The fourth...no the fifth glass of brandy. Possibly the sixth. He didn't know. He didn't care. Rochester tossed it down as if drinking water after weeks in the desert then dropped into the armchair. Light danced across his closed eyelids, the sound of crackling wood seemed so far away despite being right next to him. Even further away, the faint but solid footsteps of one Mrs. Fairfax echoed as well as the sound of her soft voice as she instructed the servants. The loud clatter of furniture being moved had gone for the day but it would start up again tomorrow, he knew.

Everything, everything. Cover it. Hide it. Conceal it from sight. He loathed to have covers and sheets, collecting up the dust and making the air even mustier than usual. But now anything she touched, everything she walked by, even brushed with the very edges of her skirts...if he had the mind to burn them all, he would. Instead, they would be hidden. Locked away if not simply covered up enough that they could no longer take a full physical shape in his eye.

Briefly a rush of French came by his ear; Sophie, as it were, passing through the hall and down towards the kitchen. She was unsteady, unsure of what to do. Earlier that day, a sobbing Adele attempted coherency as she begged to stay at Thornfield. He stated firmly that his decision was final even as his will wavered at her reaction. Sophie and Mrs. Fairfax had to unfurl her fingers from the door frame as she cried out to him repeatedly, asking for forgiveness, asking for his protection.

Forgiveness for what, you simple child? You never did wrong.

Protection? You need protection from me and your mother and all the other wrong things that you never knew and never needed to know.

She cried out for Miss Eyre, Miss Eyre, Jane! Jane! But of course, no one came when the name was called out, even in such a fearful tone.

Jane, would you come back for her? Your charge whom all felt you took to care as if your own child?

Jane.

Jane.

Jane.

Abruptly his eyes opened, his field of vision initially blurred but cleared with several blinks. The warm trails of small tears slipped over his cheeks but he made no move to chase them away. He looked about his darkened surroundings, the walls seemed so tall and monstrous in the firelight. Books that no one would read, art that no one cared about. Decanters with the most exquisite and finest liquor, imported with little care for cost. The darkened wood of the tables and side boards seemed to blend into the dark material of the cushions on the chairs.

The illusion was perfect. Edward Fairfax Rochester, bachelor, solitary soul, mysterious man of means...perfection.

But as he stood and moved to the decanter of brandy once more, he nearly lost his step and needed the solid form of the chair to balance himself. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, he thought with no little sense of irony. Quickly he drained the small glass before refilling it again. Caping the the bottle, he raised the glass to his lips as he turned to sit back down then froze.

He saw it there. A small face, pale as the moon, stared up at him. With lips red as a cherry and eyes darkened by black, this little face looked back at him with no remorse. The fire flickered across, flashes of orange and yellow, giving this immaculate face such features as if a demon or even an angel. Placing the glass on the table with almost no sound, he crossed the room as if possessed, a slow lumbering movement that paced him until his knees bumped the chair. Reaching down, he paused briefly before wrapping his slightly trembling hand around the object.

The doll was one of the few things she actually owned and one of the many she left behind. It lay rather innocuously near her bone hair comb, a few strands of ribbon she often wove into Adele's thick curls and the pair of lace gloves she wore to the church that fateful day. All these little things, the small pieces of her, he gathered up in a possessive rage and placed in a small chest that he kept here in the study. The doll did not fit into the box so he tossed it into the chair and left it there to be forgotten.

He cradled it in his hands, blindly sinking down into his chair as he studied it. The china doll showed some signs of wear, the paint slightly faded around the cheeks and eyes, little tears in the delicate lace of the sleeves and collar. He tugged lightly on the boots, surprised to find they were made of little pieces of leather rather than painted on. The dress material was woolen but made into the finest fashion possible. It was a beautiful doll and, as he remembered from one conversation, one of the few things Jane received in her time with her Aunt.

He traced the delicate lips, thinking of much paler, thinner lips that tugged up in the corners with the shyest of smiles. The dark black eyes on the toy looked like the soft celadon of her curious orbs. The white skin looked nothing like the almost translucent peach of her own, nor was it as soft and warm. The painted dark hair of the little creature came no where close to her reddish brown locks though both were pulled back into tight fixtures on the back of their head. The dress on the doll was a little fancier than her own but the colors were correct.

This beautiful innocent china doll.

He quickly placed it on the table beside him as he resisted the temptation to smash it to pieces. His head fell into his hands and his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Never again would he get the chance to hold her tiny hands, to give her his strength when her own slightly wavered. He would not walk her down the avenues of Paris and London, show her the world she only knew from tales in books. To see her smile when she greeted him in the morning, to see the blush that rose on her cheeks when he kissed her hands and lips in return. The chance for a brighter, sweeter, more complete life with her at his side, the soothing balm to the ache in his soul - never again.

He grabbed her too tightly, wrapped his fingers around her in a flurry of fear and anger. And like sand and dust, she slipped through his grasp and out onto the wind. The desire to keep her in his life was one thing. The need to have her entirely, her heart, soul, her utter and perfect innocence drove him like a wild animal to its prey. She lifted him up, gave him more hope then ever he had. Bertha, his father, the entire legacy of Rochester be damned; Jane Eyre, governess, plain and simple, was all he desired.

But when she heard the charges laid against him, the truth of why he seemed so ill tempered and frustrated, the rush to be married and off the continent...he watched the light dim from her face. When she put eyes on the exotic woman, trapped in an attic room, the smell of piss and God knows what else, rank as her hair was wild, he knew he couldn't get her back. Prostrate before her door, begging her to come out, tempting her with water, food, anything of necessity that might bring her to the outside...he knew it then. When her face turned to stone, his words bouncing off her, when his pleading revealed just how damn desperate he truly was; then it was confirmed.

Jane was lost to him. She had drawn into herself, preserving herself, her dignity, her grace. In her teary eyes, he saw the years of abuse from her family, her teachers, himself. They locked like wrought iron around her soul and her light, keeping him away, damnation of his own doing.

He looked up, his hands folded as if in prayer, a silent plea for forgiveness from the Saints, angels, God and Jane for his attempt to corrupt such a perfect soul. He asked for her back, he asked for her safety, he asked for her happiness, he asked for his own.

Though I am the most wretched and damnable creature, I will take my penance as you see fit. Let no harm come to her, send her a guide, a light, something to get her away and to safety. I want her back, dearest God in heaven, I want her back. But do not let me harm her. For I nothing to give in place of her grace, her gentleness, her love. Please God.

Please.

Please.

Please.

He took the doll back in his hands and clutched it to his chest, believing Jane herself did this same thing as child many years ago. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes again and took deep swallowing breaths. Eventually, the breathing helped the alcohol which turned his weariness into sleep.

When Mrs. Fairfax found him, the doll hung precariously from his hand over the side of the chair. Quietly, she lifted it from his loose grasp and placed it back upon the chair. She wanted to rouse him, to usher him and his reluctance to be cared for up to his room for a proper sleep. But he was sound asleep, his face actually appearing peaceful in a way. She did not wake him but laid a small lap blanket across his chest before retiring herself. He would wake in time, find his way to his bed. She only prayed he would take less to the bottle tomorrow than today.

When he woke later, it was not the peaceful rousing that usually accompanied his drunken naps. It was to the smell of burning wood, a thick cloud of smoke drifting in from under the door and the sound of screams and maniacal laughter from above.

"Redemption can be found in hell itself if that's where you happen to be." - Lin Jensen