The Arrival

The iron ring of keys at my waist has always been the heaviest thing I carry, though the physical weight of them is nothing compared to the silence they enforce. Thornfield Hall is a house built on secrets, a sprawling, stone-ribbed beast that breathes damp drafts and exhales the scent of beeswax, old wood, and something metallic that I try very hard not to name. I am Alice Fairfax. To the world—or what little of it bothers to look upon this isolated corner of Yorkshire—I am the respectable, mild-mannered housekeeper. A widow of quiet disposition, grateful for the patronage of Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester, a distant cousin by marriage.

They see the starched white caps, the black silk gowns, the placid smile I wear when I pour tea in the drawing room. They do not see the way my hands tremble when I lock the door at the base of the third-floor staircase. They do not hear the laughter.

It began years ago, a sound that curdled the blood and sent the younger maids into fits of hysterics. I dismissed them, of course. 'A draft in the chimneys,' I would say, my voice steady and reasonable. 'The wind off the moors plays tricks on the ear.' I hired older, deafer women after that. I learned to sleep with my pillow pressed over my head, though the low, mirthless cackles always found their way into my dreams.

Grace Poole is a necessary evil. I pay her an exorbitant wage from the master's private accounts, and in return, she keeps the beast fed, clothed, and, most importantly, confined. I do not ask what happens in that windowless room. I only ensure the door remains bolted. It is my duty to the house, and to Mr. Rochester. He is a man haunted by his own choices, a wanderer who cannot bear the sight of his own ancestral home. And who could blame him? The halls of Thornfield are thick with the ghosts of his youth, and the very real, very breathing specter of his ruin.

But the house cannot remain empty forever. The ward, little Adèle Varens, requires instruction. A child of French frivolity, she is a bright, chattering thing that disrupts the gloomy silence of the lower floors. She needs a governess. And so, the advertisement was placed, and the replies were sifted through, and a Miss Jane Eyre was selected.

I stood by the window of my sitting room, watching the November rain lash against the glass, waiting for the carriage that would bring this new complication into our lives. A young woman, eighteen years of age, fresh from the austere confines of Lowood Institution. I imagined a pale, frightened creature, easily cowed by the grandeur of Thornfield, easily managed. I needed her to be manageable. The delicate balance of this house depends on ignorance. If she were to ask too many questions, if she were to wander where she ought not to wander...

The crunch of wheels on the gravel drive pulled me from my reverie. The carriage had arrived. I smoothed my apron, checked the ring of keys at my waist to ensure the iron felt secure, and went to meet her. I did not know it then, but the arrival of Jane Eyre was the beginning of the end. The house had tolerated its secrets for a decade, but this quiet, watchful girl would be the spark that ignited the tinderbox.

As I opened the heavy oak doors to the damp chill of the evening, a sudden, sharp peal of laughter echoed from the upper galleries. It was quickly muffled, cut off as if a hand had been clamped over a mouth. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. I looked to the driver, but he was busy with the horses. I looked to the small, dark-clad figure stepping down from the carriage. She paused, her face turned upward toward the darkened windows of the third floor.

She had heard it. I knew she had.

I pasted on my most welcoming, grandmotherly smile and stepped forward into the rain. "Miss Eyre, I presume? Welcome to Thornfield Hall."

I chose to say nothing. It was the choice I had made a thousand times before. Protect the girl, or protect the house. The house always won.