"Yet it would be your duty to bear it, if you could not avoid it: it is weak and silly to say you cannot bear what it is your fate to be required to bear." ― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Jane sat, her head against the top left of the seat, eyes half shut from her long journey. She had flown over, although it was a short flight, the drive from the airport had turned from one to seven, or more, she lost count. The drive did not seem to mind that his young guest was half asleep in the back seat. Her petite form seemed a sliver of nothing ness, a thin girl, with willowy features underneath a mop of hair secured tightly in a bun upon her head. What little there was to her, this school teacher from far away.
The driver saw the hall, Thornfield Hall, a great manor since the times of Lords and Ladies. Far in the past, an ancestor had been involved in a great fire within the place, but a predecessor had returned and fixed the place to its former glory. Hitting the turn indicator on, the car turned and the charge in the back woke, opening her eyes with no restless movements. "We are here miss."
Jane saw the approaching site, a great tall building surrounded in darkness, no sun lay upon its windows. It was a great mansion, tall and wide, with more rooms than she could count. There was nothing near it, vast woodland and grassy plains surrounding the great estate. In her eyes, she had never seen such a place. She had lived within foster homes all her life, since her aunt had declined all relation. A collage of homes, each one relatively equal to one another, none could encompass the circle of abuse within her aunt's house. She, herself, Jane Eyre, had been luck. Miss Temple, a young social worker, had gotten her out when she noticed something wrong at school. She had fostered a soft and caring love in the young child, becoming her mentor and esteemed older sister, of sorts.
She had always been a plain girl, she was tall, five foot seven, but her slim features presented her constant strife. She had small, and not overly feminine features lower than her neck. She had once been told she had a sweet face, with features not totally wanting, allowing for improvements. Blue eyes with sandy blond hair, scattering of faint freckles that never grew because, dear reader, she hated the son.
" is inside." The driver huffed, and Jane opened her door, clutching her overnight bag lightly. The man opened the trunk, and she walked towards the entry way, a remnant of an ancient world. Stepping inside, she looked around, tucking a hair around her ear. It must have been the old kitchen, a strange and wonderful place where technology sat among old things that seemed to rich and full of life. Running a finger along the edge of the counter, she lost her thoughts in her imagination. Jane.
"How do you do, my dear?" Mrs. Fairfax spoke, coming down the stairwell to her left, and Jane swirled to greet her, being embraced by a traditional smile and handshake. "I am afraid you have had a tedious ride; John drives so slowly: you must be cold, come to the fire." A woman appeared, taking her bag and Jane slipped off her shoes and was brought into a massive room. She was grateful for the warmth, the chill of the night had seemed into her skin without releasing it. The two sat in silence, drinking tea and Jane looked about the room. It was tall, taller than any one person could ever hope to clean, or reach. Bookcases stood almost everywhere, and she guessed it was the study. Old rugs and furniture sat, not a shred of dust lay upon them.
"Am I meeting Ms. Fairfax tonight?" Jane asked, setting her cup down as she asked the question. The woman across from her startled.
"Who?" She responded, narrowing her eyes at the girl in front of her. Somehow, it all felt like it had been repeated some time before, these two souls conversing as if time had never separated them.
"Ms. Fairfax, my pupil." Jane said, hiding any confusion from her voice as she carefully repeated the question. The other woman smiled, holding up a hand in understanding.
"Oh, you mean Ms. Varens, Mr. Rochester's ward. She's to be your pupil." Mrs. Fairfax smiled, standing, grabbing a lantern while startled Jane briefly. The woman explained that they liked to keep it rustic, since they often had tours of people wanting to stay in the old building. As they walked, Jane became aware a great vast place, full of stair cases and old paintings, even some at the far back of the building were singed. She was very aware that her room seemed to be away from the rest of the house.
"Who's Mr. Rochester?" Jane asked, finally breaking the silence. The curiosity was nagging like a dog scratched at a door. Was he middle aged, tall and aloof, standing in a lone hallway watching her like an old recluse? Was he a old man, who lacked the power to care for a young ward? Jane.
"Why, they owner of Thornfield Hall. Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester." Mrs. Fairfax responded, the elderly woman seemed to flicker in the darkness. She was as tall as Jane was, but stout, smartly dressed. She wondered what Mrs. Fairfax would look like in a past bygone age. Jane. She looked behind her, fearing madness had set in, a remnant of the house seeping into her soul already."
"I thought Thornfield Hall belonged to you." Jane responded, slightly confused at the whole arrangement, not to say the voice she kept hearing as they walked. Mrs. Fairfax opened the room, placing her bag inside, her other luggage already there. Her room was spacious, far larger than what she expected. A large canopy bed sat in the middle of the room, a fireplace opposite with a chase and dresser on relative sides.
"Oh bless you, child. What an idea? Me? I'm only the housekeeper"