bookishwench (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bookishwench) wrote2006-07-23 09:02 pm
bookishwench) wrote2006-07-23 09:02 pm
Fic: Jayne Eyre 4/7
For notes, see part 1
Chapter 4
That night Jayne went to sleep with a strange hope brewing in his heart.
“I’m bettin’ Fairfax has got some good booze stashed somewheres.”
No, Jayne, although I might place a bet on that as well. What Jayne was hoping for was that at last he had found a place where he might belong forever, that his life of going from one strange place where he was unwelcome to the next might be done for good.
“Actually, I kinda like wanderin’.”
You are in denial, Mr. Eyre. As Jayne closed his eyes that night, he little thought what mortal danger he was in.
Late that night, well after midnight had tolled, Jayne heard a disturbance across the hall. At first, it sounded like something or someone scratching softly at a door, but then footsteps flitted down the hallway to the accompaniment of wild laughter, and a scent of smoke was in the air. Jayne rolled over and grabbed several guns and a few grenades from his arsenal, then slammed open the door of his room to find a lit candle burning in the hallway.
“Tarnation, that all it was?”
No, for billows of smoke came from the bedroom across the hall! Mr. Rochester’s bed was on fire, yet he slept on!
“Maybe he’s the one with the stash of booze.”
Quickly, Jayne took the contents of the water pitcher and poured it upon Mr. Rochester, followed by the contents of his own water pitcher, a glass of water near the bed, and a vase of flowers in the niche of the hallway outside.
“Gorram it! Wake up!” called Jayne in concern, and at last Mr. Rochester awoke.
“Why am I sopping wet?” asked he.
“Move your blamed English bum outta bed, you stupid pile of…” Jayne began, but Mr. Rochester was already upon his feet, having been apprised of the danger, and proceeded to beat the flames out of the draperies that kindled around his bed. In a few moments, the fire was out.
“Indeed, Mister Eyre, I do owe you my life,” Mr. Rochester said, looking with gratitude upon his lowly servant.
“I’m taller than he is, I’d like to point out, but more than that, how the hell’d that fire start in the first place?” queried Jayne.
Mr. Rochester looked uncomfortable. “Did you see anyone in the hall?”
“Naw, just a stupid candle settin’ there. I heard somebody, though, laughin’ like a loon,” Jayne said, looking none too comfortable.
“Ehm, that was me,” Mr. Rochester said.
“Lemme me get this straight. You took a candle, lit fire to your bed your own self, stuck the candle in the hallway, ran away laughing, ran back, slammed yourself into your burning bed, and fell back asleep?” Jayne said, raising an eyebrow. “My momma didn’t raise no idiots. Try again.”
Mr. Rochester sighed, then said, “It was Grace Poole. She lives on the third floor and is usually quite docile, mostly because she drinks far too much port.”
“So she’s the one with the stash. Good to know,” Jayne said. “But why have you got a crazy pyromaniac livin’ with you? She ain’t your sister or some such, is she?”
“No, she’s… just Grace Poole,” Mr. Rochester said evasively. “She simply lives here. That’s all.”
Jayne smiled widely. “Uh-huh. Got a nice rack then?”
“What?” said Mr. Rochester, appalled. “No, no, good sir, she is homely and rather dumpy. Also, I’ve always found her to smell a bit like sausage, which I find off-putting. Please, I know you are good at keeping secrets. I can see if from your discreet and maidenly ways. Please, mention this to no one.”
“Whatever,” Jayne said, going back to bed. “I’m lockin’ my door though, so if Sophie wakes you up a-hollerin’ for me to let her in, don’t blame the poor gal.”
“Good night, Mr. Eyre,” Mr. Rochester said, watching the governess as he pulled his ruffled sleeping cap down further on his forehead, and he glimpsed his manly ankles beneath the hem of his calico nightgown as the door shut and locked.
The next morning, Mr. Rochester surprised everyone on the household staff by declaring he would hold a party at Thornfield. Adele seemed quite happy at the thought, delightedly picking out new frocks to wear in hopes that she should be introduced to the fine ladies and gentlemen who were to attend. Jayne was nervous and skittish, never having been around such high society before, and he hoped he would not be called upon to go before the company.
“Actually, it just sounds boring.”
Soon, the gloriously beautiful Blanche Ingrim arrived, her mother in tow. Her black curls gleamed lusterously, piled high above her dignified forehead, and her dark eyes glimmered with life in the olive-complexioned face that smiled at Mr. Rochester and, Jayne thought, particularly at Mr. Rochester’s treasures.
“Well, lookee there. She looks like Inara’s great-great-grandmother or somethin’,” Jayne said as he watched their arrival from the top of the staircase. “Gotta see if I can get me a piece of that.”
Actually, Jayne, you looked at her and began to realize that she was much fairer than yourself, and that all your hopes of a life with Mr. Rochester were dashed to bits in the face of Miss Ingrim’s beauty. You repaired to your room and drew a picture of yourself, poor and unsophisticated, and then a beautiful painting of Blanche Ingrim on a piece of white ivory in delicate tones to remind yourself never again to presume to think yourself worthy of Mr. Rochester’s tender feelings.
“Wait, am I sly in this?”
You are wearing a dress, Jayne. That could be a clue.
“But… Sophie!”
Can we simply say you keep all your options open and leave it at that?
“This is plum stupid, you know that, right?”
Yes, yes, it is. However, we are moving along anyway, for I personally am a fan of ludicrous situations, and this ranks up there with making Mal do the Sound of Music in the role of Maria. Okay?
“It’s your fanfic, twisted as it is.”
Thank you. Later that evening, Jayne was surprised to find that Mr. Rochester required her company and Adele’s in the drawing room with his guests. Miss Ingrim sneered at them loftily when she saw them enter, though she also gave Jayne a quick look and seemed to find at least something about him satisfactory, though she made a point of making disparaging comments about the quality of his gown throughout the evening. Adele she ignored, even though Blanche spoke French quite well, because the child was in danger of drawing more attention than herself. The girl soon found herself punted into another room.
“Huh. Not too sure about this one no more. She seems a mite too uppity for my taste.”
I knew you had standards, Jayne.
“Not sayin’ I wouldn’t screw her, though.”
And I am once more proven wrong. This situation continued for many nights. Each evening Jayne was called down to join the company, and each night Mr. Rochester paid him no attention in favor of doting upon the lovely Blanche. He spoke with her in close confidence. He wittily conversed with her in public. His hand sought hers as they played parlor games. At one point, he paraded her around in a wedding dress.
“Gosh, you think he’s tryin’ to make a point?”
Perhaps. At any rate, one evening Mr. Rochester was conspicuously absent, but a fortune teller had happened by and wanted to tell the fortunes of all the young unmarried women at Thornfield. Miss Ingrim, being daring and lively, went first, entering a room where the strange woman was secreted away, and coming out thirty minutes later looking vexed and unhappy. Each of the ladies in the party were escorted into the room in turn, and most returned looking reasonably content. At last, the fortune teller said there was one young woman left who she had not spoken to.
“I ain’t no woman!”
Fine, one unmarried person in a dress she hadn’t spoken to, so Jayne entered the room, scoffing at the process.
“I see you do not believe in my powers,” said a voice from beneath a bonnet and scarf.
“Aw, cut it out, Rochester. I already know it’s you,” Jayne said.
“How?” asked Mr. Rochester sulkily.
“I told you before, my momma didn’t raise no idiots. That, and your scarf is slipping. You’ve got five o’clock shadow.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Rochester, a touch embarrassed. “Well then, I suppose there’s no point in telling your fortune now besides saying that I believe someone has fallen madly in love with you?”
“Really?” Jayne said, his eyes lighting up. “I knew Blanche was gettin’ into it last night. Thought we might have knocked the chandelier off in the room below us. Sophie’ll be mad as a hornet nest, though.”
Mr. Rochester huffed in frustration.
“Jayne, you fool! It is I! I am the one who loves you, and I will make you my bride!” Mr. Rochester said forcefully. “There is no force in the universe that can keep us parted, or any law, or religious doctrine, or past occurrence, or chance encounter with a weird character, or even a homocidal maniac. Say you will be mine, my elfin sprite!”
Jayne was rather taken aback with this.
“Why you been carryin’ on with Blanche then?”
“Because I wished to make you jealous,” Mr. Rochester answered.
“Hang on. For the last two weeks you’ve been makin’ googly eyes at another woman to get me riled up?” Jayne asked. “That is the stupidest courtin’ I have ever heard of, and I’ve been watching Mal and Inara circlin’ each other for nigh on two years.”
“I suppose it was a bit…odd? Perhaps… eccentrically endearing?” Mr. Rochester said hopefully.
Jayne rolled his eyes in frustration. “Fine. I’ll marry you, you big oaf.”
“Oh, Jayne! You have made me so very happy!” Mr. Rochester exclaimed, taking him to him and kissing his face ecstatically.
“Yeah. Let’s commence to me getting’ a leg over and finish up this story,” Jayne said.
“No, no! We shall preserve our physical union until our wedding night, for I know you are pure of heart and would be shocked by any lewdness,” Mr. Rochester said possesively.
Jayne, probably moved by his betrothed’s thoughtfulness, shrieked in what could have been mistaken for frustration but must have been happy anticipation.
“Narrator, are you really that dumb, or are you tryin’ to make me crazy?”
Oh, Jayne, we shall leave it up to you. We draw a curtain over another chapter as Jayne awaits his wedding day, but will that day go according to plan.
“Course not. Ain’t my brand of luck.”
You are indeed wise, Jayne.
On to Chapter 5
Chapter 4
That night Jayne went to sleep with a strange hope brewing in his heart.
“I’m bettin’ Fairfax has got some good booze stashed somewheres.”
No, Jayne, although I might place a bet on that as well. What Jayne was hoping for was that at last he had found a place where he might belong forever, that his life of going from one strange place where he was unwelcome to the next might be done for good.
“Actually, I kinda like wanderin’.”
You are in denial, Mr. Eyre. As Jayne closed his eyes that night, he little thought what mortal danger he was in.
Late that night, well after midnight had tolled, Jayne heard a disturbance across the hall. At first, it sounded like something or someone scratching softly at a door, but then footsteps flitted down the hallway to the accompaniment of wild laughter, and a scent of smoke was in the air. Jayne rolled over and grabbed several guns and a few grenades from his arsenal, then slammed open the door of his room to find a lit candle burning in the hallway.
“Tarnation, that all it was?”
No, for billows of smoke came from the bedroom across the hall! Mr. Rochester’s bed was on fire, yet he slept on!
“Maybe he’s the one with the stash of booze.”
Quickly, Jayne took the contents of the water pitcher and poured it upon Mr. Rochester, followed by the contents of his own water pitcher, a glass of water near the bed, and a vase of flowers in the niche of the hallway outside.
“Gorram it! Wake up!” called Jayne in concern, and at last Mr. Rochester awoke.
“Why am I sopping wet?” asked he.
“Move your blamed English bum outta bed, you stupid pile of…” Jayne began, but Mr. Rochester was already upon his feet, having been apprised of the danger, and proceeded to beat the flames out of the draperies that kindled around his bed. In a few moments, the fire was out.
“Indeed, Mister Eyre, I do owe you my life,” Mr. Rochester said, looking with gratitude upon his lowly servant.
“I’m taller than he is, I’d like to point out, but more than that, how the hell’d that fire start in the first place?” queried Jayne.
Mr. Rochester looked uncomfortable. “Did you see anyone in the hall?”
“Naw, just a stupid candle settin’ there. I heard somebody, though, laughin’ like a loon,” Jayne said, looking none too comfortable.
“Ehm, that was me,” Mr. Rochester said.
“Lemme me get this straight. You took a candle, lit fire to your bed your own self, stuck the candle in the hallway, ran away laughing, ran back, slammed yourself into your burning bed, and fell back asleep?” Jayne said, raising an eyebrow. “My momma didn’t raise no idiots. Try again.”
Mr. Rochester sighed, then said, “It was Grace Poole. She lives on the third floor and is usually quite docile, mostly because she drinks far too much port.”
“So she’s the one with the stash. Good to know,” Jayne said. “But why have you got a crazy pyromaniac livin’ with you? She ain’t your sister or some such, is she?”
“No, she’s… just Grace Poole,” Mr. Rochester said evasively. “She simply lives here. That’s all.”
Jayne smiled widely. “Uh-huh. Got a nice rack then?”
“What?” said Mr. Rochester, appalled. “No, no, good sir, she is homely and rather dumpy. Also, I’ve always found her to smell a bit like sausage, which I find off-putting. Please, I know you are good at keeping secrets. I can see if from your discreet and maidenly ways. Please, mention this to no one.”
“Whatever,” Jayne said, going back to bed. “I’m lockin’ my door though, so if Sophie wakes you up a-hollerin’ for me to let her in, don’t blame the poor gal.”
“Good night, Mr. Eyre,” Mr. Rochester said, watching the governess as he pulled his ruffled sleeping cap down further on his forehead, and he glimpsed his manly ankles beneath the hem of his calico nightgown as the door shut and locked.
The next morning, Mr. Rochester surprised everyone on the household staff by declaring he would hold a party at Thornfield. Adele seemed quite happy at the thought, delightedly picking out new frocks to wear in hopes that she should be introduced to the fine ladies and gentlemen who were to attend. Jayne was nervous and skittish, never having been around such high society before, and he hoped he would not be called upon to go before the company.
“Actually, it just sounds boring.”
Soon, the gloriously beautiful Blanche Ingrim arrived, her mother in tow. Her black curls gleamed lusterously, piled high above her dignified forehead, and her dark eyes glimmered with life in the olive-complexioned face that smiled at Mr. Rochester and, Jayne thought, particularly at Mr. Rochester’s treasures.
“Well, lookee there. She looks like Inara’s great-great-grandmother or somethin’,” Jayne said as he watched their arrival from the top of the staircase. “Gotta see if I can get me a piece of that.”
Actually, Jayne, you looked at her and began to realize that she was much fairer than yourself, and that all your hopes of a life with Mr. Rochester were dashed to bits in the face of Miss Ingrim’s beauty. You repaired to your room and drew a picture of yourself, poor and unsophisticated, and then a beautiful painting of Blanche Ingrim on a piece of white ivory in delicate tones to remind yourself never again to presume to think yourself worthy of Mr. Rochester’s tender feelings.
“Wait, am I sly in this?”
You are wearing a dress, Jayne. That could be a clue.
“But… Sophie!”
Can we simply say you keep all your options open and leave it at that?
“This is plum stupid, you know that, right?”
Yes, yes, it is. However, we are moving along anyway, for I personally am a fan of ludicrous situations, and this ranks up there with making Mal do the Sound of Music in the role of Maria. Okay?
“It’s your fanfic, twisted as it is.”
Thank you. Later that evening, Jayne was surprised to find that Mr. Rochester required her company and Adele’s in the drawing room with his guests. Miss Ingrim sneered at them loftily when she saw them enter, though she also gave Jayne a quick look and seemed to find at least something about him satisfactory, though she made a point of making disparaging comments about the quality of his gown throughout the evening. Adele she ignored, even though Blanche spoke French quite well, because the child was in danger of drawing more attention than herself. The girl soon found herself punted into another room.
“Huh. Not too sure about this one no more. She seems a mite too uppity for my taste.”
I knew you had standards, Jayne.
“Not sayin’ I wouldn’t screw her, though.”
And I am once more proven wrong. This situation continued for many nights. Each evening Jayne was called down to join the company, and each night Mr. Rochester paid him no attention in favor of doting upon the lovely Blanche. He spoke with her in close confidence. He wittily conversed with her in public. His hand sought hers as they played parlor games. At one point, he paraded her around in a wedding dress.
“Gosh, you think he’s tryin’ to make a point?”
Perhaps. At any rate, one evening Mr. Rochester was conspicuously absent, but a fortune teller had happened by and wanted to tell the fortunes of all the young unmarried women at Thornfield. Miss Ingrim, being daring and lively, went first, entering a room where the strange woman was secreted away, and coming out thirty minutes later looking vexed and unhappy. Each of the ladies in the party were escorted into the room in turn, and most returned looking reasonably content. At last, the fortune teller said there was one young woman left who she had not spoken to.
“I ain’t no woman!”
Fine, one unmarried person in a dress she hadn’t spoken to, so Jayne entered the room, scoffing at the process.
“I see you do not believe in my powers,” said a voice from beneath a bonnet and scarf.
“Aw, cut it out, Rochester. I already know it’s you,” Jayne said.
“How?” asked Mr. Rochester sulkily.
“I told you before, my momma didn’t raise no idiots. That, and your scarf is slipping. You’ve got five o’clock shadow.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Rochester, a touch embarrassed. “Well then, I suppose there’s no point in telling your fortune now besides saying that I believe someone has fallen madly in love with you?”
“Really?” Jayne said, his eyes lighting up. “I knew Blanche was gettin’ into it last night. Thought we might have knocked the chandelier off in the room below us. Sophie’ll be mad as a hornet nest, though.”
Mr. Rochester huffed in frustration.
“Jayne, you fool! It is I! I am the one who loves you, and I will make you my bride!” Mr. Rochester said forcefully. “There is no force in the universe that can keep us parted, or any law, or religious doctrine, or past occurrence, or chance encounter with a weird character, or even a homocidal maniac. Say you will be mine, my elfin sprite!”
Jayne was rather taken aback with this.
“Why you been carryin’ on with Blanche then?”
“Because I wished to make you jealous,” Mr. Rochester answered.
“Hang on. For the last two weeks you’ve been makin’ googly eyes at another woman to get me riled up?” Jayne asked. “That is the stupidest courtin’ I have ever heard of, and I’ve been watching Mal and Inara circlin’ each other for nigh on two years.”
“I suppose it was a bit…odd? Perhaps… eccentrically endearing?” Mr. Rochester said hopefully.
Jayne rolled his eyes in frustration. “Fine. I’ll marry you, you big oaf.”
“Oh, Jayne! You have made me so very happy!” Mr. Rochester exclaimed, taking him to him and kissing his face ecstatically.
“Yeah. Let’s commence to me getting’ a leg over and finish up this story,” Jayne said.
“No, no! We shall preserve our physical union until our wedding night, for I know you are pure of heart and would be shocked by any lewdness,” Mr. Rochester said possesively.
Jayne, probably moved by his betrothed’s thoughtfulness, shrieked in what could have been mistaken for frustration but must have been happy anticipation.
“Narrator, are you really that dumb, or are you tryin’ to make me crazy?”
Oh, Jayne, we shall leave it up to you. We draw a curtain over another chapter as Jayne awaits his wedding day, but will that day go according to plan.
“Course not. Ain’t my brand of luck.”
You are indeed wise, Jayne.
On to Chapter 5
no subject
(Anonymous) 2006-07-25 09:19 pm (UTC)(link)I would be honoured, on the basis of this vignette, were you to accept my sincere felicitations.
You are, obviously, deeply deranged. Please do not take this as a slur on your, no doubt, estimable character, but rather as a term of rare approbation.
In the hope that you long maintain this level of lunacy,
Yr Obedient Servant
Clovis
no subject
I humbly thank you, and wish much madcapness upon thee as well. Sanity is vastly over-rated.
Yr unobedient servent
Meltha
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject