ANNE EYRE (Thornton: chapter Three) #Jane Eyre Retelling

Chapter Three

Thornton

    An ancient, stooped-over man opened the heavy door and peered out at me through the space between the safety chain and the wall.

   ‘Are you Mr Rochester?’

    He laughed.

    ‘No, Miss. I’m Hector, the butler. I’m old enough to be his grandfather. The owner of Thornton is who you’ll be wanting. He’s away in Europe, not sure if he’ll be back here all summer. Sometimes he goes away and we wonder if he’ll ever return. Place will go to rack and ruin. No, it’s the younger Rochester you’ll be wanting, but I knew Rochester senior back when he was still a boy - giving away my age again,’ he chuckled. I could have assured him I would not have guessed it to be less than one hundred.

   ‘No, that younger Rochester has wild parties,’ he tutted and shook his head. ‘His father would not have approved, no he would not.’

    With those words, the elderly man shut the door in my face. Already I was thinking he was pretty weird.  

    I sat on the doorstep wondering what to do next.

    How was I supposed to interpret the letter, the paid for room in Devon, the helpfulness of Mrs Fairfax and the old-fashioned interview method – the telephone? I sat on the door step and put my head in my hands.

   Moments later, an older but very well-dressed woman came out.

  ‘Anne? Anne Eyre?’

   ‘Yes, that’s me,’ I said with a mixture of eagerness and exasperation.

   ‘Oh, Anne, I am so glad you’ve arrived. I’m Edwina Fairfax, the housekeeper here at Thornton Hall. Sophie, the child you are to tutor, is having her afternoon nap but we’ve been expecting you all day…’ she leant in, ‘take no notice of Hector; he’s been here for decades, Nathanial would never ask him to leave, it’s his home too but he really doesn’t work as the butler anymore; though he’s very good at judging the young man who owns the place,’ Mrs Fairfax said.

    She continued to speak as she led me through the vast entrance hallway of the house with grand, high ceilings and hall lights lit up like crystal. ‘Never mind Hector,’ she continued. ‘He’s over a hundred,’ she whispered. ‘He’s been working here for sixty years, he’s going a bit… well, he’s a bit confused. I can’t really talk to him and there are so few staff left here, just a cook and a cleaner and the grooms who come to work during the day. We have a lodger upstairs, Emma Poole, but she doesn’t speak much, does her own thing and writes all day from her room in the attic, or so I’m told. I’m not allowed to go in there as she doesn’t like being disturbed.’ Mrs Fairfax shrugged and raised an eyebrow. ‘Artistic types,’ she said disdainfully.

     ‘I mostly just run the house, organise the pay, the salaries. I read – a lot! Do you read novels Anne? Of course we have television and the local cinema but no internet connection while the renovations to the far wing are being done, not unless you go into the village -  there are too many builders around here digging up phone lines and what not - so, they’re working on that.’

     No internet, I thought. Good. I don’t want the distraction while I’m busy hiding from the world and its coldness.

    ‘The staff are… let’s just say they are not readers. They spend their evenings in the village pub mostly, when they are not wanted around here. Nathanial Rochester, he’s the owner now; he doesn’t visit much, either, but he’s supposedly bringing his friends to stay for the summer; some of them are in a band he manages and Nathanial agreed to let them rehearse here. Apart from that, his business interests are varied. He is coming home to organise the horses and buy some more, or sell them; I’m not really sure. I think he just wants someone to improve Sophie’s English over the summer. She’s no trouble, Anne, but she mostly speaks French. Do you speak French fluently?’

    ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

    ‘Good. Don’t speak it around Sophie, unless you have to! We want her to speak English as well as her French, if possible. Anyway, I’ll be interested to hear what you think of her.’

     Mrs Fairfax talked on.  

    It was quite refreshing to hear her speak in this relaxed manner. I wasn’t expecting her to be like this - someone who lived in such a grand house and wore a twin set and pleated skirt. She looked like what I imagined a lady-in-waiting to a princess might look. She spoke to me as a grown up, an equal, something I was not entirely used to.

    I was not used to making friends. My history, as you may have gathered, is not an easy story to share with strangers. Together, we walked into the grand ballroom. There were high chandeliers and paintings on the walls and rows of mirrors and windows. It reminded me of one of those lavish palaces I’d only seen on the internet or in movies.

     ‘Nathanial doesn’t need a job. His family have inherited money over many generations, so his business is really about keeping the family finances in order. Mrs Fairfax raised her eyebrow and continued, ‘I often wonder at the logic of such a young man inheriting everything, but I suppose we can’t predict such excesses, now, can we? I am sure there must be a reason for it and so far he has acted with great thoughtfulness. I can’t say I approve of his producing movies in America or managing the band but those are his hobbies and not for me to judge,’ she trailed off. Though she instantly told me to call her by her name, Edwina, I mostly referred to her as Mrs Fairfax.

    ‘For some reason, Mrs Fairfax, I assumed Sophie was your child.’

    ‘Oh, no dear, she is simply in my care.’

     Mrs Fairfax offered no further explanation as to Sophie’s existence and I was left to wonder.

     ‘Now, let’s show you to your room, and then we’ll make a nice cup of tea.’

      I hadn’t been expecting a particularly warm welcome and I’d rarely experienced such kindness from a stranger. In little under an hour, I almost felt like I had inherited a grandmother because Mrs Fairfax was so unexpectedly friendly.

      As it turned out, she was a distant cousin of the Rochesters (but, as she’d told me laughingly, not one of the rich ones). She’d originally been Nathanial’s nanny and had raised him and his brother from infancy.  Nate’s older brother had died, leaving Nathanial Rochester to inherit the vast family estate and the wealth of family owned companies.  

   ‘There are a few workers on the property. They are quite disinterested in activities like reading and movies so it will be wonderful to have someone to talk to in the evenings.’ Mrs Fairfax said.

   Her chatter continued and I admit I found it refreshing to have an older woman, effectively my employer, take so much interest in me.

   ‘I’ve put you in one of the warmer rooms; there are twelve bedrooms to choose from, and it’s not the biggest, but I think you will like it.’

     She led the way up the stairs and along a wide hallway.

     My bedroom had high ceilings and a distant view of the ocean. There was a large desk beneath the window sill and a double bed with a thick duvet covered by an embroidered bedspread. I noticed the maid had left a glass of water covered in a lace doily atop a pile of fashion magazines.

    ‘This is perfect,’ I said. Almost too perfect, more than I’d ever dreamt, I thought.

    ‘There’s an ensuite to your right and a swimming pool that is heated in winter, downstairs. Mr Rochester, Nathanial’s father, had it installed when the boys were young but it doesn’t get used as much now.  Perhaps, if you swim, you could teach Sophie. I noticed on your CV…,’ she trailed off again.

    ‘Yes, of course. I have my First Aid Certificate; I took the test during my final term at school.’

    ‘Was it an all-encompassing education? I noticed you attended Lockwood – one of the most prestigious ladies’ colleges in London.’

    ‘Oh yes,’ I replied, ‘very all-encompassing.’

     I had learnt not to share past hurts. I pulled my sleeve down to cover the scar on my hand, courtesy of one of my sixth form classmates and her sculpture implement which tore accidentally into my skin during a pottery class.  The mauling happened just after Irma left. I’d barely screamed let alone reported the incident - that would have led to further problems.

     My education had included bitterly cold winter dormitories, corporal punishment dealt out in private by prefects (before the younger girls became prefects themselves) and gossiping, neglected, fiercely snobbish teenage girls.

   ‘Have a good sleep, Anne. You can meet Sophie tomorrow.’

    I washed my face and could hardly believe my luck. The bedroom enveloped me but I’d never seen such splendour, much less lived in it. In the middle of the night, I had an unsettling dream. I was a child again and I was trapped in the locker room of my school and no one would let me out. When I opened my eyes, I stared above me at the high, intricately designed ceiling and felt a security under my blankets that had previously eluded me. 

ANNE EYRE (Lessons: chapter Four) #Jane Eyre Retelling

Chapter Four

Lessons

     The next morning I slept in.

     When I walked out of my bedroom to introduce myself to my English student, Sophie was sitting at the top of the stairs. She wore her pyjamas and those spongy, brightly coloured curlers, in her hair. She had a smile on her adorable face that lit up the overcast morning and spoke in a sweet voice, ‘Bonjour!  Je m’appelle Sophie. Comment allez – vous?’

     ‘Je vais bien, merci. You must be Sophie,’ I said and smiled, ‘I am Anne Eyre.’

     She dragged me into my room as I explained to her in French that we should try to speak mostly English together from now on. Sophie asked me if I had a present and I gave her a colouring set I’d bought for her at the station. She seemed pleased with this.

     ‘Merci. Thank you,’ she said hesitantly.

     I explained to Sophie that if we worked well together this week, we would go into the village for a cream tea and movie on Saturday afternoon. This seemed to excite her. The girl of six was now seated at the end of my bed. She pulled out an apple from her pocket and began to eat it.  

    ‘This is my breakfast,’ the child said in a French accent. ‘Leah also made me cereal.’ Leah helped in the kitchen and organised the catering. I was told she lived nearby but sometimes she stayed at the estate when there was a large house party.      

    As we walked down the stairs together, there seemed to me to be little to do except speak to Sophie in English and entertain her. Slowly, we made plans for the day. Her schedule went something like this: swimming, breakfast, morning English lesson, lunch, and a walk around the farm or into town, riding lessons, painting, dinner. After dinner we read or watched television and played music. Our days began to fall into different variations of this routine from the first week I arrived.

    By the second week, Sophie would bound into my room before breakfast and request that I take her swimming.

    ‘Bonjour, maintenant!’ she would whisper loudly in my ear.

    ‘Not now, Sophie, soon. And remember we are speaking in English. ’

    It was a challenge for her but she became fluent very quickly.

     If Sophie, who was an early riser, woke me too early, I pulled the pillow over my face in protest.

    ‘Wake up!’ Sophie giggled as she took my hand and pulled me out of bed the next morning.

    Our days quickly fell into a routine.  

    In the morning if I woke first, I got Sophie and helped her choose an outfit for the day. We’d go to the kitchen where Leah or Merida, the other kitchen hand, would have eggs cooking and various grooms and workmen were gathered around the kitchen table eating hungrily.  

     Some mornings Sophie and I had porridge with brown sugar, honey and bananas. On other occasions we had toast and poached eggs or fruit.

      Sometimes, I’d read the paper that was delivered from the village - or just the headlines - because Sophie would distract me or be keen to go outside. She often played with her dolls after breakfast while I read. I was trying to finish my reading list for the start of the university year. I intended to study literature but I was still waiting to hear the final result of my scholarship interviews.

     We always started our school work by nine in the morning. In the play room upstairs, an ancient desk had been cleared and set aside for homework. It was the same room used by generations of Rochesters for a similar purpose. No one ever told me who Sophie’s parents were and I assumed it was impolite to ask unless someone offered an explanation.

     Sophie herself just made a hand signal like an aeroplane and slipped back into French, announcing, ‘Je viens de France. La France est un pays merveilieux,’ asking me, ‘Vous etes-vous plu ici?’ in her most polite voice.

     ‘Of course I like it here!’ I replied. ‘This is an amazing house.’

      Then she explained her origins to me, as if her family lived overseas and she’d travel there by aeroplane one day! I have to admit, this was a bit strange but when life offers you the beauty and wonder of a second chance amidst the chaos of normal, everyday existence, you don’t ask questions.

    I was told Sophie’s last name was Varens; her mother lived in Paris and she was being raised at her mother’s request here at Thornton Hall. I assumed her mother had some link to this place.  Mrs Fairfax used an old fashioned term, stating that Sophie would have been a “ward of the state,” had Mr Rochester not taken her in. This, I could relate to. Her relatives had been French; beyond that, her origins were unknown to me. By my second week at Thornton Hall the mystery was no clearer.  

    Sophie liked simple pleasures: drawing, music and sports were her joys. Schoolwork was not - that became clear. Because it was summer, I tried to incorporate her hobbies into her learning. We walked to the stables and named all of the objects we saw in both French and English. Sophie was a fast learner where the language of her adopted country was concerned and already had a good, basic vocabulary.

     Daily, her English improved and after a fortnight we were speaking together more often in English than in French. It was exciting to see my young charge, so delicate and frivolous naturally, running wild across the land with me, exploring, and sketching and teaching me things too. From the start, I now realize, Sophie was teaching me trust and the nature of acceptance; perhaps even how to expect happiness. She had a wicked sense of humour. She constantly played jokes on Mrs Fairfax and me and hid clever notes and funny pictures in unexpected places, using both the French words and the English translation. In this way, we learned together.   

    On one occasion during the first weeks I was at Thornton, Mrs Fairfax was dismayed when Sophie performed some songs and outrageous dance moves that were clearly learnt from video clips. 

    I quickly encouraged Sophie to move on to the poem we’d been learning but not until I saw Mrs Fairfax frowning. ‘Sophie should concentrate on her drawings and her riding and run the songs by me should she wish to give an impromptu performance in future,’ Mrs Fairfax commented, a look of surprise on her face.

    ‘I rarely encourage Sophie to watch television, but sometimes I worry about Rochester’s friends - they can be such a wayward influence.  They leave the music channel on all day and night when they are here. Is it any wonder the child has learnt all of those dance moves. Still, I suppose it’s in her nature when you consider how she was raised before she came here,’ Mrs Fairfax added.

     I wasn’t sure what she meant and I didn’t press for details. I would hate to be judged on my background and tried not to do the same to others. Besides, Sophie had an ability to make me laugh and she was just having fun trying to emulate teenagers who danced like that. I thought it would be good for her to mix with children her own age, though, so we enrolled her in the village ballet class after her impromptu performance.

      I grew to like Sophie a great deal over those first weeks and it was to my huge advantage that she seemed to like me. In the afternoons, we went outside and sketched and painted in the meadow if it was warm enough. We swam in the vast, warm indoor pool that was built on the lower level of the estate; the water was heated even though it was summer. The air outside was sometimes cool again by mid-afternoon, so we had to remember to dry off completely before going outside.          Besides being one of the most garrulous children I’d ever met, Sophie was also one of the nicest. She and Mrs Fairfax restored my belief in human kindness as the endless, perfect summer continued.

     Sophie was happiest face painting and dancing and playing with her many dolls and chatting endlessly using her newly acquired English. I was happiest sketching and going for long walks into the village and around the vast estate. I liked to walk over to the cliffs to write and draw as I sat near the ocean.

     What could have been a strange and solitary life at the hall had become full and energetic by the time I was woken early one morning by Mrs Fairfax knocking on my bedroom door.

    ‘Good morning, Anne. I thought I should tell you, Nathanial Rochester is returning from America today.’

    ‘Oh,’ I said. The arrival of a complete stranger - the owner of this vast estate - was sure to shake up our comfortable routine.

    ‘I thought I’d tell you because he has requested to meet you at dinner time.’

    ‘And Sophie?’

    Mrs Fairfax laughed, ‘He’ll speak to her when he arrives in the afternoon but I should warn you; basically, he is a good natured person but he seems to have had more than an undue amount of stress in his life and he has little interest in small children. Besides, he’s met Sophie before. He can be terse at times but he has been a very solid guardian.’

   ‘Oh,’ was all I could think to say.

   ‘You should put on something a little less drab, Anne. He and his friends are used to dressing for dinner and he’ll expect you and Sophie to join him tonight. Do you have something a little more formal? 

    I thought it was all a bit impolite to be told what “not to wear” but it was their house, their rules and I thought it was in both my interests and Sophie’s to play along.

    ‘Um, not really, but I can get something in the village this afternoon.’

     ‘Good. You need to be on your toes with Nathanial. He can be quite rude, but he means well. ’

    I smiled, hoping he wouldn’t be all bad. Besides, my lack of care for what was fashionable might be mistaken for a lack of care in relation to Sophie. I resolved to go into the village to buy something new to wear for dinner tonight with the small amount of funds I had left.

     As I was about to leave the room Mrs Fairfax reached into a jar in the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a generous amount of money – more than enough for a new outfit.

     ‘Take this, Anne. It’s set aside for household expenses and a nice dress definitely fits that bill.’

       Since she would not take “no” for an answer, I didn’t know what to say so I accepted the generous gift and thanked her again.

      I looked into the mirror as I dressed to take Sophie into the village. I looked tired and unrested.

      I’d had a sleepless night with terrible dreams for the first time in weeks. I imagined I’d heard scratching at the door and furniture being moved across the floor boards above me. When I asked Mrs Fairfax, she just shook her head and said, ‘Mrs Poole has been restless. She writes novels and sometimes works into the small hours – or so I’m told. You have to take the good with the bad in life, Anne.’

     I was certainly used to doing that.

ANNE EYRE (Hay Lane: chapter Five) #Jane Eyre Retelling

Chapter Five

Hay Lane

    The day Nathanial Rochester was due to return to Thornton, Sophie and I followed our usual schedule. We began by speaking together in English and then I decided on a swim before lunch. In the afternoon, while Sophie attended her riding lessons, I prepared to go into the village. I waved to Sophie as I opened the gates. I was told I was welcome to take the car, but since I’d never learnt how to drive properly, I thought I’d better not. I left Sophie with her riding instructor and decided to go for a walk to the bus stop.

     ‘Oh Anne,’ Mrs Fairfax said, ‘would you take these to the post office for me if you are going into town? One of the workmen will give you a lift.’

    I nodded, adding ‘It’s alright, I prefer to walk, and I need the exercise.’

    The afternoon grew overcast as I made my way down Hay Lane towards the main road that led to the bus stop, a walk of at least half an hour. I was enjoying the solitude, having time to myself. I wore my favourite jeans rolled to my calves and had borrowed a pair of Wellington boots from the scullery. It was breezy but warm enough to go outside wearing the light floral shirt I’d packed for fine weather.

     I wore sunglasses to shade me from the glare and had my favourite album blasting from my headphones as I walked in the sun. I’d taken off my summer coat and had it tied around my hips as I walked. I looked like a typical eighteen year old holidaying out of my comfort zone and I was tied up in my music as I veered slightly off the park and wandered more on the edge of the road. From nowhere, or so it seemed, a black sports car sped up and swerved towards me, skidding close by and very near my feet. The driver, a man in his twenties or thereabouts, slammed on the brakes.

     The car was motionless, missing both me and a tree by seconds.

     ‘Careful!’ the man shouted. ‘You need to look where you are going.’

     ‘And you shouldn’t be driving this fast down country lanes,’ I replied, haughtily.

     The driver got out and loomed above me.

     He was tall with very dark hair that looked unruly and messy. He wore designer sunglasses and an unironed shirt and I could not see his eyes. His shoulders were broad and his boots covered in mud.

      His expression softened, ‘You’re right, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there. You were camouflaged by the glare and sunlight.’  

      It was true but not a good enough excuse for almost killing me.  I pulled my ear phones over my head and tried to walk past him. He walked towards me. Instantly, I took a step back into the mud.

      ‘I’m sorry if I startled you. You’re new around these parts, am I right?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said hesitantly. In London, I’d never stop to speak but they did things differently here. ‘I… I’m the new governess at Thornton Hall.’

      ‘The new governess?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘What’s that - a glorified nanny?’

      ‘I suppose so,’ I said, annoyed by his questions and keen to move on.

      ‘But you hardly look old enough to have finished school…’

       ‘I’m eighteen.’

       ‘Oh.’

       He considered this for a moment as I adjusted the volume on my speakers, irritated by his tall and overbearing presence. Men like this thought they were so it: tall, fast car, hot, rich, older; I walked on.

       ‘Just a minute,’ he said.

       ‘I’m in a hurry; I’ve got to send these letters before the post office closes.’ Did he think I had all day to talk to a complete stranger and a rude one at that? I’d show him who was boss.

        ‘What do you want?’ I asked impatiently.

        ‘Oh, nothing,’ he added, ‘I think I’m on London time – fast.’

        ‘Probably,’ I said dismissively.

        ‘I might see you soon.’

        ‘Where? At the local pub? I don’t go out much at night.’ I laughed.

        ‘Right,’ he said with a sarcastic, superior look on his face. 

        ‘So, see you when I see you,’ I added finally, sure I wouldn’t.

        ‘Not if I see you first,’ he mumbled. ‘The tutors at Thornton don’t tend to last too long,’ he added as his parting shot.

        ‘What would you know?’ I replied under my breath.

         I could have asked him how he knew all of this, but by then I’d turned my back on him and heard his car start. I raised the volume on my speakers. He drove slower in the opposite direction to me but then I heard him speed up in the distance; typical. He was exactly like the arrogant men that existed in most of my schoolgirl novels.    

ANNE EYRE (Mr Rochester: chapter Six) #Jane Eyre Retelling

Chapter Six

Mr Rochester

    My employer was home that night and wanted to meet me in the sitting room after dinner. I attempted to look my most formal – proper shoes and hair swept off my face. I took a novel I was reading in case he just expected me to sit by the fire and there were too many empty pauses.

    ‘Mrs Fairfax, I’m not really used to making conversation with older men,’ I’d whispered.

    ‘Oh, Anne, he’s not that much older. He is a younger son and inherited when the older brother died. Before that he was in America living quite the bohemian life. He went to an expensive college; he wanted to be a film director. Instead, he produced some films and ran around with a very fast crowd.’

    ‘Oh,’ I said.

     ‘He’s not usually one to converse but when he does; he’ll do all the talking. Don’t worry, I doubt he’ll expect too much; just a progress report on Sophie.’

     An hour later, I was in the sitting room with Sophie, reading, while she played with her dolls.

     ‘I need a new one,’ she exclaimed as she braided the doll’s blonde curls.

     ‘Oh Sophie, I have never seen so many dolls! Your doll’s house is overflowing and so is the play room. Soon we’ll be able to fill all of the rooms in the house with your toys,’ I joked.

      The little girl looked up at me and smiled. She’d just lost her front teeth which made her look even cuter. Sophie was a naturally affectionate child, in a way I’d not been. She wrapped her hands around me, and then pulled the clip out of my brown hair, spreading the length of it across my shoulders.

     ‘Bien, good,’ she said. ‘I want to play hairdresser.’

     ‘No Sophie. Remember, tonight I’m going to be busy - for a while.’

     ‘Talking to Papa?’

     I’d already guessed the younger Rochester was her father. Nobody had ever told me; it just seemed to be an obvious conclusion to reach. Sophie was a little girl from France who was all alone in the world and had been adopted by a Rochester? Of course, he had to be her father; she was way too young to be his sister. Besides, I was pretty sure adoption regulations would never allow Nathanial Rochester to drag a child from another country just to keep her in the lounge room like a prized possession.

     As if on cue, the music coming from the drawing room stopped. I heard the rustle of feet. The owner of Thornton brushed past me as he entered the room and patted Sophie on the head like a pet. I couldn’t see his face. Sophie went to hug his leg but he pushed her off gently. He seemed otherwise engaged.

    ‘Where is the new tutor?’

     ‘I’m here,’ I said, standing up from behind the sofa and placing my novel on the table.

     Mrs Fairfax, knitting in a comfortable leather arm chair, gathered Sophie and took her to the farthest corner of the room. I’d already been warned that grown men such as Rochester had little patience with young children. I hoped he had more tolerance talking with me because what I’d already heard about Rochester put me slightly on guard. 

    The fire provided most of the light in the room; and seeing him from behind, in shadow, at first I thought Sophie had lucked out. Nathanial Rochester was a tall, dark, (his photos made him look handsome in a gruff and uncompromising way) and dominating presence. I knew he must be seriously rich, that was obvious. While most of the stately homes in Britain were downsizing, he’d left all of the chandeliers on in the hallway and most of the skeleton staff remained; some even lived at Thornton, which was unusual in this day and age.

     When the man looked up, I was unnerved to see he was the stranger I’d met in the country lane that afternoon. He even appeared to be limping from his accident.

     ‘You must be Anne Eyre. I’m Nathanial Rochester. I think we’ve met before.’

      I gave a hesitant nod.

      He smiled and gestured to Mrs Fairfax.

     ‘This girl made me swerve my car, Edwina; I nearly sprained my ankle from slamming on the brakes to avoid hitting her. What do you make of that?’

      Mrs Fairfax looked quite alarmed.

     ‘Never mind,’ he laughed, ‘those country laneways can be quite tricky.’

     ‘I hope it’s nothing serious?’

    ‘I should be fine in the morning.’ He changed the topic now that he had my attention. ‘Do you drive Anne?’

    ‘No.’ I said, truthfully.

    ‘Ride?’

    ‘No,’ I added.

    ‘Well, you’ll have to learn to drive in the country.  If you want to ride as well, you should take lessons while you are here, with Sophie.’

     I was slightly afraid of horses, but I had to agree that learning to drive would be useful.

    ‘Sophie, I bought you a present,’ he said as an afterthought. 

    ‘Merci! Merci! Bien! Oh yes, please,’ Sophie said, running over to Rochester, she took his hand. He distracted her with a huge gift he’d brought all the way from America.

    Her face lit up as she pulled the doll from the wrapper and so did Rochester’s.

    Mrs Fairfax gathered the child and said, ‘Come Sophie, it’s time for bed. You can add this to your collection up in your room.’

    ‘Bonne nuit et fais de beaux reves!’ Rochester said. I guessed he didn’t realise we’d had a pact only to speak English.

    ‘Bonne nuit,’ Sophie replied, kissing him on both cheeks. Then she looked at me and said in perfect English, ‘Good night, Anne.’

     Sophie reluctantly left Rochester, after reaching up to kiss him again on the cheek. He brushed this show of sticky affection off, but I thought it was nice to see the sweet child show such an obvious liking for someone who clearly didn’t want others to know how fond he was of her or that he was even capable of affection and emotion.

    He poured himself a drink and offered me one. I shook my head.

    ‘What have you done with Sophie?

     ‘I wrote our schedule here; you can read it if you like.’ I handed him the piece of paper, scented and pink at Sophie’s instigation. He raised his eyebrows.

    ‘Never mind, I already have. You’ve taken a lot of care with her, Anne. She’s frivolous.’

     ‘In her defence, many children are frivolous.’

     ‘And what are you, Anne? A teenage girl? Where did you learn all your child psychology?’ He teased.

     ‘From being one, from being around them,’ I said. I’d bet I’d minded more children than he had prior to his being stuck with Sophie.

     ‘Tell me what you did before you arrived here. Most of the staff who come to stay here, in the middle of nowhere have… let’s just say, something they are hiding from or running to.’

     I was embarrassed by his comment, his partially accurate assessment of me.

     ‘I was in school, like most people my age.’

     ‘I can see that,’ he said, glancing at my CV. ‘You went to a very expensive ladies’ college in London. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be summering in Europe with all your little friends?’

     ‘I needed a job for the summer and I like working with children.’

    ‘Yes, I can see that,’ he looked away. ‘The previous girl who came to us was fleeing from an abusive boyfriend. Just wondering what your story is?’

   ‘I’m eighteen years old; I have no story.’

   ‘Well, you are the only other literate female in this house apart from Mrs Fairfax – and she’s heard all of my old stories. I just thought you might be good company for me this evening. You left your sketches lying around in the kitchen - or Sophie did,’ he chuckled.

    I was alarmed and slightly irritated that he’d seen them. I would’ve preferred him to have had access to my email than to have been the first stranger to pour over my private drawings.  Sophie and I had been sitting in the meadows taking turns to sketch each other from a distance then close up, hands and feet. Then I’d turned to the meadow, drawing lush images of the surrounding estate. They were personal images, displaying more of my internal world than I would have cared to show him at this point.

    Sophie’s drawings were the colourful, childish outlines of a six year old. I didn’t want to admit it, but she had little artistic inclination, although she seemed to enjoy picking the flowers that afternoon and practising her cartwheels, I remembered that. Besides, little aptitude didn’t seem to hinder her enjoyment of art, nor did I feel it should.  We’d set up a picnic with Mrs Fairfax in the low light of the meadow; the sun had shone brightly by lunch time and we lolled on the blankets. It had been one of the nicest afternoons in recent memory.

     ‘She has no talent,’ he said truthfully.

     ‘Pardon?’ I was miles away in the firelight, thinking of the meadow.

     ‘Sophie, as I said, has not a scrap of talent; but you do. She is not academic; I know she is only six but you can tell these things about a child. She is vain and frivolous. You are neither, yet you both seem to get along so well. ’

     ‘Perhaps our differences complement each other. Sophie is one of the sweetest children I have met,’ I said in her defence.

     He smiled, a little sarcastically, I thought.

    ‘She’s manipulative like her mother, like most women. Anyway, how many children have you met recently? You’re barely more than a child yourself,’ he trailed off.

     I decided to be assertive.

     ‘Many,’ I replied. ‘For years, I was in foster care. I had loads of foster siblings who were much more difficult to handle than Sophie.’

    ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘And the school?’

    ‘When I was twelve, an unknown benefactor paid all of my expenses to attend the college until I completed my A-levels, and then I was flung out onto the street.’

    ‘Ah,’ was all he said. I noticed a new tone, almost like respect in his voice when he spoke next. The fire flickered alongside us and he turned down the large, flat screen that was left on, playing an old movie that Mrs Fairfax had been watching earlier.

    ‘I think we can turn that off. She’s probably seen it before,’ he joked. 

ANNE EYRE (Lockwood: chapter Seven) #Jane Eyre Retelling

Chapter Seven

Lockwood

     I said nothing as Rochester sipped his port, contemplating the interview.

    ‘And was it a strict religious education?’ he asked.

    ‘Yes,’ I replied.

     I thought of morning prayers bringing a sense of calm, strength and routine to my days. Then I remembered mean girls hitting me with wet sheets after lights out and screaming at me for being foster care scum, ‘welfare scum, Social Services rubbish’. I thought of the teacher who’d snidely made remarks about writing my family tree in history ‘as if I’d know it’ and the headmistress who’d wrongly blamed me for a student prank because it looked better to blame a charity student whom no one would speak up for. I thought of the freezing cold mornings and the lack of hot water for baths we were expected to take. Prestige existed only on the surface of Lockwood School for Young Ladies. I think I may have fared better at a local comprehensive but then I might never have learnt French in the focused and careful manner Miss Stevens had taught the language to me… or music or probably have received such high marks on my final exams. Yes, it had been a privileged education.

      Rochester’s words interrupted my recollections.

     ‘I went to boarding school… not far from here actually. There was no real reason that I should have been sent away, it was simply family tradition. All the children were sent to boarding school by age eight. My parents didn’t particularly care for us. Well, that’s an understatement. My brother and I got along though, lived in our own world. My family didn’t know any differently, nor did they educate themselves about children. I’m a great believer in education, Anne. Are you?

     ‘Yes, of course.’ I added, ‘…although there are many ways to be educated. ’

      For one thing, formal education hadn’t prepared me for the verbal challenges of Mr Nathanial Rochester.

      ‘This is the twenty-first century but my father, before he died and left me his estate, still held the view that shooting helpless animals was the greatest sport in the world. He also didn’t believe it was useful to educate women. He thought the woman I’d marry would have so much money she wouldn’t need an education … You probably think his views were very… backward.’ I remained impassive. ‘I dropped out of Oxford because I couldn’t stand having to answer to my father. I then found myself in America, attended college in Los Angeles, and went to the South to produce a film in New Orleans.’

    ‘That sounds exciting.’

     He raised an eyebrow and changed the subject.

     ‘I wish you had met my father, the original Lord Rochester. I wonder what you would have made of him. He spoke his mind even more than I do… much more than you.’

     ‘He sounds like just the sort of man I would have gotten along with,’ I said sarcastically.

    ‘On the contrary, both he and my brother would have had you drinking port by now. I fear they would have had you dancing on the table.’

    I glared at him. ‘You must be joking,’ I said under my breath.

    He smiled. ‘They liked straight talkers and you seem to tell it as it is. Father wasn’t very happy about me running around with my college friends, I can tell you that. Oh, at first he didn’t care because it was never supposed to have been me inheriting the house and the title but things happen. Life doesn’t always go according to plan. When my brother… passed away, I was expected to come back to this part of the world to take over the running of the estate but it’s not really me. I try to limit my time here.  Before returning to England, I lived in Los Angeles and South America. I travelled to Brazil, Mexico, places I’d grown up imagining. I liked the Deep South…’

    ‘Wow,’ was all I could say.

    ‘…You enjoy Sophie’s company, don’t you?’

    ‘Yes, of course.’

     ‘She has few talents beyond being pretty but… I don’t choose my pets based on their talent and this one was rather… foisted upon me.’

     I was shocked by his candour and said nothing.

    ‘I wonder, would you like her as much if I told you her mother was a…’ he hesitated, trying to think of the right words, ‘a … French dancer?’

    I paused.

    ‘Is there something wrong with that?’

    He laughed uproariously.

    ‘You are quite naïve aren’t you?’

     ‘No,’ I blurted out.

     ‘I think you are. What I meant to say is… I met her in Paris. Sophie’s mother sold her body… to men… for money. She said she was a dancer, Anne, a high class one as it turned out. Once I realised Sophie was mine, she agreed to sell her to me… for ten thousand pounds.’

    ‘Oh,’ I said, trying to hide my surprise.

    ‘Well, she worked evenings; she was beautiful, exotic… Still, we all make mistakes. You’ll realise that too, as you get older.’

    ‘It’s getting late,’ I said, pretending to take this conversation in my stride though I was completely at sea. I’d decided I had better bring the interview to an end as Rochester was onto his third drink and about to tell me more secrets I didn’t want to hear.

     ‘Don’t worry, Anne, I’ll let you in on the rest of the family story on a need to know basis,’ he laughed. ‘I’m not as bad as I seem.’

    ‘If you don’t mind me saying…Mr R - ’

    ‘Nathanial,’ he pre-empted his name.

    ‘Nathanial … you are too young to be worrying about the past. You have everything: wealth, comfort…. You can be anything you want to be. You should take what is good from the past and change your future to erase the bad. We are all capable of change and of doing what is right.’

    He looked up at me incredulously in the dark.

    ‘Ah, a lesson in morality from little Miss Eyre.’ His gaze lingered on mine a moment, ‘Oh Anne, you really have a lot to learn. The past is what impacts the future and something I cannot erase.’

    There was a moment’s silence and in that gap, as he drank his port and I sipped my tea, I could have sworn I heard a faint scream. It came from somewhere beyond the walls, beyond the rooftop even. It was out of this world.

    I was startled.

    ‘What was that?’

    He looked up at me. There was another thump on the roof.

    ‘That!’ I said.

    Silence.

    ‘Perhaps it’s Sophie or Mrs Poole, the lodger. Mrs Fairfax agreed to let her stay in the upstairs rooms for the summer, she’s an old family friend,’ he added, by way of explanation. They seemed to have a lot of them.

     I hesitated at the door.

     I think you’ve had too much to drink, I thought, as I went to leave. Our conversation had been smoother than I’d anticipated, given that my employer was gruff, and slightly inebriated. And yet, I hadn’t expected someone quite so young and handsome. Still, we had reached unfamiliar territory and I was uncomfortable talking with a relative stranger as if we were friends. Suddenly, I longed for the comfort of my own bed.

   ‘Anne?’ he said, turning back as I went to leave.

   ‘Yes?’

   ‘I’m glad you’ve come to stay here.’

   ‘It’s just for the summer, Mr Rochester.’

   ‘Yes, I know. Oh, and Anne? My name’s Nathanial. My friends call me Nate and sometimes by my surname, Rochester.’ I think he enjoyed the confusion he was creating between us.

    I said goodnight and left the room.

ANNE EYRE (In Dreams: chapter Eight) #Jane Eyre Retelling

Chapter Eight

In Dreams

    That night, I dreamt I was a small girl again, walking through my life before the hurt took over. I was sitting on the doorstep of a huge house, waiting for someone, not my mean aunt, not my actual parents. There was a large garden and a fence and behind it, I felt safe, for the first time. Then I was an adult standing on the shore in a towelling beach robe. When the person I waited for arrived, the sun blocked his identity but he placed my hand in his and together we ran into the ocean. Heat blazed down on us; there were no cares, no worries - just bliss. When I woke, I remembered being told by my aunt that both my parents were drug users who’d abandoned me at birth. There, in the ocean, with this nameless person, I was free again; happy.

    The dream was more comforting than the one I usually had about the handsome young husband of my equally perfect-looking new foster mother. I had lived in Notting Hill back then with a selfish public relations executive who wanted a trial run at looking after a child. Her husband (and his wandering hands and too-close hugs), worked in advertising. He came up with the revolutionary idea of trying to turn me into a child model. I was only eleven but I could pick a dodgy character when I met one and I got out of that house as soon as was humanly possible, before any serious damage was done. His dubious intentions, when he tried to make me pose for photographs for my modelling portfolio, made me wary.

    I tossed and turned in the early hours.

    When I woke at around three in the morning, I had a feeling that someone was watching me. I got up to make a hot chocolate; the house was still and silent. I padded up the stairs in my socks and read for a bit, an old but beautifully written novel: Persuasion. I reached the part where Frederick Wentworth returns, and then I fell back into a deep sleep.

    I woke again, at around three in the morning.

    One of Rochester’s dogs, Pilot, was lapping my hand which I thought was quite strange since I’d shut my door and was yet to meet a dog capable of opening one with his paw.  I’d been having such a nice dream that if it was possible I would have closed my eyes and willed myself back into it; this was never going to happen. I’d arrived without a proper dressing gown so I pulled on my coat as it was still quite cold. Pilot followed me protectively as I got up and headed downstairs again to make some toast.  

    The floorboards creaked and the ancestral portraits haunted me as I crept downstairs.  

    Silence greeted me when I reached the kitchen, no noises but the opening and closing of a cupboard as I prepared my food. I switched on the stove light and boiled more water, feeling comforted by the familiar taste of English Breakfast Tea. As I sipped, I heard it again, unmistakable, a soft scream. I mentally counted all of the people I knew to be sleeping in Thornton Hall:  Mrs Fairfax, Sophie, the maids, the cook, two grooms, Mrs Poole and Rochester. It must be one of the maids, I thought. Then I heard them again - two words as clear as the daylight that would soon arrive - animal and hate.

   I wondered what those shrill words meant out of context and who they were directed towards.

   From nowhere, Edwina Fairfax raced down the stairs in her dressing gown.

   ‘Oh… Anne, I had no idea you were awake. We put you in a room, far away from the rest of the bedrooms so you wouldn’t be disturbed if people woke early.’

   ‘What is the noise?’

   ‘It’s just a maid; she’s been in the village. She brought someone home and there was a fight. It’s nothing for you to worry about. Nathanial has called for help, he’s getting her out. There should be quiet in the house now.’

   ‘I’ll go and check on Sophie,’ I said.

   ‘There is no need. I’m sure she will be asleep. Sophie is used to all kinds of noises. Things quite literally go bump in the night in these ancient houses. Her life in Paris was quite abnormal as well. In fact, from what I gather she is much better off with her father. He told me you know… Anyway, Merida has done this before; she’s on medication for anxiety and then, off she goes to the pub and starts to drink with her friends,’ Mrs Fairfax continued. 

    I thought about Merida and Leah, the kitchen maids. I’d met them the day I’d arrived. They looked at me strangely and said very little; not even hello.

     As I wrapped my coat tightly around my waist, I felt the card that Connor had given me and pulled it out of my pocket. He was a minister’s son, aiming to be a clergyman himself. His sisters were warm and welcoming and I recalled them telling me about their desire to build a school in India; something I might help with, if I retained an interest in teaching. I wanted to forge my own destiny. I stuffed the cardboard back into my purse after I’d checked on Sophie. She was sleeping soundly as Mrs Fairfax predicted.

    Before I got back into bed with the morning paper and my tea, I thought about what Connor had meant when he said, ‘call me, if you need to.’ His sisters, Rainbow and Daisy, had looked solemnly at me and nodded.

    I was fairly sure Thornton, like Rochester, was full of secrets, a mystery wrapped inside a riddle.

    I closed my eyes and eventually fell into a deep sleep.

    After the incident that morning, my days continued in an easy way.

     Nathanial only stayed for a week. I called him by his surname, Rochester, in my own mind and occasionally Nate as I grew to know him better. He had stayed long enough to choose some livestock and horses to raise, check with the grooms and sort out the expenditure of the property with his various staff. He then said goodbye to everyone and prepared to pack up and leave for a holiday in the South of France. He said he’d return to Thornton soon and bring his friends, the Ingram’s, to visit for the rest of the summer.

    ‘He never stays here long,’ Mrs Fairfax explained. ‘Each time he comes back I get very little notice, so I have to keep the house in a constant state of readiness. Sometimes he brings his American friends from university. Other times, it’s his European ones. He has so many friends; I’ve lost track of them all over the years. Nathanial lives in a social whirl of money and miscreants. He has managed the money so well; his father would be proud of him. We never lack for anything around here. He is very well-educated, studied Mathematics and Finance at university.  He worked in the City while his father was still alive but he doesn’t need a real job. I think he’s too young, really, to be so wealthy. It might have helped had he become interested in a profession but I’m hoping he’ll settle down soon. I’d like the house to be filled with some more children.’ Mrs Fairfax was staring at a photograph of Nathanial with a woman called Nicola Ingram on the social pages of a magazine.  The woman was everything I’m not; tall, blonde, glamorous.

     I nodded. I wasn’t sure what to say, since my pay, although generous, was hardly a pathway to riches; but I knew Rochester was ridiculously wealthy. Just the estate alone would take some serious upkeep. The view from my window was expansive and breathtaking.

    In the mornings, I often woke to the sound of Pilot, Rochester’s dog, barking and the two of them would go out walking along the path that led from Thornton. I could see them below my window but they never looked up. It was so early almost the entire household slept in except me and Sophie. Rochester normally returned almost as breathless as the dog after running along the cliffs. I could see them from the window after I dressed. Sometimes, Sophie would run in and yell out to her father. Then, he looked up and waved at us. He seemed so happy and free with the dog, and much younger than his twenty-eight years on those mornings.

    During the day, while he was away or working with the horses, Sophie and I would commence lessons. By lunchtime our academic work and English classes were finished.  

     ‘Your English has improved so much, Sophie,’ I told her. ‘By September you will be fluent and able to speak easily with all your new school friends.’

     Sophie looked quite alarmed.

    ‘I am not going to school. I have always been home schooled.’

    ‘Well, perhaps that will change after summer,’ I said hesitantly, fearing I had mentioned something I probably shouldn’t have.