh before?”

“Yes. I think it was Grace Poole.”

He nodded. “Yes, Miss Eyre, you have solved it without any help from me. It was indeed Grace Poole. It is near four in the morning. Servants will wake in the next couple of hours. I will sleep in the library. And, Jane, I expect you to say nothing of this. I will explain everything. Now, please return to your own room.”

“But, sir,” Jane protested.

“Please, do as I say,” Mr. Rochester said. Jane found his commanding attitude to be quite dashing.

“Yes, sir. Good night,” Jane said. She stepped backward.

“Wait, you would leave me so?” he said, a complete turnaround from what he had just ordered her to do.

Jane immediately slid forward. “You asked me to go.”

“Not like that, though. You saved my life tonight, and you were about to walk on by as if I were some stranger you met on the road.”

Helen said mid-cough, “He is some stranger you met on the road.”

Jane elbowed Helen in her ribs, hitting nothing but air of course.

“At least shake my hand,” Mr. Rochester said. He held out his hand. Jane took it, and then he covered her hand with both of his. A shock thrilled through her at their touch, and she wondered, and hoped, that maybe he would pull her closer.

“I knew you would do me good from the first moment I laid eyes on you,” Mr. Rochester said, his fierce gaze piercing her soul.

“Wasn’t that the same moment he called you a witch?” Helen said.

Not now, Jane thought. For the first time in her life, she was having a Moment! For the first time since meeting Helen, she wished to be alone. Not alone alone, of course. Alone with Mr. Rochester. Obviously. Sure, this might not be the Moment she’d dreamt about, what with the fire, the strange laugh, the frightening noises, the lingering odor of smoke, the fear for her life, and the strange need Mr. Rochester felt to lift her feet onto the stool as if she couldn’t do it herself. But it was a Moment, nonetheless, and she wanted to enjoy it.

“Is someone going to say something?” Helen said.

Mr. Rochester sighed. “But if you must go, you must. Good night, Miss Eyre. I am in debt to you.”

“You owe me no debt.” She tried to leave, but Mr. Rochester’s grip on her hand remained tight.

“So does he want you to go, or doesn’t he? I’m confused,” Helen muttered.

“Why do I find myself reluctant to let you go?”

Jane’s breathing was ragged, and she could find no words.

“Jane, promise me this incident won’t scare you away.”

“Why do you think I would ever leave?”

“You are young. Young people love to travel. Have adventures.”

“Young people with means, maybe,” Jane said. “But I am not leaving.”

He finally released her hand. “Sleep well, Miss Eyre.”

Sleep was nonexistent for Jane. She could not help but remember each moment. Her fear upon entering his room, that he might already be dead. Her panic trying to wake him. The sound of the basin bonking him on his head. The way his fingers grazed her cheek as he placed his robe around her shoulders.

The warmth of his touch, as he cradled her hand.

“Who would want to hurt Mr. Rochester in such a way?” Helen said, breaking Jane’s reverie.

“Shhh,” Jane whispered. “I’m sleeping.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Jane returned to her contemplation. Mr. Rochester was everything one could want in a match. He was handsome, kind, interesting, thoughtful.

“He does have a nice dog,” Helen said.

These were all reasons he would never go for someone poor and plain, like Jane. He could have any number of eligible ladies in far better financial situations. Even Elizabeth Bennet wasn’t so poor as to not have servants. She didn’t require employment, as Jane did.

Jane turned away from Helen, and pulled the soft sheet above her head.

They’d had a Moment, though, hadn’t they? He held on to her as if he never wanted to let her go. And then he asked her to go. But then he’d seemed unwilling to let her go.

It was all so very confusing. But romantic?

She’d saved his life. That had to mean something.

(Reader, your narrators understand Jane has fallen for Mr. Rochester rather quickly. The reasons for this could be threefold: first, it was pre-Victorian England, and courtships could last the length of an egg timer. Second, Jane’s lack of experience with men. And third, Jane’s perception of men, which was gleaned mostly from books and art that tended to glorify tall, dark, and brooding ones. The broodier the better. And Mr. Rochester was among the broodiest.)

Back to Jane Eyre. Yes, she had fallen hard, and yes she had romance on the brain, and for the first time in her life, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she deserved a happy ending.

Jane woke after luncheon. She was surprised no one had come to rouse her, but maybe Mr. Rochester had said something to Mrs. Fairfax. How thoughtful of him.