AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have not read the original book series, but according to the 1984 film Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes, the Clayton estate is in the Lowlands of Scotland. But for the sake of this fic series, let's say the manor is somewhere in England.

The title is from, obviously, "You'll Be In My Heart" by Phil Collins from the 1999 Tarzan.

Don't listen to them

'Cause what do they know

We need each other to have, to hold

They'll see in time, I know

Muviro joins Jane at the bonfire after her father's funeral.

"So what now?" he asks, sitting beside her in the dirt as the fire crackles before them.

She pulls her legs up to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. "I have to reunite John with any of his remaining family. It is the only thing to be done."

The chieftain tilts his head. "Will you come back home?"

"I wish nothing more than to return, but…" She can't speak for a moment. "I do not know if I will be able to."

"Africa will always be here for you."

Muviro puts a hand on her shoulder, offering her a fatherly smile, and the corner of Jane's mouth turns up even as tears come to her eyes. But then Dr. Harris weaves through the villagers, and stops to stand over her. "Miss Porter, may I speak to you for a moment?"

She nods, eyes red as she gets to her feet and follows the doctor a few feet away as he says, "I have heard you found a journal by John Clayton the second."

"I did."

"I have also recently been informed that the man we looked after is his son, John Clayton the third. Is that correct?"

"It is."

The Welshman wipes at his forehead with a handkerchief. "If I am not mistaken, he may have family in England."

She can't breathe for a moment. "What do you mean?"

"My brother works as a gardener for a nobleman named John Clayton the first, Earl of Greystoke. If John the third is who we think he is, then the elder is his grandfather."

Her heart leaps into her throat. "You are certain?"

"It is definitely possible." He holds out a slip of paper. "Here is the address. May God keep His hand over you both in this endeavor."

Her hands shake as she takes the address.

Heartfelt thanks tumble from Jane's lips as she says her goodbyes to Muviro, but her embrace with Wasimbu doesn't seem to last long enough as she wraps her arms around her best friend.

"Write to me," she says in a watery voice.

"Of course," he promises, and pulls away before she is ready.

"Look after my books for me," she adds, and he nods, clearing his throat.

Drawing a ragged breath, Jane picks up her trunk filled only with clothes and the journal, and walks with John up the gangplank of the steamboat, tears blurring her vision. She hands the tickets to the porter, John watching her carefully before copying her movements with his own papers, but the uniformed porter thankfully doesn't notice John's uncertainty.

"You and your husband are in room-" The bespectacled man looks up from his chart, clearly recognizing the name difference between the passengers for the single room.

"I am his nurse," Jane says, lifting her chin, but it's not a lie. She might not have a degree in medicine, but no one can doubt the fact that she nursed John back to health herself. "It is imperative to his condition that I travel with him."

The man purses his lips. "Very well. Your room is number ten."

"Thank you, sir," Jane says with her brightest smile, putting a hand on John's arm and guiding him away.

The room she could barely afford is even smaller than she expected.

"You will sleep there," she says, pointing at the single bed, "and I will take the floor."

Another man would have insisted that Jane, as a lady, should take the bed, but John doesn't comment. But she had made the offer, and regardless, his wounds are still healing. She won't hold his lack of understanding of social cues against him; there is time for him to learn, and she appreciates that he doesn't treat her like a china doll.

But that evening when she is shivering on the floor under one of her father's thin coats, she hears John's voice in the darkness. "Jane?"

"Yes?"

In the moonlight streaming through their cabin window, she sees him sit up in bed. He winces at the pain the movement still causes in his back and ribs, but then he holds out one of the blankets to her.

"I cannot take that from you," she protests. "I am not the injured one between us."

"You are cold," he insists, and she is too tired to refuse.

"Thank you."

"Welcome," he replies as she burrows under the blanket still warm from his body. In the dim light from the moon, she can see him watching her. He still sleeps only a few hours during the night, a habit she gathers he learned from the Mangani apes.

But she did not grow up that way, and she drifts off with the vague feeling that he is guarding her instead of simply observing.

When they make port in Spain, she decides to take him to a tailor.

They can't put this off. He's been wearing her father's clothes out of a lack of European shops in Boma, but the two men are vastly different in height, and most of Archimedes' clothes barely fit John. The single pair of trousers the somewhat similarly-sized Dr. Harris gave him fit the best out of everything, but the pants won't last forever. And if she is going to take John to his apparently wealthy grandfather, John needs to look presentable.

"When we walk into the shop, I will make sure they know you do not speak Spanish," she says as they pack in the privacy of their cabin, and she shows him again how to fold a shirt. "I cannot be in the fitting with you, for obvious reasons." When he blinks at her, she adds, "For propriety's sake. But I will stay in the shop."

Her face colors. "They will pin fabric around your body. Let them do this. And if they stab you with a pin, do not growl or bite anyone." She pauses in locking the clasps of her trunk in place. "You have been doing so much better at not biting. I am very pleased at your progress."

He looks away, lowering his head, and she recognizes his way of showing embarrassment. It had taken him time to understand the concept, as the animals that had raised him clearly did not feel the emotion. She already knows that Mangani apes express submissive gestures, and that is what John reverts to when ashamed.

But she has noticed he only acts this way around her and her alone. If anyone else is in the room, he is on edge, muscles tense and body ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. But he is willing to drop his head and expose the back of his neck to her, and that is the surest sign of trust she has ever seen from him.

"Before we disembark," she begins, but when he blinks, she simplifies. "Before we walk off the ship, I wish to review non spoken communication. Do you remember what nodding is and what it means?"

He demonstrates, brow furrowed slightly. "It means yes?"

"Good. What about shaking your head?"

This question confuses him as it always does. She waits patiently as he struggles to separate what she taught him, against what sinking teeth into a prey's neck and shaking it until it was dead meant for his entire life. "It means no?"

"Very good!" She beams, and when he offers a faint smile in return, her heart feels like it will overflow. It had taken him quite a long time to understand that smiling was not a sign of aggression, and even longer for him to smile – truly smile – at her.

She racks her brain for anything else to coach him on. This will be his first true exposure to Western society; they have stayed in their cabin while sailing to Spain, taking the opportunity to study together away from other passengers, and the city of Gibraltar will be his test. John has been doing well – extremely well, in fact – and could navigate among African natives in ports up the coast who thought he was just another odd white man. But Spaniards might not be as accepting, and she doesn't even want to think how the English will treat him.

But before she can offer John any further advice, the ship's whistle blows, and she heaves her trunk packed with both their clothes from the bed. "Stay close to me," she says as if he needs the instruction, and he follows her like he always does.

They exit the ship without incident, and she checks when their next sailing date will be before taking John to the first inn she can find that looks modestly priced. When they enter his plain and simple room, hers the next one over, he doesn't say anything. But she can see he is already looking a bit tired already from the mental stimulation of being around so many people, not to mention the fact that he keeps putting a hand on his ribs.

She glances at the window to see afternoon sunlight still beaming through the glass. The days are longer in the northern hemisphere, and surely they have enough time to reach a tailor's before evening. "Let us take a rest," she offers. "It has been a long day, but we both need energy for the remainder of it."

He huffs, but she decides not to suggest he reply with words this time. Jane herself is tired, but she already is accustomed to civilization and Europeans and crowds – he is not.

"I will return after a time," she says as he sits on the bed, and when he nods, she can't hide her smile as she goes to the door.

After an early dinner, she gets an address of a quality tailor from one of the inn's bellhops, and heads out with John back into the bustling streets.

As they walk, she glances at him from time to time. He scans the crowds and buildings and carriages, looking for danger as he always does. But now that there are no threats waiting to jump out at him, he slowly allows himself to be simply curious. He seems fascinated by the people and looks into every store window they pass, but he only stops when a horse pulling a nearby hansom cab is whipped lightly by the driver. It is not the worst strike against a horse even Jane has seen, but John's eyes are suddenly blazing as he takes a long stride towards the two-wheeled carriage.

She grabs his arm. "John, stop."

"He is hurt the zebra," he says in a clear voice.

"It is called a horse," Jane explains in a low voice as people give them odd looks. "I will explain the difference later, but for now I will say that the man owns that animal, and so there is nothing we can do."

He watches the hansom cab pull away down the street. "Owns it?"

"Yes. Just like your clothes belong to you, the horse belongs to that man. He can do with it as he pleases."

His gaze is hard. "Clothes are not the same as an animal."

"I know," she sighs, but his muscles are still tense under her hand. "We need to find the tailor, John," she adds, but he does not move until the hansom cab turns a corner and disappears from view.

She waits nervously in the tailor's shop, listening to a low murmur of Spanish through the door of the fitting room. Jane does not hear John's voice the entire time he is in his fitting, and prays he remembers what she taught him. As the sun sets over Gibraltar, he finally emerges from the room, and Jane pays the tailor in advance for the clothes they would pick up the next day. They can purchase more in England, but four suits and one coat is enough for now, especially given that their next ship sails in less than twenty-four hours.

"How was it?" she asks as they leave the shop.

"Strange," he replies. "But they did not stab me with pins."

"That is very good," she says with a laugh, and though he does not seem to understand the reason for her amusement, a faint smile turns up the corner of his mouth. But as they leave the upper-crust street the tailor's shop is on and head into the lower income side of the city where their inn is located, the sky starts to darken.

Jane mentally kicks herself for her miscalculation the timing of the sunset, walking faster down the street as twilight settles over Gibraltar, and John lengthens his stride to keep up with her. She considers herself capable of self-defense, but she is wearing a corset, a heavy dress with too many skirts, and shoes that are not the easiest to run in. And though John is at her side, he also was injured only months ago, and probably won't be able to defend her as handily as he did the day they met. They make their way through the shadowed streets, and when they turn the corner to see the lights of their inn on the other end of the block, Jane breathes a sigh of relief.

A figure darts out of an alley, the knife in his hand catching the light from a window.

Before Jane can even react, John is twisting their mugger's wrist until she hears bones snapping, the knife falling to the cobblestones. The thief is on the ground in the blink of an eye, trying to scramble away as John plants a knee on their assailant's stomach, and then John's hands are around the man's neck.

"John!"

He freezes at her cry, the thief sputtering and gasping as John pauses in what Jane is sure was going to be snapping the man's neck. "Let him go!"

The thief starts to choke, and for a moment she sees Tarzan, not John, before her.

"John!"

The man wheezes when John releases him, and the thief staggers to his feet, wrist at a horrifying angle as he runs. The knife lies forgotten on the ground, but Jane pays it no heed as she grabs John's arm. "Inside the inn. Now."

People look up as they hurry up the stairs to their rooms, but she ignores them as she slams the door of his room behind them. "John, you cannot do things like that!" She forces herself to lower her voice, hands curling into fists at her sides. "You almost killed him!"

There is no remorse in his blue eyes. "He was going to hurt you–"

"There is a difference between self-defense and murder!" she exclaims. But when he only stares back at her, expression unchanging, she forces herself to think rationally. Of course he doesn't know the difference. It did not exist in the wild, did it?

Drawing a breath, she tries to calm herself. "In society, among humans, killing is wrong. If one person kills another, the first will be sent to jail and possibly killed themselves because of what they did." She attempts to keep her voice even. "Self-defense is acceptable. You did the right thing with getting the knife away from him. Stopping someone from hurting you is perfectly fine. That is what self-defense is," she adds, looking into his eyes. "Do you understand?"

He gives her a small nod.

"However, choking someone and snapping their neck is not, under any circumstances, allowed among people. Killing is wrong. Do you understand this?"

He nods again.

She lets out a long sigh. "It has been a long day, and we both need sleep. I am going to my room."

Jane feels suddenly young and overwhelmed and tired, weary of the constant explaining and interpreting and clarifying. She never had to describe literally everything in life to someone, not even for the youngest students her father let her teach, but it never ends with him. If she walks away like a part of her wants to, boarding the first ship to America, and forgets all about John and Tarzan and what happened in Africa, he will be left to…

She doesn't even know what he would do with himself.

He would never be able to return to Africa on his own, and his knowing where England is even located is highly questionable. He would never reach his grandfather, left to wander the streets of Gibraltar until he was arrested, but an asylum might get to him first.

And wasn't that what she feared in the first weeks of working with him? How can she even think of abandoning him to that fate just because she feels too tired to deal with this any longer?

"I will see you in the morning," she promises, hiding her disgust at herself. But when she goes to the door, she turns at his voice.

"I will never hurt you, Jane."

She manages a weary smile. "I know."

She checks in with John the next morning before going to the tailor's alone.

When she returns and packs his new clothes into her almost bursting trunk, Jane finds she is grateful that she did not bring any books but the journal of John Clayton II. They wait until right before their next ship starts to boarding to check out of the inn, and walk briskly through the docks. She doesn't want to spend any more time in the streets of Gibraltar than necessary, but it seems their thief has not reported John to the police, because no one stops them as they get on the ship.

They sail to France, but spend most of their time in the city of Brest holed up in their inn; Jane doesn't want a repeat of Spain. They spend the days rehearsing what he could say to his grandfather, but she doesn't tell John that they might not be allowed meet the earl, even should John Clayton the first truly be his relative. He has enough to worry about without knowing this.

And so when they finally land in Plymouth, Jane is more nervous that John.

She spends nearly all the money she has getting them from southern England to the Peak District, and as her purse gets lighter and lighter, she wonders what on earth she will do if they are turned away. She sells her trunk, some of her dresses, and even one of John's new suits for an old but large carpet bag in Leicester. Jane carries the bag as they walk across England until the weather gets bad, and then brings it from stage coach to stage coach until they finally reach the village outside the Greystoke manor.

She is worn down from what feels like a lifetime of travel, promising herself that she will never journey that distance ever again as they walk through the village. But when they reach the beginning of the long path to the manor, snow begins to gently fall, and she groans.

"What is this?" John asks, wide-eyed at the white flakes. "Is it bad?"

"It is called snow, and no, it is not bad," she explains. "But it will not help if we show up at your grandfather's door looking like half-frozen drowned rats."

But there is nothing to be done, and so they continue as the road turns white before them.

John's fine coat is soaked by the time they arrive at the main doors of the manor, and though Jane is sure her hair looks a fright, there is no time to fix it. The head butler looks down at her and up at John with an annoyed expression when he opens the door.

"The servant's entrance is that way if you are here to deliver something," the gray-haired man says, gesturing to the right, but Jane lifts her chin.

"The earl's grandson is here to see him."

The butler's mouth forms into a thin line. "His Lordship's grandson has been dead for years."

A part of Jane is glad to see the butler is defensive of his employer, because then it means John's grandfather is a good enough man that even his servants care about him. "I have a journal from John Clayton the second that explains everything–"

"I lived in Africa after their deaths," John interrupts, off script.

"His parents were shipwrecked," Jane jumps in as the butler grows more exasperated. "He only learned of his heritage in the last year."

"Those are the words of con artists," the butler declares.

John has no idea what the butler has called them, but a desperate Jane steps forward. "We have come so far. Please let us speak to His Lordship–"

"I am afraid that is out of the question," the butler says firmly, starting to shut the door.

"What is out of the question?"

From the butler's reaction, Jane knows instantly who has spoken.

"Your Lordship, there is a man claiming to be your grandson," the butler says, opening the door wider as Jane hears footsteps against marble.

"My grandson?" the earl repeats as he comes into view, and stops in his tracks to stare at John.

He certainly looks old enough to be John's grandfather, with both gray and white hair mixed in his fashionable mutton chop sideburns and thin mustache. He is dressed to his station, casually wearing an expensive suit with a gold pocket watch chain hanging from his waistcoat, but there is no haughtiness in his stunned expression.

"Who are you?"

"John Clayton the third," John says as she had coached him. "Son of John Clayton the second and Alice Clayton."

"You look so like Alice," the earl murmurs, voice distant as if he is talking to himself.

"Why do you have an American accent?" the butler questions, throwing John off.

"From me," Jane offers, which isn't a lie. "As he grew up in Africa, he did not speak English until I began teaching him."

"And who might you be?" John Clayton the first asks not unkindly.

"Miss Jane Porter, daughter of Archimedes Porter. My father and I taught English in a village in the Congo, and your grandson and I met there."

"Why did you not come to England before now?" the butler presses, but his employer holds up a hand.

"Come inside," the earl says. "You both must be freezing."

The butler clearly disapproves of the earl's invitation, but steps back to let the pair inside. But when the man approaches John and says, "Your coat, sir," John looks to Jane. She immediately removes her own coat, and he copies her.

"It is a long way from Africa," his grandfather says as they walk through the grand entryway, but Jane clutches her damp carpetbag when the butler reaches for it.

"I will keep this with me, if you do not mind. Yes, it is a long way, Your Lordship, but I have a journal from your son that explains a large portion of the story."

"Fetch some tea," John's grandfather says to the butler, and the younger man stiffly bows, eying John suspiciously as the employee leaves. "Let us talk in the library, shall we?"

Logs are burning briskly in the fireplace when they sit in the leather armchairs, and the earl notices his grandson looking at the towering bookshelves lining the walls of the huge room. "Do you like to read?"

John shakes his head, and Jane quickly explains, "Given that he only learned to speak English recently, reading in that language is… a work in progress." She hastily pulls the journal from the carpet bag, wondering how she will ever explain John's previous life without sounding like a lunatic. "Speaking of reading, here is the journal written by your son."

"This certainly looks like his handwriting," the earl murmurs after flipping through the pages for a minute or two. "And to be honest, the journal appears too authentic to have been faked."

"I swear it is not forged," Jane says, but falls silent when the older man looks at his grandson.

"But the greatest proof I have is how much you look like your mother," the earl says quietly, and pauses. "Yet you do have your father's eyes. Neither of those facts can be denied."

The elder John stands, and Jane and his grandson follow suit. "Thank you, Miss Porter, for bringing my grandson to me."

"You are more than welcome," she begins as a maid brings in a tea tray.

"Elizabeth, would you show Miss Porter out?"

Jane's gaze snaps to John's grandfather. "Your Lordship–"

"I do not wish to waste any more of your time, my dear," he says to Jane as panic swells in her chest. "You have travelled so far, and I am sure you need rest. All you will miss is an old man reminiscing."

"I would gladly stay," she protests, but Elizabeth is already herding her out of the library. Alarmed, John tries to reach her but stops, conflicted, when his grandfather puts a hand of the younger man's arm.

"Thank you for all you have done," the earl says as the maid hands Jane her carpet bag.

"Your grandson is under my care. I served as his nurse in Africa, and I am still tutoring him in English. His is not–"

"I want her to stay," John interrupts.

"We will find people to look after you, my boy-"

"Jane," John cuts in.

"Thank you again for your assistance, miss," the earl says firmly.

"Your Lordship, I am your grandson's soulmate," Jane exclaims, pulling her arm from the maid's hold to shove up her own sleeve, displaying the name on her wrist. "And he is mine. Does that count for nothing?"

"My dear, you sound like a very busy woman," his grandfather smoothly adds. "Did you not say you were a teacher in Africa? I do not wish to keep you from your students there. Good day, Miss Porter."

She is turned away every day she goes back to the manor.

After the fourth time of being refused, she has no qualms about pounding on the main door, the servant's entrances, or anywhere where she might be let inside. Part of her hopes that if she knocks loud enough, John will hear her, or her insistence will convince the earl to let her in, but nothing works.

She rents a room in the cheapest inn she can find in the village with the rest of her remaining money, starts looking for work, and writes to her aunt, but leaving never crosses her mind. The servants who send her away appear more and more on edge when they greet her, and she initially thinks it is because of her. But she notices they appear stressed even as they open whatever door she has found, and she wonders what is causing them so much strife.

But after a week, Jane trudges back through the snow to find John at the window of her room in the inn.

She rushes to open it, John ducking inside with snow in his hair. After she forces the stiff window closed, she whirls to face to him. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to see you."

"Wanted," she corrects. "You could have used the stairs. People will think the inn is being robbed!"

"Robbed?"

She forces herself to lower her voice. "Stealing. Taking what is not yours." Jane sighs. "John…"

"You are not happy."

"No. Yes. I am very happy to see you. It is merely that this situation is far from ideal." She sits on the edge of the bed. "I thought your grandfather liked me well enough, but I was mistaken."

"I do not know what to thought of him."

"Think," she offers.

"He is kind and gives me food, but he says you do not wish to see me." His brow furrows. "You wanted to stay the day he sent you away."

"Yes, I did." She brings a hand of her temple, a headache building behind her eyes. "John, the reason your grandfather is keeping us apart is because I am not nobility. As I told you long ago, you are an earl. You have a title and power. I do not. My father was just a professor."

"And?"

"According to society, we cannot associate. Spend time in each other's company." She does not allow herself to say No matter how greatly I wish to out loud.

"Then I do not care about society."

Tears prick at her eyes, and she forces herself to say, "You should," as she realizes again just how tired she is.

This is more than a moment of brief frustration. She is tired of this endless fight, tired of constantly moving, tired of battling against a system with rules she can't break and lines she is not allowed to cross. No matter what she has gone through with John, she is not his blood relative, and she does not have a say in what happens to him.

"We must go back to your grandfather," she makes herself say, reaching for her cloak.

"I want to stay with you."

Her breathes catches. "That is not possible."

She expects him to ask why, but he catches her off guard when he says, "Make it possible."

She blinks away her tears. "We cannot. The entire purpose of this journey was to return you to your family." Not to keep you for myself. "Come," she chokes out, and goes to the door.

She won't let herself look at him as they walk to the manor, because if she does, she will be too tempted to take his hand and run all the way back to Africa.

Her search for a governess position in the surrounding areas turns up dry.

She is about to ask the landlady for a job in the kitchens when Mrs. Whitlock herself shows up at Jane's room. The older woman barely finishes saying someone from Greystoke manor is waiting downstairs for Jane before the blonde grabs her cloak and heads for the stairs.

"Miss Porter," the head butler says, trying not to look desperate but failing, "the earl of Greystoke requests you at the manor as quickly as you are able."

She raises an eyebrow. "What for?"

The butler glances at the other people in the inn's main room. "It is the earl's grandson, miss. He is acting… strangely." A hundred different scenarios spring to her mind at his words; this is not how she wanted to return to John's life, but it will have to do. Jane walks past the butler to the door, and goes out into the night with her head held high.

After convincing John to open his door after two days of keeping it locked, reassuring him that the staff could be trusted, an exhausted Jane finds his grandfather in the library.

"He is settled, Your Lordship."

"Miss Porter, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize," the earl says. "All you wished is to help my grandson, and I treated you poorly for it."

You treated me poorly because I am not titled. "Apology accepted."

"And thank you for your assistance," the earl adds wearily. "You seem to be able to handle him quite well."

"I would not use the term handle," she replies, jaw clenching. "He is not a horse or a dog. But there is no other person on earth who understands him as well as I do," Jane continues honestly. "He has progressed under my tutelage, yet there is so much more he does not know. Please allow me work with him."

"There seems to be nothing else to be done," he sighs. Jane, now bursting with joy, keeps herself from doing a cartwheel then and there as the earl watches the snow fall outside. "Miss Porter, I have noticed my grandson has some odd… behaviors."

"There is reason for it," Jane replies, drawing a steadying breath. "There are details I did not reveal of his past that you must know."

"Oh?"

She offers the man a smile. "You may want to sit down for this, Your Lordship."