Drawn Into Her Portrait
This story takes place at the time in which Jane has left Thornfield to see her Aunt Reed at Gateshead.
The afternoon sunlight's rays through the trees of the upper garden were dull. The lazy call of crickets hiding in the shady depths of their foliage were even more so dull. The visiting party within his estate were lounging in the main hall, the study, or their chambers. The heat of day was too much for their sensitivities it seemed. Rochester preferred to be away from the house yet it was he alone who must play the host yet another day before his guests.
Jane would've liked this time of day if she were here now. What was boring to him, could be of curious fascination to her. What had lost all of its amusement in his senses, was something new to learn about for her. She had become his counterbalance of sorts. He wondered what the months were like for her here at Thornfield before his arrival home...if one could call it that knowing what kind of tempest raged within its confines. Jane did not know of it, he was certain of that now although at times, he was not to be sure. On the night of the fire, she must have seen something. She said that she had not. Jane was always honest. Rochester needed a distraction away from thoughts of her. He made up his mind to return to the house. The upper terrace in the garden brought him in contact with someone else who missed Jane too.
Little Adele was tossing pebbles into the small reflective pond at the center of the terrace. Being unchallenged by her teacher had made her bored and listless. This would not do.
"Adele, child. Where is your nursemaid?"
"Sophie says that it is much too hot in the garden. She is watching me from the window in the kitchen. Voir?"
The girl pointed to the house where Sophie waved back through a partially opened window.
"And why are you pitching rocks into my pool?"
"I like the waves they make." she giggled.
"See the lily pads there, jeune fille?"
"Oui."
"What does their shape look like to you?"
The little girl shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.
"Think. It's a mass of land in the southern hemisphere—" he hinted for her answer.
"The West Indies? It is shaped like a big foot print and no toes." she giggled again.
"No, child. It is the continent of Africa."
Adele carelessly tossed another stone into the water.
"Come to your school room. It is time for a lesson in geography."
He gave a quick glance to Sophie who acknowledged that Adele should follow him.
The small classroom was hot and stuffy. Adele expressed her displeasure in French Parisian dialect at being back inside the house.
"Look here." Rochester took hold of the globe and turned it to the side of the African regions.
"Oui! The leaves are the same shape."
"You will read the countries aloud until I know that you are familiarized with this continent."
"Con-ti-nent." she repeated.
She began to run her little finger from nation to nation, comically mispronouncing some of the names. He would correct their titles after she had finished reading.
Rochester had a feeling that he was being watched. He looked up to the side wall of the classroom. A surprising visage of his beloved friend peered back in the form of a charcoal portrait. Another drawing was partially hidden behind it of a lady in vibrant colors.
"Adele! Are these drawings a part of your art lessons?"
"J'ai fait une erreur!" She said as she hasten to collect the portraits.
Rochester crossed his arms. His quizzical eyebrow raised, demanding an explanation. Adele stepped back with a pout.
"I miss my teacher, Monsieur Rochester. So I crept into her room while Sophie was dressing one morning and I found her collection of drawings and here is her picture. So I brought it to our room and I visit it sometimes when I want to see Miss Eyre again."
"You know that it is wrong to take what does not belong to you?"
"Yes, sir." She bowed her head as she gave the drawings over to her guardian.
"As punishment, you will not be able to join the ladies in the main hall for the next three nights."
"Je m'ennuierai!"
"Then perhaps while you are bored, you will remember this lesson. Now, off to your room. Go!"
Adele left the room with a loud sigh. Mr. Rochester turned his attention back to the drawings. He quickly lost interest in the second drawing when he realized that it was not her yet an unfamiliar woman. He examined Jane's self portrait closely before exiting the school room. Adele was looking around the corner of the corridor as Rochester carried the artwork back towards Jane's room.
In the late of the evening, most of the tiresome guests had gone to their chambers for rest. Only the Colonel and Sir George remained in the main hall talking over brandy and strong cigars. Rochester arrived at his own rooms leaving his coat on a chair and pulling loose the tie and collar around his neck feeling as though he had just escaped a noose. The fire was still lit and burning brightly in the hearth. He poured a glass of wine and collapsed into a large chair. He had thought of Jane's drawing throughout the evening. Now alone, in his room, he took the two drawings from the sitting table between his chair and another. The lady illustrated in pastels was pretty by conventional standards. She had large eyes and soft curving features yet her expression was lacking in character. Her coloring reminded him of Blanche yet the similarities ended there. He came to the conclusion that she could be Jane's childhood friend if she had lived to be an adult. He took a long drink of wine and cast the picture aside. It slid from the table to the oriental rug on the floor. He did not notice for his attention was caught on Jane's own portrait. He wondered why it is crude in its sketchy lines and void of the color and vibrancy that radiates from her in truth. Her eyes that can spark and challenge are hidden under a heavy yet familiar brow. Can she not see that about herself? The true elegant curve of cheek and arc of nose are rendered sharp and angular in contrast.
"One would not know her as I know her to look at this drawing." He thought aloud.
Still, her portrayal was realistic enough in her depiction that it became more pleasing in its accuracy the longer that he looked into it. The hurts of her past and dark shades of her childhood memories must be the motivation in this study of herself. He understood, for he felt the much same about his own past. He wondered how she might illustrate him in a portrait. What would she see? A halfhearted plan formed in the back of his mind of a way to persuade her to make that drawing someday. The plan was lost however when he saw something else in the portrait that distracted him, the very delicate prints of her fingertips smudged near the hairline. He placed his own fingers over the prints as if that was somehow making contact with her. A more intriguing feature then caught his attention. Near her shoulder were very small impressions of something that had been wet upon the surface. In his limited experience in the fine arts, he knew that charcoals did not involve using water. Without question, this must be the result small tears. Rochester could take no more of her arresting portrait tonight. The last bit of wine made him feel heavy with sleep in the large sitting chair, with her held securely in his fingers, he fell asleep alone.