bookishwench (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bookishwench) wrote2006-07-22 07:18 pm
bookishwench) wrote2006-07-22 07:18 pm
Fic: Jayne Eyre 3/7, PG
Well, if I'm gonna do it, I might as well do it right.
For notes, see part 1
Jayne was once more caught up in the tides of the river of life, being swept on to his next destination like a leaf in a stream.
“You been lookin’ at that screensaver with the leaves on the water again, ain’t ya?”
Actually, yes, now that you mention it. In any case, after a long day of travel, our heroine…
“Hero.”
…whatever, stood outside the imposing door of a large manor house named Thronfield that seemed wrapped in mystery like the mists that clung to the moor. He was quickly ushered in to see Mrs. Fairfax, who, to his disappointment, turned out to be an 80 year old widow.
“Actually, it’s been awhile. I might take a likin’ to that dish if there ain’t no other flavors available.”
Jayne, I should like to finish this chapter without needing to pour bleach in my eyes.
“Prude.”
Yes. Moving along, Jayne was shown to a lovely little room of his own by the dowager in question, and was told he would meet his charge, Adele, the next morning. Sleeping the sleep of the well-contented, he blissfully dreamed of a life of honest servitude and gratifyingly small wages.
“Actually, I’m considerin’ fencing some of the stuff in this place. Think they’d miss the silver sugar tongs? Really, how often do people use them things?”
This is England, Jayne Eyre. People drink tea quite regularly, and you are not to be permitted to fence the platewear. Besides, Mrs. Fairfax is quite astute and would figure out at once they had been taken.
“Yeah, she does seem the sort to count the spoons before goin’ to bed.”
The next morning, Jayne awoke, put on a fresh frock of his customary black…
“Still?”
Yes, Jayne. Be grateful Miss Bronte did not fancy pink.
“I suppose.”
As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, little Adele, dressed in the finest silk and laces, came tripping merrily down the hall with her lady’s maid, Sophie.
“Oh, je suis tres heureuse! J’ai besoin de lecons a Anglais. Maintenant, seulement Sophie me comprends. Alors, Monsieur Rochester pense que je suis mal a la tete!” the child babbled quickly. “Zut, alors! Vous etes un homme? Pourquoi est-ce que vous habitez une robe?”
“Huh? She talkin’ Dutch or somethin’?”
Jayne, you received full marks in French during your time at Lowood.
“Yeah, and the French teacher and I were on real good terms, if you get my drift. What about the maid? She talk regular?”
Sophie, who generally had the characterization of a hatstand in the novel, was stunned to be thus singled out by the new governess and blushed accordingly.
“Oui, Madamoiselle Jayne?” she responded.
“Oui, that means yes, don’t it?”
Yes, Jayne. You should get very far in tutoring your French-speaking student in history, geography, the use of globes, and the English language if you are able to tell that much.
“Hell, long as I can tell when she’s sayin’ yes, I don’t much care. Rest can be worked out on body language. So, Sophie?”
“Oui?” Sophie responded, still flattered by the attention.
“What say we let Addie here take the morning off while we check the strength of the desk in the new schoolroom. Get me?” Jayne communicated to her, using highly interesting sign language as an aide.
“Oooo!” Sophie said, comprehension dawning. “Bien sur! Adele, tu vas au jardin maintenant. Tres vite!”
“Huh?” Adele responded.
However, Jayne opened the door to the garden, handed the kid a knight’s helm to use as a soccer ball to keep her occupied, and booted her be-bustled butt out the door.
Several hours later, long after the antique knight’s helmet looked as though it had gone through the Battle of Agincourt repeatedly, Jayne and Sophie emerged from the schoolroom, each looking deeply relaxed and, oddly, smoking cigarettes.
“My dear Jayne, will you please take this letter into town and post it for me?” Mrs. Fairfax asked as she came around the corner.
“Sure thing,” Jayne said, taking the letter out of her hand, then giving Sophie a wink before murmuring, “Second door on the right. Anytime.”
Jayne was quickly on his way through the gathering gloaming as he wended his way towards the town, letter clasped tightly in his large, gloved hand. Very little time passed before he was returning once more to Thornfield. It was as though some portent filled the air with a sense of strange omen, signalling something important were about to happen. Jayne’s senses tingled with readiness for whatever occurrence might be coming. Unfortunately, in Jayne’s case, this meant pulling Vera out of the volumionus folds of his dress and having his finger near the trigger.
When an extremely large dog came bounding out of the gathering darkness, Jayne, startled, promptly fired a shot into the night, barely missing the dog but succeeding in spooking the horse that was following it, causing its rider to plummet to the ground sharply.
“Blast!” shouted the unknown man. “My ankle! What fiend are you that you should cause my poor horse to fright so!”
“I ain’t no fiend. It was an accident!” Jayne yelled in agitation. Still, he did help the gentleman to his feet, noting a lack of missing limbs.
“I suppose you will now dissolve into mist like the fairy that you are now that your mischief has been managed?” the man said mockingly.
“I ain’t no gall dern fairy!” Jayne said, stamping his feet.
At this point, Jayne had his first good look at the man in question. He was tall, with a broad forehead, bushy black brows and equally black hair, large dark eyes, a wide set of shoulders, and a face that was unhandsome at best, but yet still compelling. It was a startling face, yet Jayne could not help finding it strangely comforting in this place where he knew no one.
“I know Sophie pretty well.”
Jayne, dear, shut up. In any case, Jayne quickly realized that the gentleman was limping badly.
“Looks like you done hurt yourself in that fall,” he said, not unkindly. “I figure as it was my trigger finger what made your horse go skiddish, maybe I’m a mite responsible. Need some help?”
“I am afraid I must impose on you, madam,” he responded. “I cannot mount my horse in this condition, and I must journey to Thornfield. Would you lend me your shoulder as a crutch?”
“Fine, fine. I’m headin’ that way my own self,” Jayne said, passing over the reference to his gender for once since he figured it wasn’t the right time to be nit-picky.
Together the pair hobbled through the evening towards the immense house, and when they arrived, Mrs. Fairfax immediately ushered the unknown man into the drawing room, calling for the doctor to come and serving him hot tea (see, Jayne, I told you they drink a good deal of tea). Jayne was astonished to learn this was the master of Thornfield himself, the esteemed Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester.
“So… Mrs. Fairfax don’t own the place?”
No, she is but the second cousin of the owner and the housekeeper here.
“What is it with this book and cousins? You’d think there’d be some kind of big plot point involving cousins in here or something.”
Yes, one might think that, might one? In any case, after the doctor had left, Mr. Rochester sent for his ward Adele and the person who had helped him on the road. Jayne reluctantly went before his new master, rather embarassed by the attention.
“Actually, I was reluctant cause Sophie and I were testin’ the bedsprings in my new room.”
I don’t need to know that. Jayne soon arrived at the drawing room, where Mr. Rochester proceeded to almost completely ignore the child and instead turned his attention to Jayne.
“You intrigue me,” Mr. Rochester said, sizing Jayne up with a glance. “You are from Lowood?”
“Yeah,” Jayne said.
“Do you play piano?” he asked.
“No.”
“Draw?”
“No.”
“Speak French?”
“No.”
“Have a basic understanding of geography and literature?”
“No.”
“Then… why exactly did we hire you?” Mr. Rochester asked, preturbed.
“I lied about my qualifications,” Jayne answered helpfully. “I can shoot real good though, and I’m a great wrestler, and I can drink any man under the table.”
Mister Rochester gazed upon Jayne’s visage, astonished at the words that poured from his mouth so effortlessly. Mrs. Fairfax, being rather a busybody at heart, sat by the fire and continued to knit, her needles clicking together in a disapproving manner. After all, Jayne was not a member of the gentry, and an affair between the governess and the lord of the manner was likely to be one of ill repute and damaging to the honor of the untried and virtuous Jayne.
“Too late.”
“Jayne,” said Mister Rochester curtly, “I do believe you speak more plainly than any other person I have ever beheld.”
“Well that ain’t hard to do. All you people talk like Simon,” Jayne said as he grabbed an apple from a display of fruit sitting on the table. He began to peel it with a large knife he had hidden in his boot, and by the time he was through, Mr. Rochester’s eyes were alight with a strange glow of… was it possessiveness? Think it not, Jayne, for you are but poor and plain!
“Plain?”
Okay. I can’t pretend you’re plain. But you are indeed not on a social equality, and in the 1820s that is highly important. Mrs. Fairfax, for her part, had passed out entirely owing to the slow, strangely sensual image of Jayne and the denuded apple.
“It is late, Jayne,” Mr. Rochester said abruptly. “I shall have you call upon me again tomorrow evening. I, for my part, shall be in my bunk.”
“Whatever,” Jayne said, swallowing the last piece of apple. “Just be sure you got something with more kick to it than Earl Grey.”
“Of course. Gunpowder tea should suffice, or perhaps Assam,” Mr. Rochester mumbled as he watched Jayne’s skirts switch enticingly down the hallway, though of course the innocent governess could have had no idea what the effect would be on the gentleman. “And apples. Many, many apples.”
Jayne, retired to his room to sleep, but that sleep was destined to be interrupted.
“Sophie comes a-knockin’, don’t she?”
Not quite, dear Jayne, not quite.
Get thee to Chapter 4
For notes, see part 1
Jayne was once more caught up in the tides of the river of life, being swept on to his next destination like a leaf in a stream.
“You been lookin’ at that screensaver with the leaves on the water again, ain’t ya?”
Actually, yes, now that you mention it. In any case, after a long day of travel, our heroine…
“Hero.”
…whatever, stood outside the imposing door of a large manor house named Thronfield that seemed wrapped in mystery like the mists that clung to the moor. He was quickly ushered in to see Mrs. Fairfax, who, to his disappointment, turned out to be an 80 year old widow.
“Actually, it’s been awhile. I might take a likin’ to that dish if there ain’t no other flavors available.”
Jayne, I should like to finish this chapter without needing to pour bleach in my eyes.
“Prude.”
Yes. Moving along, Jayne was shown to a lovely little room of his own by the dowager in question, and was told he would meet his charge, Adele, the next morning. Sleeping the sleep of the well-contented, he blissfully dreamed of a life of honest servitude and gratifyingly small wages.
“Actually, I’m considerin’ fencing some of the stuff in this place. Think they’d miss the silver sugar tongs? Really, how often do people use them things?”
This is England, Jayne Eyre. People drink tea quite regularly, and you are not to be permitted to fence the platewear. Besides, Mrs. Fairfax is quite astute and would figure out at once they had been taken.
“Yeah, she does seem the sort to count the spoons before goin’ to bed.”
The next morning, Jayne awoke, put on a fresh frock of his customary black…
“Still?”
Yes, Jayne. Be grateful Miss Bronte did not fancy pink.
“I suppose.”
As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, little Adele, dressed in the finest silk and laces, came tripping merrily down the hall with her lady’s maid, Sophie.
“Oh, je suis tres heureuse! J’ai besoin de lecons a Anglais. Maintenant, seulement Sophie me comprends. Alors, Monsieur Rochester pense que je suis mal a la tete!” the child babbled quickly. “Zut, alors! Vous etes un homme? Pourquoi est-ce que vous habitez une robe?”
“Huh? She talkin’ Dutch or somethin’?”
Jayne, you received full marks in French during your time at Lowood.
“Yeah, and the French teacher and I were on real good terms, if you get my drift. What about the maid? She talk regular?”
Sophie, who generally had the characterization of a hatstand in the novel, was stunned to be thus singled out by the new governess and blushed accordingly.
“Oui, Madamoiselle Jayne?” she responded.
“Oui, that means yes, don’t it?”
Yes, Jayne. You should get very far in tutoring your French-speaking student in history, geography, the use of globes, and the English language if you are able to tell that much.
“Hell, long as I can tell when she’s sayin’ yes, I don’t much care. Rest can be worked out on body language. So, Sophie?”
“Oui?” Sophie responded, still flattered by the attention.
“What say we let Addie here take the morning off while we check the strength of the desk in the new schoolroom. Get me?” Jayne communicated to her, using highly interesting sign language as an aide.
“Oooo!” Sophie said, comprehension dawning. “Bien sur! Adele, tu vas au jardin maintenant. Tres vite!”
“Huh?” Adele responded.
However, Jayne opened the door to the garden, handed the kid a knight’s helm to use as a soccer ball to keep her occupied, and booted her be-bustled butt out the door.
Several hours later, long after the antique knight’s helmet looked as though it had gone through the Battle of Agincourt repeatedly, Jayne and Sophie emerged from the schoolroom, each looking deeply relaxed and, oddly, smoking cigarettes.
“My dear Jayne, will you please take this letter into town and post it for me?” Mrs. Fairfax asked as she came around the corner.
“Sure thing,” Jayne said, taking the letter out of her hand, then giving Sophie a wink before murmuring, “Second door on the right. Anytime.”
Jayne was quickly on his way through the gathering gloaming as he wended his way towards the town, letter clasped tightly in his large, gloved hand. Very little time passed before he was returning once more to Thornfield. It was as though some portent filled the air with a sense of strange omen, signalling something important were about to happen. Jayne’s senses tingled with readiness for whatever occurrence might be coming. Unfortunately, in Jayne’s case, this meant pulling Vera out of the volumionus folds of his dress and having his finger near the trigger.
When an extremely large dog came bounding out of the gathering darkness, Jayne, startled, promptly fired a shot into the night, barely missing the dog but succeeding in spooking the horse that was following it, causing its rider to plummet to the ground sharply.
“Blast!” shouted the unknown man. “My ankle! What fiend are you that you should cause my poor horse to fright so!”
“I ain’t no fiend. It was an accident!” Jayne yelled in agitation. Still, he did help the gentleman to his feet, noting a lack of missing limbs.
“I suppose you will now dissolve into mist like the fairy that you are now that your mischief has been managed?” the man said mockingly.
“I ain’t no gall dern fairy!” Jayne said, stamping his feet.
At this point, Jayne had his first good look at the man in question. He was tall, with a broad forehead, bushy black brows and equally black hair, large dark eyes, a wide set of shoulders, and a face that was unhandsome at best, but yet still compelling. It was a startling face, yet Jayne could not help finding it strangely comforting in this place where he knew no one.
“I know Sophie pretty well.”
Jayne, dear, shut up. In any case, Jayne quickly realized that the gentleman was limping badly.
“Looks like you done hurt yourself in that fall,” he said, not unkindly. “I figure as it was my trigger finger what made your horse go skiddish, maybe I’m a mite responsible. Need some help?”
“I am afraid I must impose on you, madam,” he responded. “I cannot mount my horse in this condition, and I must journey to Thornfield. Would you lend me your shoulder as a crutch?”
“Fine, fine. I’m headin’ that way my own self,” Jayne said, passing over the reference to his gender for once since he figured it wasn’t the right time to be nit-picky.
Together the pair hobbled through the evening towards the immense house, and when they arrived, Mrs. Fairfax immediately ushered the unknown man into the drawing room, calling for the doctor to come and serving him hot tea (see, Jayne, I told you they drink a good deal of tea). Jayne was astonished to learn this was the master of Thornfield himself, the esteemed Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester.
“So… Mrs. Fairfax don’t own the place?”
No, she is but the second cousin of the owner and the housekeeper here.
“What is it with this book and cousins? You’d think there’d be some kind of big plot point involving cousins in here or something.”
Yes, one might think that, might one? In any case, after the doctor had left, Mr. Rochester sent for his ward Adele and the person who had helped him on the road. Jayne reluctantly went before his new master, rather embarassed by the attention.
“Actually, I was reluctant cause Sophie and I were testin’ the bedsprings in my new room.”
I don’t need to know that. Jayne soon arrived at the drawing room, where Mr. Rochester proceeded to almost completely ignore the child and instead turned his attention to Jayne.
“You intrigue me,” Mr. Rochester said, sizing Jayne up with a glance. “You are from Lowood?”
“Yeah,” Jayne said.
“Do you play piano?” he asked.
“No.”
“Draw?”
“No.”
“Speak French?”
“No.”
“Have a basic understanding of geography and literature?”
“No.”
“Then… why exactly did we hire you?” Mr. Rochester asked, preturbed.
“I lied about my qualifications,” Jayne answered helpfully. “I can shoot real good though, and I’m a great wrestler, and I can drink any man under the table.”
Mister Rochester gazed upon Jayne’s visage, astonished at the words that poured from his mouth so effortlessly. Mrs. Fairfax, being rather a busybody at heart, sat by the fire and continued to knit, her needles clicking together in a disapproving manner. After all, Jayne was not a member of the gentry, and an affair between the governess and the lord of the manner was likely to be one of ill repute and damaging to the honor of the untried and virtuous Jayne.
“Too late.”
“Jayne,” said Mister Rochester curtly, “I do believe you speak more plainly than any other person I have ever beheld.”
“Well that ain’t hard to do. All you people talk like Simon,” Jayne said as he grabbed an apple from a display of fruit sitting on the table. He began to peel it with a large knife he had hidden in his boot, and by the time he was through, Mr. Rochester’s eyes were alight with a strange glow of… was it possessiveness? Think it not, Jayne, for you are but poor and plain!
“Plain?”
Okay. I can’t pretend you’re plain. But you are indeed not on a social equality, and in the 1820s that is highly important. Mrs. Fairfax, for her part, had passed out entirely owing to the slow, strangely sensual image of Jayne and the denuded apple.
“It is late, Jayne,” Mr. Rochester said abruptly. “I shall have you call upon me again tomorrow evening. I, for my part, shall be in my bunk.”
“Whatever,” Jayne said, swallowing the last piece of apple. “Just be sure you got something with more kick to it than Earl Grey.”
“Of course. Gunpowder tea should suffice, or perhaps Assam,” Mr. Rochester mumbled as he watched Jayne’s skirts switch enticingly down the hallway, though of course the innocent governess could have had no idea what the effect would be on the gentleman. “And apples. Many, many apples.”
Jayne, retired to his room to sleep, but that sleep was destined to be interrupted.
“Sophie comes a-knockin’, don’t she?”
Not quite, dear Jayne, not quite.
Get thee to Chapter 4
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Okay, I'm so bookmarkin' this for later, and sending it to others.
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Don't they just?
Hee!
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