A/N: In which I attempt to write St. John's fate differently. There aren't many fanfics about our favorite parson, so I decided to have a go at it. Please leave a review if you have the time.

Edit 1/27/18: Spruced up a bit of the contact between Edith and St. John in the first section.

Edit 6/18/18: Cleaned up bits and pieces of Chapters 1-8. No major overhauls, just grammar that jumped out at me.


Chapter 1: The Return

There was a whisper in Morton that pervaded all households.

Parson Rivers was in want of a wife.

His cousin, Jane Eyre, had rejected him. The small ex-schoolmistress who taught the farm girls of the community with little pay and even less thanks was brave indeed. How she would ever find a better, more handsome man to marry was beyond them.

He would go to India alone.

Sunday service was unusually tedious this week. Perhaps it was due to the parson's disgruntlement with his private state of affairs. A stormy miasma hung about his head all through the morning even though his face did not betray any knowledge of it. Nay, he seemed as oblivious and blind as a child to its parents' love.

St. John was always in control of his emotions, but that was just what he thought. His stormy blue gaze swept around the congregation, clouded with the fire of sermon, the toil of his earthly labor. Indeed, as their eyes locked, Edith could see the beads of crystal perspiration circle his brow—like tears of blood from the thorns that plagued his mind.

It had been years since they had last seen each other. He found something within her, something that told him even his secrets were no mystery to discerning eyes. That the windows he held so guardedly might not betray him, but the rest of his body would. He matched her, sky to sea, and there could be nothing more. He ripped his eyes from hers, the flush of his neck rising to his cheeks as he continued.

Embarrassment. Resentment at the distasteful contact they had shared.

It was all too telling, even a look as innocent as that was nothing short of blasphemy in the temple of God. To allow her to peer so guilelessly within his soul here was unacceptable.

His voice rose in a renewed swell of sermon, impassioned and longing for the sweet purity of his station. Miss Eyre had certainly done a number on him—not from love but through sacrifice. Should St. John sail to India half a soul rather than one, he would have an incomplete canvas to offer to the Lord. In sacrificing her love to a mortal, she left none of her heart for Him in that eternal paradise they longed for.

St. John cared for her soul. Perhaps he saw her refusal as that ultimate defiance, the straw that would finally earn the Lord's scorn. Should his love be lost, it would never return.

That day's closing prayer rang ominously. The boom of his voice rolled like thunder cresting on the tides of humanity. When she stood from her pew, her bonnet and cloak fastened, she felt his gaze follow her out the door.

No ear, old or small, was immune to gossip. Not in a small town like Morton where little changed except for the generations of the families that had inhabited it.

Edith Richardson had arrived in Morton the night before, released from the drudgery of employment at her old boarding school at last. There had never been so fine a summer as that of which she would not have to look to the next fall season with groans of scholarly pain. She was a free woman as of now, educated in all rights and a teacher of three years.

The first thing she heard was of Miss Eyre's presence—and the contemptuous silence with which St. John treated her for the last three days. He spoke to her in a normal, moderate fashion at all times, public or private, but there was little doubt about the ice that masked the extension of his kinship to one so dear to him as his cousin.

Naturally, Edith could not help but conclude (along with everyone else) that there had been a falling out between them. And what other rift would there be between two people of the opposite gender than that of marriage? They were cousins who had been living in the same home for months now. Naturally, things would progress to this state.

She wondered if it would be wise to visit Marsh End with tensions like this. Mary and Diana had invited her for tea to welcome her back through a missive delivered by a farm girl. It had been so long since she had seen the Rivers family that she could swear they were all nearly different people from the ones that laid in her memory. From the glimpse she managed to catch of them at church, Mary and Diana had outgrown their soft teenage beauty, emerging to the world as handsome women of maturity. St. John managed to look even more distinguished than he had as a young Cambridge scholar, though she attributed this mainly to the fact that he wore his fine parson's attire instead of the standard gentlemen's clothing. The black suited him well.

Jane Eyre was something of an oddity, however: she did not fit in with the lovely, well-organized family. The image recalled itself to her mind's eye—sitting at the far end of the pew that held the two Rivers women was a brown-haired girl of Edith's age. There was a mixture of reverence and misery on her homely features as she stared up at St. John, hypnotized by his voice.

As Edith approached the old house on the moor, she could see that this expression had not ceased. That same girl, Jane Eyre, stood at the apex of the knoll, her mind wandering through the low grasses.

"Good day, Miss Eyre!" she called, lifting a gloved hand in greeting.

Jane started, and waved back. There was a twitch of confusion in her features, no doubt due to the unfamiliarity with which she beheld Edith. They had never been introduced, after all.

Still, Jane met her halfway, stopping short in the middle of the dirt path.

"It's so nice to finally meet you, Miss Eyre. I am Edith Richardson, the daughter of Samuel Richardson." She gestured over the vales in the distance toward the general direction of her home, Winfield Grange. "I've come to Marsh End to visit."

"Ah, yes. Mary and Diana let me know you'd be here for afternoon tea," she said.

There was a slight pause as they strolled to the house together, Edith turning her face to enjoy the sunlight.

"I've heard you were the schoolmistress at Morton. How did you find our little scholars, Miss Eyre? Quite a handful, were they not?"

"Yes, well, in the beginning. They improved much over the course of these last months. I should think they hold even greater potential than they do now. Their work will not go without fruit to bear."

Edith smiled. "I agree. Thank you for your care, the Lord knows these girls should receive every advantage they can. The education you provided will broaden their minds as well as those of the children they will have. All for the better of man."

"Please, do not thank me. These girls deserve all the best. I came to learn this in my time with them."

They came to the door then, and Jane opened it, calling to the residents of the house. Mary and Diana came to the fore, greeting her with kisses and exclamations of pleasure. They were at a loss at how she had grown so tall and womanly; their eyes roved over her without reserve, glowing with joy and pride that she had not known for so many moons. Dainty fingers worked at the tie of her cloak, revealing a slender form clothed in quality linen. Gray and fashionable but only just so.

And when her bonnet fell away, there was St. John.

He stood in the doorway, his manner severe, his jaw set beneath snow-white skin. He betrayed no surprise at her appearance, having studied her so thoroughly from his pulpit earlier that day.

A hush descended on them as he stepped forward and took her hand, laying a kiss on his own knuckle.

"It has been quite some time since you've come here, Miss Richardson," he said without preamble. His words were simple and blunt—just the way she remembered.

"I've rectified that issue now, Mr. Rivers, and I will do everything in my power to prevent it from reoccurring in the future." She smiled and Mary and Diana giggled.

"I should hope you will not be so cruel to us again, Edith!" Diana said.

"Yes, else we will march you from Winfield Grange whenever we please," Mary finished.

The three of them laughed again and swept off to the parlor, the last two occupants of the house trailing silently after them.

The tea laid forgotten on the table, lost amidst the reminiscing of the young women. They recounted their childhood together to Jane, having been friends in the days before Edith attended boarding school seven years ago.

"Well, I suppose you were more like my nannies," Edith giggled, "You were women already! I was just a child!"

"A very mature one at that," Mary countered, "Entirely too smart-mouthed for your own good."

"Who did she learn it from, I wonder?" Diana said.

The entire party quivered with mirth. All except one person who sat stirring his tea, a slight smile on his face.

The cool marble of his features was fascinating to watch. They rearranged themselves as if they were nothing more than pieces on a chessboard—so precisely he formed his lips and the corners of his eyes that all the warmth was lost in him doing so. Whatever humor he had gathered from their little conversation could not be seen.

It was then that Edith realized he was merely being polite for the sake of his sisters. Jane, the relative he possessed but did not love, he tolerated. It was Edith who was intruding his sanctuary.

He really had not changed at all from his college days. As a girl, Edith had seldom seen him at Moor House. This was partially due to the fact that he was often away for the academic quarter but mostly the result of his antisocial behavior. He had never really taken to making new friends, but then again, she was a child and he had been a man for some time. They had never been in the same sphere at all.

It did not mean he could not at least be friendly.

She gave him a full look—one of knowing and enough gaiety to put him on edge—with a smile curled on her mouth.

"Shall we go for a walk?" she suggested.

It was a full 20 minutes later that she and St. John wandered apart from the other three women, so lost they were in a conversation of Goethe's Faust, which they were currently studying. Jane apparently continued to endeavor in German even while Hindustani was her main focus. It was commendable to have such vigor in one's studies. Edith never had enough determination to practice a language to completion on her own time, much preferring to read or sing.

She was much less a scholar than they. Not as learned nor as mannerly and sophisticated. All her seven years had been nothing but to feed her slothful behaviors.

"And yet you are thinking. Even now," St. John said.

Edith turned to look at him. His gait was casual, contrasting harshly with the tight fold of his arms behind his back. There was no awkwardness, only severity.

"Yes. It's all I seem to do as of late."

"From a lack of avocation? Have you no plans for future occupation?"

"No, I always think. My mind can't seem to function any other way. I've been a teacher these past few years. I'd like to think that deserves some respite, no? Now, after leaving the seminary, I'm going to travel and then find a place to settle."

"Travel? To where?"

"Cambridge. A rather interesting coincidence, Mr. Rivers."

He merely nodded, the long strands of hair at his forehead fluttering in the wind. The gale drowned out the sounds of Jane's voice as she talked animatedly with Mary, a delighted grin spread across her lips. "Might I ask the reason why a young woman such as yourself would be traveling there?"

"To visit my cousin. He is teaching mathematics during the summer term."

"A professor then. He must be quite distinguished."

She raised her hand to her lips, laughing with no small amount of humor. "Should you ever meet him, I think you might form a vastly different opinion, Mr. Rivers."

"Then I shall cease this line of conversation."

That suited her just fine. She had other things on her mind in any case.

"I never thought you a parson. Pray tell, why ever did you take up the cloth?"

"To deliver God's will to the undeveloped regions of the world. In the past, I considered a number of different professions, but found that the missionary's purpose suited all of these needs."

She raised a brow but nodded. "An admirable goal to be sure. But…"

She paused, wondering if it would be rude to say it.

"What?" he inquired. "You are silent."

"I hope you will not take offense."

He shook his head, scrutinizing her with a pale eye.

"You do not seem so content. Here. In Morton. Is that why you wish to go to India?"

"England thrives on the light of Christianity. I am not required here where the souls of many are already saved. If I were to exert my powers in India, I would be able to turn pagans from their lawless, untruthful idols and deliver the most exacting of God's crusades."

"Powerful words, Mr. Rivers. I wish you all the best, though I do not think you will need it."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Because I think you will be able to rise over whatever comes, well wishes or not."

He did not stiffen at her presumptuousness. They were the truth, and both of them knew it. In the few times they had met, they had gathered enough of each other's personalities through physiognomy and intuition alone.

The sunlight was dimming fast, bleeding out of the vibrant summer hues at an alarming pace. Edith had not noticed that time had passed so quickly. The five of them rerouted themselves to the same aimless destination, resuming their merrymaking as she looked homeward.

"Must you go so soon, Edith?" Diana asked, following her line of sight.

"Unfortunately so. Father will be waiting with supper."

"Then we shall walk you there."

Edith shook her head. "There is no need, Diana. Besides…I was thinking you should all come to Winfield tomorrow. Father and I would be delighted to have you."

She took Jane's hand. "Especially you, Miss Eyre. I don't think you've managed to get in a word all day!"

"But of course, Miss Richardson. It was wonderful meeting you," Jane replied.

Edith liked her already. The other girl's pink mouth quirked happily, and she released her, drifting towards home. They waved her off, St. John tipping his head as she followed the well-worn path. By the time she crested the next valley, they were gone.