Author's Note: Hello! Here we are. I'm a terrible person... I'm sorry! Please enjoy this next chapter. Hope you are all staying safe in the current climate. Much love, Princess Kanako x

Title: Scattered Roses

Author: Princess Kanako

Pairing(s): (Self-insert!OC)Jane Eyre/Mr. Rochester

Date Submitted: 29/3/21

Disclaimer: I do not own Jane Eyre, it belongs to the marvellous Charlotte Bronte.

Claimer: I do own Rose Carey, a few plot ideas, and any other OCs that pop up along the way.

Genre: Romance, Drama, Angst

Summary: Dying and being reborn into Jane Eyre's body wasn't exactly what Rose had in mind. Then again, she hadn't exactly planned on dying, either.

Warnings: Contains Rose's sass

Several days later, Mr. Rochester did, as he promised, explain it. As the weather was fine that day, Rose had taken Adele outside, and Sophie joined them as they played games. Adele had decided they would play at being 'Brides', so one after another, Adele, Sophie and finally Rose had wreaths of daisies adorning their brows; Adele had also loosened her carers' hair pieces to such a degree that long locks of mahogany and bright golden curls were woven with more daisies. It was this scene that Mr. Rochester discovered as he came across them in the garden. Her face feeling rather warm, she stood and sent Adele and Sophie a little ways away, preparing herself for the upbraiding that was doubtless bearing upon her.

"Your pupil, Adele, is the daughter of a French opera-dancer."

Her gaze snapped up to rest on his visage, incredulity colouring her face.

"Too sudden, Miss Eyre?" he said briskly. "I thought you detested idle chatter."

"Well, I do, sir, but to go from silence to something like that is perhaps a bit too sudden," she answered, subtly plucking flowers from her hair as she followed after him, to a stone bench hidden beneath the large chestnut tree. Settling herself upon the seat comfortably, Mr. Rochester in turn, took his seat beside her and continued his story.

"Her mother, Celine, was one whom I had once cherished a 'grande passion'," he continued. "I was a fool for her - installed her in an hotel; gave her servants, a carriage, cashmere, diamonds - in short, Miss Eyre, I made myself a perfect fool for her. I called upon her one evening when she did not expect me, and found her in the arms of a brainless vicomte. I realised instantly that a woman who could betray me for such a rival was not worth contending for. I liberated Celine from my protection, gave her my purse and ordered her away from me. The vicomte and I made an appointment to meet at the Bois de Boulogne the following morning, where I left a bullet in his feeble wing. Don't look so severe, Miss Eyre, the fool survived," he said, rolling his eyes at her aghast expression. "Celine had presented me with Adele, who she insisted was my daughter, some months before. Perhaps she may be, perhaps not. But when her mother died, I felt a sense of duty - to bring her up in a manner befitting a young English lady, rather than a silly French opera-girl."

Rose glanced down at her fingers, pale against the dark fabric of her dress as she wrapped her mind around the information she had just been given. Illegitimate children were fairly commonplace before she arrived here - it wasn't as big an issue during the modern era as it was for the Victorians, or the eras that came before. Here, they tended to end up in poor conditions, like Lowood, and if they survived childhood, they worked poor jobs, made poor marriages, and died in poverty. Rarely were they given such a good home, like Adele had received. She never had to worry about food, clothing or anything of the sort, Rose realised, after Mr. Rochester had taken her in. His kindness in the matter, however, did not excuse him in his treatment of her. Not in her opinion.

"You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not. You never felt love before," Mr. Rochester commented quietly. She nodded slowly. She had never fallen into the depths of a 'grande passion', nor was she likely to; as a governess, her marriage prospects were meagre at best. Perhaps marriage wasn't on the cards for her. It was of no importance.

Mr. Rochester gazed at her silently before lifting his eyes to the battlements, peeping as they were between the budding leave, with such a look that shook Rose. Pain, shame, ire, impatience, disgust, detestation - all struggled to find a foothold in those expressive eyes. A wild look twisted across his face before something else rose; hardened and cynical, self-willed and resolute. His passion settled and his countenance relaxed into icy boredom once more. Adele ran up to them, Sophie trailing behind.

"Monsieur, John has just been to say that your agent has called and wishes to see you," she panted.

"Tell John to see him to the library," he said gruffly. As the two sped off towards the house, Mr. Rochester turned to her. "Now you know that she is the illegitimate offspring of a French opera-girl, you will perhaps think differently of your post and protegee. You will soon be giving me notice that you have found another situation, that I will need to find another governess!"

"Indeed not." She stood, looking down at him, feeling insulted that he should dare to think so little of her. "Adele is not answerable for her mother's faults - or yours, as many as you have! I adore her, and now that you have told me she is, in a sense, an orphan, as I am - how could I leave her now? You think I'd prefer some spoilt pet to a little girl who craves affection?"

He looked at her with eyes bright with something she could not name. Still bristling with annoyance, she nodded her head once at him and set off after her charge at a firm clip.

Several days passed after her conversation in the garden with Mr. Rochester, days in which she studiously avoided him, wary of the repercussions of her remarks. He had spent the evenings in his study, while Rose occupied herself in the library or down in the kitchens with Mariah, John and Leah. During those days, Rose often indulged Adele more than was her norm, staying out a little longer while playing games in the garden, giving her small breaks in between lessons, letting the child sit on Rose's lap and let her prattle as much as she liked before bedtime. She was a flighty, fanciful child - perhaps not more than most children, but something that would be looked upon as a superficiality of her character by others. But she had her merits - fancies included - and while boasting or exaggeration was to be reigned in, Rose wasn't going to stifle such an imagination. If she had met Adele in the modern era, she could easily see the girl becoming an artist, a writer, or devoting herself to becoming a prima ballerina. It was a vain hope, but she thought that one day, Adele might be able to choose her own path, as much as a woman could.

After a week had passed, Rose was able to sit down and review Mr. Rochester's account without flying into a temper. He had said it himself, there was nothing extraordinary in the tale itself; a rich man's passion for a dancer, a subsequent betrayal - things that were quite the norm for the era - and probably in the modern day, she admitted to herself. Furthermore, it was more than charitable that he had taken in Adele as he had; it would have been the easy way out to simply leave her somewhere, or just wash his hands of the matter entirely. If anything in the whole affair struck her as odd, it was the frank candidness that her employer showed her by airing his dirty linens, as it were. Starting down that rabbit-hole, his eagerness to banter with her in the drawing room that evening some weeks ago had not been the norm for a master to his servant. Indeed, it now struck her that he had treated her as, perhaps, he would a guest to his home, one not perhaps wanted, but was obliged to entertain. And yet...that didn't seem right, either. She had not imagined the sadness in his eyes, the ache of loneliness in his voice. Perhaps it was because she was relatively new to the household, she surmised, taking up her hairbrush and attacking the snarls in her hair with gusto. Something shiny, new, odd, until something else caught his attention.

At least, that was what she had assumed. But his behaviour in the days after her 'review' of him, his mercurial nature struck again, and his deportment became a little more friendly towards her. Rose never appeared to be in his way. No longer did he stride past her with an icy manner, he seemed to welcome such encounters with a quick word, and sometimes a smile. In the evenings by the fire, there was a level of cordiality that made her wonder if such conferences were sought for her benefit as well as his pleasure. During those evenings, Rose spoke sparingly - not out of obstinance, but because she had nothing very interesting to say (and to keep a reign on her tongue) - while Mr. Rochester spoke with great relish. He was a naturally communicative fellow, taking it upon himself to open her mind with tales of his travels across the world. Rose was thrilled to devour the ideas he offered, paint the pictures he planted in her mind, or fall into friendly debate about different regions and their customs.

His manner was so easy, she soon was smiling and chattering away without restraint - able to speak cordially, but frankly, and to receive the same in return - she was drawn to him. He was no doubt still imperious at times, but it was his way, just as it was hers to have a quick-fire temper.

Lying in bed one evening after such a debate (whether it was more Godly to travel abroad and convert 'natives', or to pursue God's works in England among the poor and deprived), Rose found herself tossing and turning restlessly. She was tired, she was eager to sleep, but something lingering on the edge kept her awake. Soon, she heard the clock strike two.

This is ridiculous, she sighed, sitting up in bed. She wondered if perhaps a book would help when a noise sounded somewhere above her. She started, her heart racing when she realised - those rooms are empty.

Her heart thrumming, Rose slipped from the bed to ensure her door was locked. Cowardly, to be sure, but she'd prefer to have a locked door and be teased about it than robbers bursting in before she could hide herself or grab a weapon. Just as the key had turned, there was a faint, sweeping noise, as though someone had brushed their fingers along the walls of the gallery outside.

Please let it be the dog, she pleaded. I can handle Pilot.

A laugh - low, suppressed and guttural - sounded at the door, and she would swear her blood froze in her veins. Steps pattered up the gallery towards the staircase that led to the third floor - the door opened, then shut, and all was still.

Reaching for her book - and inwardly despairing at her choice of weapon - Rose slowly unlocked the door and peeked out. There was a candle burning on the floor, still in its holder, though the light was hazy. Taking in a breath, she could smell smoke. Fully alert, she could spy a door down the corridor that was slightly ajar - Mr. Rochester's - and in an instant, Rose had dropped her book and had burst into the room. Tongues of flame danced round the bed: the curtains were on fire. In the middle of the inferno, was Mr. Rochester, fast asleep.

"Mr. Rochester, wake up!" Rose cried, flying to his side and shaking him roughly. He murmured, batting her away and turning over, and she wanted to scream because of course he had a bottle of wine soaking into the covers with him. Rose rushed to the wash basin, then swore - some fool hadn't filled them. Beside them was a vase of fresh roses. Wasting no time, she ripped them out of their home, and threw the contents within at the occupant of the bed before flying back down the corridor to her own room and returning with her own water jug, dousing the bed anew and finally extinguishing the flames that had been devouring it. The loud hissing of the fire as it was doused, coupled with Rose's rather creative swearing and an impromptu bath had woke Mr. Rochester at last.

"Is there a flood?" he cried, coughing heavily.

"Chance would be a fine thing!" she steamed, opening a window.

"In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?" he demanded. "What have you done with me, witch, sorceress?"

"This is no laughing matter, Mr. Rochester!" Rose snapped, stamping her foot as she debated throwing the pitcher at his head. "You were nearly burnt in your bed - this is hardly the time to be making jokes!" Inhaling sharply through her nose, she counted to three before she continued in a calmer voice, "I will fetch a candle from my room - you had best change lest you catch cold in those wet things."

"If it pleases you, Miss Eyre - but hurry back!"

She was back in under a minute, returning her pitcher to its proper place before she brought the candle that still sat in the hall. Mr. Rochester took it from her to survey the bed, in all its sooty, watery glory.

"What happened?" he asked. Rose related to him what had transpired: the strange laugh, the footsteps to the third storey; the smoke, how she had found him, and how she'd half drowned him. He listened with a grave face, saying nothing when she had stopped.

"Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?" she ventured. He glanced down at her incredulously.

"Mrs. Fairfax? What the deuce would you call her for? What can she do?"

"Then perhaps John-"

"Not at all: just be still." He took her firmly by the arm and sat her in an armchair, looking at her for a moment before taking a cloak and dropping it into her lap. "Wrap it around you, you are soaked. And put your feet on the stool, to keep them out of the water." When she had complied, he stepped back. "Now, I am going to leave you for a few minutes. I will take the candle, and you are to remain here until I return. Not a word, not a single sound must you make until I am back."

With that strange order, he left the room and shut the door firmly behind him, leaving a dazed, confused governess sitting in his armchair, swaddled in his cloak, in darkness.

To be continued...