Author's Note & Disclaimer: As always, this is a work of fanfiction. Any familiar characters, plot lines, scenes, events, dialogue, etc. are all borrowed/shamelessly stolen from The Blacklist and/or Jane Eyre so that I can play in somebody else's universe…or universes in this case.
So anyway, hi! :) I'm super new to The Blacklist fandom, having juuuuuust discovered this show in September-ish. But oh my god, that pilot, riiiiight? The Stewmaker. The Anslo Garrick episode! Red rebuilding the music box. Little Dembe (*sad face*). And like, everything else. Just love, love, love. It's my new favorite thing.
And Jane Eyre is one of my oldest favorite things. So I was finishing up some other fanfic projects and wondering what I should do next, when this idea rushed into my head and just would not let go. I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels some parallels between Mr. Rochester/Jane and Red/Lizzie. If only for all the angst and drama…
Canon-wise, whatever. If they finish with a plausible explanation for the connection between Red and Lizzie, I'll be happy. I'm used to having my ships sink (any other Jorah/Daenerys fans around these parts?)…that's why we have fanfiction :)
I was thinking I should maybe wait until after New Year's to start posting this, since my updates will probably be sporadic until after the holidays. But I'm too excited about this project to keep it in a drawer for a month, so…sorry/not sorry. For my main fanfic projects, I usually try to post a chapter a week but this will likely be more of a biweekly (or a little longer) schedule.
If all goes according to plan, this will be novel length. Brief summary: The Blacklist love story (ahem #Lizzington) set in the Jane Eyre universe, but heavily influenced by both. Basically, I'm keeping the things I like from both stories and ditching the rest.
Fair warning, the characters won't map exactly. For instance, Agnes becomes Agnès, the little French girl (and, in this story, she's not Elizabeth's biological daughter) and I've made Sam's last name "Keen" instead of Tom (who will appear as Jacob Phelps only and not really in a favorable light, tbh). Everyone's been aged down by about ten years (so Lizzie's in her early 20s and Red is early 40s).
Also…So. Much. Angst. You should know, angst and slow burn romances are kinda my thing. I adore tragedy and emotional scenes (my Twitter handle is ladymelodrama for a reason) so that's happening. But just know that I don't do unhappy endings. Promise. Xo
Rated T for now but subject to change if the mood strikes. Okay, *deep breath* here we go…
Chapter One:
Lancashire, England, 1845
I don't know what I expect of my 21st birthday.
Not much, if I'm being honest. I assume it will pass, as all the others have, without notice, without fanfare whatsoever, save a throwaway thought that flickers in and out of my consciousness as I open my eyes this morning, forcing myself away from the same dark dreams that plague my mind every night, and wake in the small, cramped, cold bedroom that I share with two of the other young teachers of Lowood School.
Today's your birthday, Elizabeth, the thought says bluntly. There's nothing of substance in the thought—no happiness, no cheer, no feeling. It's a fact. A recitation. No more than that.
I suppose I might scribble a few notes about it in my sketchbook after evening classes. I use the sketchbook as a diary sometimes (although less and less with each passing year) and it seems natural to mark the day somehow. Yet, I've grown so used to my birthday being just another dreary, grey day, one of the multitude that I've passed since I first came to Lowood School however many years ago…so I'm not sure that I will mention it at all.
No, the only thing that occupies my thoughts this morning is that I'm cold. So very cold. I pull the thin quilt up around my shoulders, hoping to draw a little warmth from its threadbare fabric but there's little to be found. A northerly wind lashes against the old stone walls fiercely. The coal we're allowed is paltry and the sad, smoldering fire went out early in the night. The wash basins are iced over, as always, and there's white frost painting up the window panes.
November is the cruelest month, for it's the beginning of winter and, at Lowood, winter lasts the whole year round.
I can't really remember the last time I felt warm. It's been a decade, at least. I have memories of warmth but they're all from ages ago, before my Uncle Sam died. But not too far back, as my earliest memories are dark with shadows and cloaked with mysteries that I've never been able to solve—and sometimes, can't summon the courage to try.
A fire, a locked door, a girl with blonde hair…
But there are a few happy memories too—thanks to Uncle Sam. I can recall sitting beside a crackling, cheery fireplace as my uncle whittled out the inside of a piece of basswood, carving up the figure of a rabbit for me. He was so good with his hands, his knife cutting into the wood expertly, shaping a dark coat of fur that was nearly soft to touch.
My uncle was a sailor in his youth, traveling all around the world, seeing all sorts of places, learning all sorts of things. But he always told me that his favorite place in the whole world was sitting by a fire and carving up a little figurine.
"There you go, butterbean," he said when he was finished, handing the rabbit over into my willing, six-year-old hands. When he smiled, my uncle's laugh lines always creased warmly, with the firelight softening his otherwise rugged and weather-beaten features.
Even when he was sick and they brought me in to say goodbye, he managed one last, soft smile, saying, "Don't cry, Elizabeth. Don't ever let them see you cry."
When he died, I refused to look in the casket. I knew he'd take his smile with him and I didn't want to see what was left behind.
At the funeral, I stayed by the windows, half-hidden by mauve-colored drapes, running my fingers over that wooden rabbit in my hand and trying as hard as I could not to cry. Two tears fell on the rabbit's basswood fur, nonetheless.
But I didn't let them see me cry. Not my cousins, who would have told me I had no right to mourn their father. Nor my aunt, my uncle's wife, who had never said a kind word to me, not one, from the moment Uncle Sam brought me into his house at Gateshead and told her that I was his niece and would henceforth be raised as one of their children.
"But who is she, Sam?" I heard my aunt whisper in the hallway, not believing the family connection for a single moment, demanding to know why her husband had brought a foundling child into their household.
"That's not for you to know," my uncle replied, too easily dismissing her question. I was still a very young child, but even I heard the threat in his gravelly voice as he continued, "And don't ever ask me again."
My uncle's wife, Mrs. Keen, loved her husband. But she didn't love me. We were oil and water from the first.
You were born bad, Elizabeth, and you will die bad. These words are scratched into my soul. Whether she spoke them because she had some vague knowledge of my true origins or not, I cannot say. Perhaps it was just the simple clash of our natural personalities and had nothing to do with the rest of it. Whatever her reasons, she certainly didn't share them with me.
Soon after my uncle died, Mrs. Keen decided that she could not have me in her house a moment longer and sent a letter to Mrs. Diane Fowler, the matron and mistress of Lowood Institution for Poor and Orphan Girls.
The old woman, with her silver hair and high-collared black frock, arrived within a fortnight.
"You will find the child to be impulsive, wild and of a passionate nature, Mrs. Fowler," Mrs. Keen threw up her hands with dismay and did not mince her words, despite the fact that I stood nearby. She continued, "She was well loved by my poor, dead husband, but she's no true relation to either us—neither his family, nor mine. He was always a foolishly sentimental man about the girl. He told me that he'd made a promise to someone to look after her but I'm not sure I believe it. With that dark hair and those dark eyes, she's barely better than a gypsy child. You'll see, Mrs. Fowler. There's something unnatural about Elizabeth…"
"Girl, come here," Mrs. Fowler had beckoned me close. I hesitated before taking a cautious step towards the old woman. Her wrinkled face had none of the laugh lines that had graced my uncle's. Her lines had been fashioned by sneers and frowns, one of which she turned on me, scowling deeply, "Do you know where the wicked go after death?"
"They go to hell, ma'am," I answered quietly.
"And what is hell? Can you tell me that?" she continued.
I shifted on my feet, uncomfortable with the line of questioning. Still, I knew the answer. All children do. I said, "A pit of fire."
"Should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there forever?"
"No, ma'am."
"And what should you do to avoid such a fate?" She was being facetious. I knew what I should say, but there was something in Mrs. Fowler's hard eyes and in the way Aunt Keen twitched her head and cocked her eyebrow, waiting for my response.
"I should keep well and not fall ill," I stated flatly, unable to resist the clever answer that leapt to my tongue first, borne of some stubborn streak of defiance that I've never been able to rein in, even back then, when I was barely nine-years-old.
I knew why Mrs. Fowler was sent for. She had come to take me away from Gateshead. She was there to take me from my home. I should have been afraid, but I wasn't. With my uncle's death, Gateshead was no home. It was a tomb.
My aunt screeched her predictable, "You see? Do you see this unnatural child?" while Mrs. Fowler's frown turned a few shades darker. She took the carved rabbit from me that very moment. She reached out and snatched it from my hands, her fingernails scraping at my skin in her haste, leaving scratches on my hands.
I haven't seen the rabbit since.
Now, eleven years later, I rise and dress, breaking the ice in the wash basin and grimacing as I force my hands into the cold water. I braid my long, dark brown hair to one side and then go down to the school rooms to begin my day.
I have been both pupil and teacher here. There's little difference, except I now sit at the teacher's table in the mess hall and have to pretend that Mrs. Fowler's lessons are not only gospel, but good. I don't pretend. I'm not that accomplished as an actress. I only say nothing at all. For in silence, there's protection. This is a lesson I learned years ago, during the first lonely years in this bleak place, when they starved us and beat us and said it was God's work.
On my 21st birthday, I teach my assigned classes to the girls as usual—art, drawing and French. I teach them how to draw garden flowers and country landscapes, saving the more intricate and fantastical images that my fingers itch to draw for the hidden pages of my sketchbook…if I even dare include them there.
Mrs. Fowler has no patience for fantasy and she has burned my drawings many times before. I have no interest in her burning any more.
So I keep the girls' lessons traditional and sedate…as are we all, as am I. Perfectly behaved, dressed in grey (for it has become my color), ready to live out each day from now until the end of my days in the same cold, quiet manner that defines the many, unhappy residents of Lowood Institute.
But then, at lunch, the most unexpected thing happens…
"Elizabeth Keen?" Mrs. Fowler's unexpected use of my given name rattles the entire mess hall. We are referred to most often by our surnames only. As in, "Keen, recite your daily verses," or "Keen, submit to the consequences of your actions with a joyous heart."
Forks and spoons scrape against wooden bowls and the odd ceramic plate, as the girls' bonnets all swivel to the instructors' table, where the other teachers look at me as well, in anticipation.
What have I done this time? I rack my brain for some offense, some perceived crime, but come up empty. For years, I've been careful to avoid the more passionate nature that I seemed destined for as a child. Through diligence and silence, I have become a model pupil, teacher and resident of the school. Even Diane Fowler has remarked upon the change in my nature, heralding it as the most successful transformation she has ever had the pleasure to facilitate.
At the word pleasure, I always bite back the less genteel words primed on my tongue—an action which only proves her words true, I suppose.
But now, in the mess hall, Mrs. Fowler has deigned us with her uncommon presence (she rarely appears in this hall unless an hours-long lecture is required for the succor of our immortal souls) and she is calling my name. When I glance up with the others, I find her standing at the head of the table, staring at me with the same furious gaze that was a mainstay of her daily interactions with me during those first years, when nothing I did and nothing I said was good enough. To see such a familiar glance again is unnerving. I wouldn't be surprised to see dragon fire snort out of her flaring nostrils. My mere existence, once again, seems to be the very heart of the problem.
You were born bad, Elizabeth, and you will die bad. My aunt's cruel words always rush to taunt me at the slightest provocation.
Mrs. Fowler holds a sealed letter in her right hand, and there is an unfamiliar man standing beside her, dressed in fine clothes beneath a long, traveling coat. He's tall, strongly built and has skin as dark as chocolate.
Or so I imagine, I think to myself ruefully, unable to recall the last time I've seen or tasted a piece of chocolate. Ten years? More?
"Elizabeth Keen, you will come to my office at once," Mrs. Fowler growls the words, spinning on her heel and returning from whence she came, without waiting for my response. The unfamiliar man beside her catches my eye and nods just once in my direction, before following the school's mistress.
I set the spoon in my hand down into the half-full bowl of thin, lukewarm broth and push back my chair. The chair scrapes against the cold, stone floor with the echo of a dungeon door closing. Impulsively, I chance one more spoonful before I follow. Although the broth isn't much, with its uneven lumps of vegetables and barely two bites of meat, it's dinner, and I'm sorry to leave it. As I rise, I sigh very softly, so none can hear, knowing I will have nothing more until breakfast the next morning.
Happy birthday, indeed.
The man with dark skin holds the door open for me as I enter Mrs. Fowler's office.
"Thank you," I murmur, absently.
"You're welcome, Elizabeth," he answers, his accent rich and foreign. And the way he says my name…this isn't the first time those syllables have rolled off his tongue.
Diane Fowler is still scowling as I enter. She remains standing while she waves her free hand at one of the chairs in her office. I take the offered seat, fearing her wrath if I don't. I've known her long enough to know that she's beyond angry. Her face is contorted with suppressed rage. And, for whatever reason, I'm at the center of it.
"Your aunt warned me about you," she begins, seething. "I should have listened. All this time, I thought you'd changed and thrown off those traits that made you such an unbearable, willful child—"
"Mrs. Fowler, I—"
"I'm not finished!" she exclaims. "Who do you think you are, Miss Keen? How dare you?"
"I really have no idea what you're talking about…," I reply, honestly, completely unaware of where all this is coming from. I take no joy in whatever has brought her to this state, whether I want to or not. My words are true. I have absolutely no idea what's going on.
"That's enough, Mrs. Fowler," the gentleman behind me instructs softly, giving curt commands. "Give her the letter and we will be on our way."
I turn towards the stranger, looking for answers. But he only nods once more, his lips curving into a small but encouraging smile.
What is going on?
"What letter?" I manage but Mrs. Fowler has fallen silent, her rage melting away into something else. Something like fear. Something like secrets. I hate secrets.
I insist on an answer, "What letter, Diane?"
Using her given name procures the reaction I expect. Her head snaps up, chin jutting out defiantly, as before. She thrusts the sealed letter in her hand forward, forcing it into my hands, "There. Take it. Just as Mr. Zuma here"—she nods at the gentlemen behind me—"intends to take all the money that your aunt has sent the school for your care, as if feeding and clothing you for the last eleven years should have been our pleasure."
"What does that mean?" I ask, still not understanding any of this. I slip my finger under the wax seal of the letter and break it. The address is written in a man's strong but formal hand—Elizabeth Jane Keen, Lowood Institute, Lancashire.
"It means that you are leaving us, Miss Keen," Mrs. Fowler continues, her voice pinched and mocking. She assumes that I'm part of this plot, whatever it is, and thinks I'm playing a part. Out of spite, she reveals the rest in the same tone, "It appears that you have a benefactor who was only recently made aware of your presence here. Or so he says. So his man, Dembe Zuma, says. And I am being blackmailed, Miss Keen. Yes, blackmailed. As if I'm some common criminal instead of a woman who has given her life over to you miscreants and bastard children. I am to release you to this valet, together with every dime that was spent on your tuition and board. And if that isn't enough, I've been instructed to hand over five hundred pounds more, for your trouble. Oh, there's a special place in hell for a girl who would play a religious house of care and education so ill—"
"Mrs. Fowler, let me be clear, this is the very first I've ever heard of this benefactor. And I do not know this man," I answer firmly, gesturing at the man behind me, with a hint of that old tone that always rubbed Aunt Keen the wrong way. I glance at Dembe with an expression that begs him to confirm it.
"Elizabeth was unaware that I would be coming today, Mrs. Fowler. She has never met my employer," he says simply. But he's unwilling to waste time on further explanations, turning his attention away from my mistress and saying to me, "Come, Elizabeth, gather your things. We have a long drive to Thornfield Hall."
"Thornfield Hall?" Diane gives a laugh, devoid of all humor. "So this is Raymond Reddington's scheme?"
Who is Raymond Reddington? I wonder, having never heard the name in my life. My eyes drop to the words filling the missive.
Dembe doesn't confirm or deny the man's involvement. He's finished talking with the old woman. His attention is on me only. But I'm distracted by the contents of the letter that I now hold in my hand.
Dear Elizabeth,
I know you have been advertising for the position of governess in an attempt to escape your present circumstances. If you are interested, I have a young ward who is in need of your skill and talent. She is a kind child, but French, with all that implies. Her name is Agnès.
The salary is £30 pounds per annum, in addition to room and board.
Forgive me. I've been abroad for some time. Had I known that Sam had passed away, I would have sent for you much sooner.
Yours,
R. Reddington
It's the final line, the one about my uncle, that resonates. Although, yes, I have been advertising and yes, my reasons are to escape my present circumstances (however, I certainly didn't put that in the advertisement)—it's seems so odd that this man, who I don't know and have never met, should know these things about me.
And then the note about Sam. Did he know my uncle? Did they know each other? Does he know me? And how?
I've been taught not to do impulsive things. To act with decorum, rationality and prudence, in all things. But Mrs. Fowler's unpleasant sneer and the promise in her eyes that I will pay for this strange and unwelcome turn of events makes my choice clear, despite all the unknowns swirling around me.
"I don't know what connection exists between you and Lord Reddington, Miss Keen. That man's pockets run deep but his reputation makes him unwelcome at any respectable table. Thornfield Hall is not a destination for a young woman whose origins and birth are already shrouded in the shadows of some patched up scandal. I would hope we've taught you better than to—"
I ignore her, as she's no longer my employer, my mistress or anything to me at all. Just an old woman who has made a life's study of unkindness and the worst bits of religious fervor. Before she's finished speaking, I nod to Dembe, slowly, absently, my answer forming without thought, "I'll just be a few minutes."
Considering my few possessions, it might be less than that. Which reminds me…
"Thank you, Diane," I answer, while folding Mr. Reddington's letter along its creases and slipping it in the side pocket of my skirt. I reach out and take the basswood rabbit figurine that is perched on her desk, my rabbit figurine, and hold it tightly in my hand. My tone is heavy with irony as I mention, "I'll never forget your kindness."
And then, without waiting for a reply, I leave that miserable woman's office for the very last time.