Page 67 of Jane Deyre

I feel my cheeks flare. Jane’s face is turning pink.

“Do you like her?” asks my daughter.

“You mean, your new snail?”

“No, silly! Jane.”

“Sure.” A shade of crimson, Jane bows her head and idly re-arranges the rocks in the terrarium. For sure to avoid eye contact with me.

Adele looks at me pointedly. “Then, how come you didn’t bring her back a present?”

I cringe. Her nanny was all I thought about on the drive back to Thornhill. Yet, I was utterly thoughtless. I tell my daughter I’m going to buy her something.

Lifting her head, Jane gives me a sharp look. “Mr. Rochester, there’s no need. Material things are not the way to my heart.”

What is it with this girl and money? All the women in my life, including Adele’s mother, were after my small fortune. Looked to me to shower them with jewels and designer clothing. Take them to exotic places. Put them up in the finest hotels and dine in 5-star restaurants. Jane seems to want nothing from me. And oddly, I want to give her everything.

Adele plucks Stripette from my hand, and Jane tells her the snails’ new home is ready. I watch as my daughter gently lowers the two shelled creatures, one at a time, into the terrarium. All three of us keep our eyes on them as they check out their new habitat. They make themselves at home quickly. Moving at a snail’s pace, one crawls up a rock, the other a leaf.

“Maman! Papa! Look! They like it!”

My daughter doesn’t realize she’s accidentally called Jane “mommy.”

If Jane has, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she tells my daughter about her newfound daily responsibilities. Spraying the leaves with water to provide moisture and to wash off all the eggs. Feeding them regularly. And discarding all the waste.

I love that she’s instilling the value of responsibility in my daughter. She’s so maternal. Despite never having grown up with a loving mother, it comes naturally to her. It totally turns me on. Makes me feel tethered to her. Beneath the table, makes my cock flex.

As we’re about to transport the terrarium to Adele’s room, the veranda doors burst open.

Alice fucking Fairfax.

Without saying a word, she throws something onto the table. It clinks against the glass.

The key to the guesthouse. The front door lock must be fixed.

If I could, I’d lock Jane up and keep her there forever.

Make her mine.

CHAPTER 34

Jane

This day, which began with tragedy—the crushing death of Adele’s snail Stripe—has ended on a bright note. It may even be one of the best days of my life. I had fun. I felt purposeful. I felt... okay, reader, I’ll say it... in love.

We ended it with dinner together with Grace in the kitchen, and then Mr. Rochester joined me when I read a bedtime story to Adele. He sat next to me on the bed, the warmth of his body radiating through mine. He then called it a night, saying he had work to do. In a way, I was relieved he didn’t walk me back to the guesthouse. Knowing how easily I would succumb to him if he put a move on me. Adele’s observation was astute. He’s using an approach-avoidance tactic with me. And truth is, I’m doing the same. Though struggling to fight the pull. My attraction.

Armed with my duffle bag, vision board, backpack, and guitar, I traverse the pebbled path as fast as I can. The night is again cool and damp, the heavy fog obliterating the stars and veiling the full moon. The misty air silent except for the crunch of my footsteps. And the chirping crickets. Opening the stubborn gate, the guesthouse comes into view. The lights are oddly on, though once again I’m positive I turned them off after I packed up my things.

When I get to the front door, I turn the knob. A sense of security washes over me. It’s locked. Maybe the locksmith who was here left the lights on. I reach into my jeans pocket and retrieve my new key. The one Ms. Fairfax reluctantly gave to me. Fingers crossed it works. I insert the cold metal into the keyhole. Turn it. It’s a little stiff. With another twist, I hear a click. The door unlocks and I push it open. Letting out a sigh of relief, I drop my duffel bag on the floor and suddenly realize how tired I am. It’s been a long day full of ups and downs. I’m emotionally drained. Leaving my bag behind, I trudge to my bedroom with my vision board, backpack, and guitar. My room looks intact. And the window is closed as I left it. Phew! Convinced no one is in the house, I hang my vision board back on the wall. The hooks that Mr. Rochester hammered in are still there.

I return to the entrance to retrieve my bag and to make sure the door is locked. It is. Carrying the bag, I catch sight of the letter of resignation I typed last night still in the carriage of the old typewriter. With my bag in hand, I pad over to the desk. I don’t want to wake up to it tomorrow morning. I yank it out of the typewriter.

Beneath it is another sheet of paper. On it in red marker caps:

BURN IN HELL, JANE DEYRE!

My hand shakes. My heart thuds. Who would write something like this? It’s almost as if someone watched my dream from last night on a big-screen TV. Impetuously, I snatch the note, crumple it in my hand, and toss it into the wastepaper basket. If the fireplace were working, I’d burn it.

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