As My Own Flesh

by litloverscorsetlaces

Summary:

Jane Eyre arrives in France to become governess to the ward of the mysterious Comte de Rouen, Erik Carriere, who came into his inheritance following the tragic events at the Palais Garnier years earlier. Jane forges a bond with her masked employer that becomes more than professional. But Erik is tortured by a dark secret and a love he can't forget, and Jane knows a thing or two about suffering herself. Will they find love, acceptance, and even happiness with each other despite the tragic events of their past?

Notes:

"It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel itself quite alone in the world, cut adrift from every connection, uncertain whether the port to which it is bound can be reached, and prevented by many impediments from returning to that it has quitted. The charm of adventure sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride warms it; but then the throb of fear disturbs it."

--Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

Chapter 1: A Very Strange Sensation

I had nearly found sleep this time when I was jarred awake. The carriage collided with another pothole. This one sent a rattle down to my bones, and worried “oomph” escaped my lips. The coachman’s voice soon followed, but not with an apology for the rough journey. 

“We have just entered the estate, mademoiselle,” he announced over the vehicle’s groans. I wondered if the poor coach would survive the trip. “We will reach Chateau de Sainte-Cécile shortly.” 

I was tempted to inquire how long “shortly” was. I’d accustomed myself to endure all manner of physical and emotional discomfort in my ten years at Lowood Charitable Institute, but the journey from England to Le Havre and now to Boscherville had tested even my limits. The stormy sea crossing and now the arduous carriage ride into the French countryside had nearly depleted my reserves of patience–enough to make “shortly” feel like a vague statement.

But instead of harassing the coachman, I offered him a “thank you” and redirected my attention to the letter in my hands. 

It was well-worn now, having been my primary reading material during my travels. I held it again to the light of the coach lamp, which swung to and fro under the force of the shaking conveyance, and read it for what must have been the hundredth time: 

"If Jane Eyre, who advertised in the Herald of last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered her where there is but one pupil, a little girl, under ten years of age; and where the salary is fifty pounds per annum under the employment of the Comte de Rouen. Mademoiselle Eyre is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction: —

Madame Giry, Chateau de Saint-Cécile, Saint Martin de Boscherville.”

Brief as it was, the letter was my salvation. I was finally free of Lowood! I was traveling to be a governess in the employ of French nobility . In the past forty-eight hours I had left the country of my miserable birth for the first time and seen more of the world than I’d seen in my twenty years of living altogether. What did the roughness of the road matter when my horizons had broadened so significantly? 

The letter did its work. Even though the real horizon was shrouded by the darkness of the countryside at present, I was content. 

I could tell by the length of the journey that the estate was extensive; the carriage rolled on for some time and I had nearly fallen asleep again before the coachman rapped at the window once more to announce that the chateau was in view. I rubbed my eyes and let down the glass. 

Chateau Sainte-Cécile wasn’t at all the image of a fashionable French manor house. My journey, which had run through Paris and past a few other estates, had led me to believe that French nobility preferred light and highly gilded buildings. Chateau Sainte-Cécile, by contrast, was a dark stone palace that appeared to date back to the medieval period. The exterior was free of ornamentation with the exception of the imposing battlements lining the tower and uppermost story. 

The abode was decidedly unwelcoming. It had been many years since a battle had made it to the rural outskirts of Rouen, but Chateau Sainte-Cécile looked ready to withstand a military assault even now. As the carriage traveled under the shadow of the watchtower, the building seemed to regard me and the ragtag team of coachmen as a threat. Everything on this estate–-the house, heavy forests, and pitted roads–-seemed designed to repel visitors. 

My nerves increased as the carriage rolled into the cobblestone courtyard.

I had lived with fine people once, but I was miserable with them. My Aunt Reed had thought it the worst crime imaginable that I numbered among the things left her by her husband, my uncle. I suppose she hoped that her obligation to me had perished along with him, and my father and mother before him. The grandeur of her home was matched by her cruelty to me before she finally deposited me at Lowood Charitable Institute. 

But no time for these thoughts, I told myself, shaking my head fiercely. You're starting anew now. And when the carriage stopped in front of a lamplit door manned by a finely-dressed older woman, I put all exhaustion and reservations behind me and alighted cheerfully. 

“You must be Mademoiselle Eyre,” the woman said, stepping forward to greet me in English. “Welcome to Chateau de Sainte-Cécile. I am Madame Giry.” 

My first thought regarding Madame Giry was how unsightly I looked in comparison to her. All my life I’d been called plain; it hadn’t changed overnight. I was sure my natural deficiencies were only accentuated by my travel-worn clothes, ruffled chestnut hair, and overall youth. 

Across me, Madame Giry was the picture of elegance. The length of her tall, slim form was clothed completely in black. Her plentiful hair, which was pulled back in a bun, was as dark as her clothing with the exception of a single streak of grey. Her hand clutched a large walking stick with a silver lion’s head, though she didn’t seem to need its assistance judging by her ramrod straight posture. 

When she cast a glance over my less-than-appealing features, she was satisfied enough to offer a gracious smile. 

“Madame Giry, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I responded in her native tongue. “I’m quite comfortable conversing in French.” 

She assented and motioned inside the house to a manservant, who started removing my luggage from the carriage. She then ushered me through the door with a graceful wave of her hand. 

“Come in, my dear.” 

The lady led me through the threshold and into a massive kitchen. To my surprise, the room was fitted with new cabinetry, a marble tiled floor, and even electric lighting––a welcome change from the chateau’s medieval exterior. 

“I trust your journey was pleasant?” Madame Giry asked, turning to face me. 

“Quite,” I lied, “but the arrival is the best part.” 

“I’ve arranged for your luggage to be brought up to your room and a fire prepared,” Madame explained. “Would you like anything to eat or drink after your journey?” 

I smiled gratefully. “Thank you, but I think I would prefer to rest more than anything.” 

“Poor child, you must be so tired. Chateau Sainte-Cécile is a long way from Paris, let alone England”––She looked me over––“And you’re already so thin. Would you like to sit down?” 

"I’ve been sitting for so long I think I’d enjoy stretching my legs before I lay down for the night.” 

“Wonderful! I’ll give you a brief tour and then we’ll end with your room.” 

Heels and cane clicking, Madame Giry led me through the kitchen, past a corridor with equally updated but empty servants’ quarters, and to the main house.

The restorations and improvements I had seen in the service quarters extended to the rest of the chateau. The great hall clearly dated back to the early Normans with its stone walls, vaulted ceilings, and massive mantelpiece displaying the Carriere family arms. But the dark wood paneling, floors, and ceiling beams all seemed recently refinished and showed no signs of age. Pacing through it with echoing footsteps, I imagined myself in this room when it had hosted royalty, armored knights, and the great characters of French history. 

Off that imposing hall, Madame Giry pointed out the locations of several rooms–-the library, the Comte’s study, and a first-floor parlor–-before guiding me to a stairwell. Upstairs, another grand hall awaited us. This one lacked the high ceilings of the great hall that connected the main house and kitchens, but it too was well-preserved and improved with electric torch lighting. Tall, latticed windows lined one half of the room, though they offered no view but darkness at present. On the opposite wall, the floor-to-ceiling wood paneling sported a long row of large family portraits. 

One after the other, the pretty faces of Carriere ancestors stared back at me as I passed. Every woman on that wall seemed to epitomize the standard of beauty for her time. Some were fair haired, blue eyed, and Rubenesque; others were delicate brunette beauties or milky-faced medieval women with high foreheads. Yet, the portrait of each male heir regarded me with uniformly dark eyes and angular jaws.

Madame Giry caught my slackened pace and looked behind her to find me observing them intently, though from my vantage point they seemed to be the ones peering steadily into me. 

“The Carrieres are a very ancient family,” she remarked. “Some say they even have ties to Rollo the Walker, the first Comte de Rouen.” 

“Hmm,” I murmured in reply, as another set of deep, almost black, eyes looked into mine. Coming to the end of the line depicting more Comtes, I asked impulsively, “Is the present Comte’s portrait hung here as well?” 

“No.” 

“When did the title pass to him?” 

Madame Giry seemed to consider the answer. “About six or seven years ago.” 

“How long have you been with the family?” I ventured. "I'm sure you have a great deal of knowledge." 

“I spent most of my life in Paris, in fact. It was the present Comte who hired me; I followed him when he inherited.” 

“And is the Comte much at home?” 

“His business requires him to travel occasionally, but he spends the majority of his time here," she answered. "He keeps to himself, though. You’re not likely to see much of him.” 

“He is not involved in his daughter’s education, then?” I wondered aloud. 

“Daughter?” The word stopped Madame Giry in her tracks. She eyed me closely. “Your pupil, Adele, is Monsieur le Comte’s ward. She's of no relation.” 

“I’m sorry, I thought–-” I trailed off, too embarrassed to complete my sentence.

Truth be told, I thought the Comte was a widower. Since Madame Giry’s letter had not mentioned a comtesse, I had assumed (reasonably, I thought, at the time) that he must have recently lost his wife and required a governess to complete his daughter’s education. Now, however, I scolded myself for my naivety. If I had shared my misunderstandings with anyone else during my travels, I would’ve easily made my employer a subject of gossip. Luckily, I hadn't spoken to anyone en route to Rouen. 

“I promise, I--I haven't suggested to anyone...” I fumbled. "I do apologize." 

We passed a window that offered a close view of the round, fortified tower that had distinguished the chateau’s silhouette from afar. Madame Giry ignored my mumblings and stopped to direct my attention toward the structure. 

“The master would like you to know that the tower is restricted to his own use. Employees are not allowed there, with the exception of myself.”

“You may often hear music coming from that area," she continued. "The Master takes a great interest in his music; he does not brook disruptions. And the tower holds many valuable instruments that we are neither to look at or touch. But he has provided a piano and harp in both the schoolroom and study for your use, and if you have any additional needs, you can bring your requests to me.” 

Her voice was firm, and I felt that my previous blunder prevented me from inquiring further about the tower or about the Comte’s musical talents. Rather than cause any further damage to Madame Giry’s opinion of me, I simply nodded.

"Yes, I understand. The Comte is very kind."

Her expression softened by a fraction at my anguish.  

“You haven’t seen much of the world, have you?” she questioned, continuing our swift march into a corridor of bedrooms. “But I suppose you can’t be much more than eighteen years old.” 

“Twenty.” 

My eyes were fixed on the hardwood floors, but I could feel her gaze on me again. 

“You were underfed,” she remarked. Her voice was sympathetic. 

“I was educated in a charitable institution for orphans.” 

My response was hardly a direct answer. Neither had she posed a question, technically. But she nodded, and I knew that we understood each other. 

“Adele is an orphan as well,” she said. The shock of her statement was enough to make me lift my eyes in curiosity. “She’s the daughter of one of the master’s business associates in Paris. When her parents died, she had nowhere else to go.” 

I waited for her to say more, but she offered no further explanation. Instead, she led me to the door of one of the bedchambers in the hallway and opened it in welcome. 

The space was nothing like the austere, medieval rooms through which we had just passed. It was surprisingly…cozy. Unlike the dark wood paneling in the formal areas, the walls were papered in an elegant floral pattern that matched the plush satin comforter on the lit-bateau bed. My trunk lay waiting at its foot. Across it, two finely upholstered armchairs atop a Persian rug made a sitting area near the fireplace. And a small dressing table and mirror were pushed against the windowsill opposite the door, facing a large row of windows. 

“I hope you’ll find this room acceptable?” Madame Giry asked. “You can’t see much now, but it overlooks the garden.” 

My feet carried the rest of my stunned body into the suite. In my twelve years at Lowood, I’d forgotten what it was like to have my own room. Even before my Aunt Reed had rid herself of me, she'd relegated me to a small bed in the corner of the nursery long after her own children graduated to private rooms.

I knew faintly that my education made me what they called "middle-class" now. That meant I was a step above a common servant, but still low enough for an aristocrat like the Comte to crush beneath his heel without even noticing. Whatever my calculations, I'd never expected a place so fine and--despite Madame Giry's former mention of a fire--so warm after the wintry dormitories of Lowood. 

I looked up at Madame Giry, not bothering to mask the emotions evident in my face.  

“I—This is all for me?” 

“Of course. The washroom is next door, and my bedroom is on the other side of it if you have need of anything.” 

I smiled. “Thank you, Madame. This will suit me perfectly.” 

“Lovely. We will breakfast early tomorrow morning and then I will introduce you to Adele. I hope you rest easily tonight.” 

She made to leave, then lingered in the doorway before turning around again to face me. Not for the first time that night, I felt her appraising me closely as if she could glean my whole history from my face and figure. 

“You’ll find that Chateau Sainte-Cécile is unusual as far as French estate homes go, Mademoiselle Eyre,” she finally added, her guarded expression somehow still lined with sincerity. “This is a quiet house; there aren’t many servants, and the Comte enjoys solitude so we do not see much society. But it is also…a refuge. I hope you will come to think of it as such.” 

“I—I hope so too,” was all I could muster as the physical and mental exertions of the day began to cave in on me. “Goodnight, Madame Giry.” 

She slipped into the hallway, closing the door softly behind her.

As I prepared for bed and then finally laid my head on the pillow for the night, I fell asleep feeling both relieved and puzzled. I had made it to France and kept my promise to escape the confines of England and its unhappy memories. I'd found a quiet situation in one of the country's premiere estates. And now for the first time in twelve years, I had a warm bed, a fire, and the promise of a hardy meal in the morning. 

And yet after a friendless and loveless existence at Gateshead and then Lowood, it all felt too good to be true. What manner of man was my employer that he lived so unlike the rest of the aristocracy? Who was this strange nobleman who rescued orphans, restored ancient houses, and took chances on a penniless schoolgirl governess from another country? Why had Madame Giry called Chateau Sainte-Cécile a refuge, as though more than one inhabitant here was seeking safety? 

I slept well that night, but I went to bed praying that my luck was not a dream.

Chapter 2: The Lane

Notes:

"It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity."

--Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Mr. Brocklehurst was loathe to lose me as a teacher at Lowood, but he had also hated to see me succeed there. Though the whole aim of the school was to discipline the unwanted girls who managed to survive the school's malnourishment and disease into productive members of society, he and Miss Scatcherd would have still preferred I live up to the labels they’d applied to me when I first arrived: willful, useless, a liar. 

Instead, I was one of their best students and most promising instructors–-and now they were losing me to an enviable situation overseas. So of course, Mr. Brocklehurst had insisted I write to my Aunt Reed for permission to accept the position. He had obviously hoped that she would deny me, but she didn’t. 

“Do as you please. I have long relinquished any interference in your affairs.”

The letter wasn’t nearly as pleasant as Madame Giry’s acceptance, but it did the trick. And upon receiving it, I immediately made my way to Lowood’s library to conduct some research on my prospective employer. 

Alone in the room, I laid Le Dictionnaire Universel de la Noblesse de France on the table and flipped through the pages seeking le Comte de Rouen. I found the Carrieres, a distinguished family that had owned the title almost since its revival in the fifteenth century. The family seat, Chateau de Sainte-Cécile–-one of its many homes–-was located a fair distance from the city of Rouen, nearer the town of Saint Martin de Boscherville, which I found easily enough on the map.  

The family tree was peopled by women from Europe’s greatest lines, by brutal heroes of the Hundred Years’ War, by greedy courtiers who orbited the various King Louis'. The line survived the Reign of Terror only to settle into gradual decline–-not of wealth, I imagined, but of reputation. Great deeds and significant figures recorded in the family annals gave way to a succession of comtes distinguished by nothing but their landownership. 

The genealogy stopped at Charles Carriere, who according to the edition furnished by Lowood’s limited library, was still living. There was no mention of Erik Carriere, the man who had just hired me. 

With no French (or even English) connections of whom to inquire, I was left to my own devices. And after looking at multiple generations of an estate passed from father to eldest son, father to eldest son–-only occasionally altered by a premature death–-a conclusion seemed easy enough: In all likelihood, Erik Carriere was the eldest son of Charles Carriere. He had married some genteel lady and had a daughter, and that daughter now needed a governess. 

---

The dawn broke on a castle and landscape that became less and less intimidating the more I saw of it. I rose early feeling rested. Upon remembering where I was, my head flew off the pillow to savor my new room in the morning light. Kicking my bare feet over the edge of the mattress, I peered out of my bedroom window. 

The chateau garden immediately beneath it took up the foreground as Madame Giry had promised, but on the horizon I saw the vast fields and forests through which I had traveled last night. Under a blue sky they looked scenic and green, not unlike the rural English hills I had left. But this landscape held more promise for me than the one surrounding Lowood, since today I was officially part of a household. 

I readied myself quickly and left my room early to explore, no longer daunted by the chateau’s massive halls now ridden of the night shadows. I tested my knowledge by retracing my steps, reversing the route Madame Giry had taken me last night. It led me down the corridor, through the large hall with the portraits, and again to the first floor, where I peaked into the rooms she had pointed out. 

Like my bedchamber, the community rooms such as the library, study, and were all modernized and more personal than the historic halls. Even having lived for a time among the finery of Gateshead Hall, I had never seen such luxury. But it was a crime to compare the interior of Chateau Sainte-Cécile to my Aunt Reed’s gaudy taste. Gateshead had been florid, but superficial and empty. My aunt’s dislike of me and my Cousin John’s violence toward me made it even colder. 

Chateau Sainte-Cécile, by contrast, was warm and worldly. It didn’t belong to a narrow-minded gentlewoman, but to someone–-or perhaps a series of owners-–who were clearly well-traveled and intelligent. The library and study were filled with detailed finishes, sumptuous furnishings, and unique art and objects that seemed to hail from the far corners of Europe and beyond. The shelves sheltered books in Greek, Latin, Arabic, and foreign scripts I couldn’t even identify. 

I approached a stack of books that had been left out on the library desk. They sat unmolested in the otherwise tidy room and table, saved for a reader who intended to return for them. My curiosity got the better of me, and I leaned down to survey the spines: volumes on architecture, medicine, and ancient metaphysics. 

The selection prompted a smile of wonder. I was pleased at the idea that these might be my master’s, and I wondered if he would be opposed to me borrowing them for my own edification. It would be too much to ask, however, to ask him to impart his thoughts. 

“Ah, there you are,” Madame Giry greeted me. “Did you sleep well?” 

I snatched my hand away from the book whose spine I’d been tracing with my fingers. I couldn’t name why I felt guilty, since I’d been caught in no shameful act beyond satisfying my curiosity. Still, I struggled to recover.

“Very, thank you.” 

“I’m glad to see you’re finding your way around,” she said, putting me at ease. “Shall we eat? I hope you don’t mind the kitchen; we dine rather informally when the Comte is away.” 

I was tickled by the idea that a governess should be consulted about the location of breakfast. 

“Not at all.” 

Madame Giry guided me back through the great hall toward the kitchens. Looking up again at the vaulted ceilings, I was struck anew by the strange contrasts in the building–a chateau that continually called one back to the past but ushered toward the future.  

“This is a beautiful home,” I remarked. “The design preserves the best of the historic structure, but makes it feel more”––I searched in vain for a word––“human.” 

“Yes, Monsieur le Comte restored and redesigned parts of it himself when he assumed the title,” Madame explained. “He was an architect by trade before then. In fact, he is abroad now to oversee a project.” 

So the books are his! I thought triumphantly. What kind of renaissance man was this employer of mine? How many noblemen worked and then mastered music, science, and philosophy in their spare time? 

“Has he said when he’ll return?” I asked.

“We received a letter from him a few days ago. He only said that he had arrived to find the project much below his standards and was obliged to extend his stay.” 

“Is he a very exacting sort of man, then?” 

“Very!” Madame responded with a flourish. “In the workplace and in his creative pursuits, he can be--quite relentless.” 

“Do you like him?” I asked with such a lack of artfulness that I knew I must sound impertinent. “Or rather, is he generally liked?” 

She paused, unsure of how to answer. “He commands respect; the family is an old and respectable one, and he is a fair landlord to his tenants.”    

“Well, yes,” I pressed further, “but is he liked for himself?” 

I can’t account for the fervor of my inquisition, nor for why my question seemed to surprise Madame Giry so. She reacted as if she hadn’t thought it possible for someone to inquire about him as a person . 

“I like him,” she finally responded in earnest. “But I don’t pretend he is easy company. He has suffered a great deal.” 

“Suffered?” I wondered aloud. I couldn’t imagine what a titled, landed gentleman who belonged to one of the most storied families in France knew about suffering. But I had no opportunity to find out because an elated shriek pierced the air. 

“Madamoiselle Eyre!” 

I barely had time to look up before the culprit bound straight into my arms, knocking me backward with a forceful hug. I looked down at a blur of light, bouncy curls in a blue dress. 

“Adele!” Madame scolded. “Please have some decorum? Mademoiselle hasn’t even been introduced to you yet!” 

The child stepped away from me and looked mischievously up at the housekeeper. She was a doll in human form–-rosy cheeked, fair haired, with bright green eyes and an infectious laugh.

“She does now!” she joked, redirecting a toothy smile toward me. “Mademoiselle, I am Adele Varens.” 

Instead of curtsying, she extended her hand for a handshake, like a man in the middle of a business deal. I couldn’t help but break into a smile when greeted with such humor. I shook her hand as firmly as she’d offered it. 

“Good morning Adele, what a pleasure to meet you! I am Mademoiselle Eyre, your new governess–-as you seem to know.” 

“But you speak French so well, mademoiselle!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were English?” 

“I am, but I was taught French by a wonderful frenchwoman named Madam Pierrot. Soon you will be able to speak English just as well, if–-” I caught myself “--If your guardian would like you to learn it.” 

“Yes, please! I want to be just like Monsieur le Comte; he speaks so many languages.” 

Madame Giry herded us into the kitchen area where we breakfasted cheerfully that morning. Madame was a woman of few words, but fine taste. We conversed easily enough, and Adele filled any silences with chatter about all the things she wanted me to teach her.

"..and music most of all!" she finished emphatically, after listing all the areas she would like to gain proficiency. "I love to sing more than anything. Shall I sing for you, Mademoiselle?" 

I stole a glance at Madame Giry. She looked at Adele fondly, but also seemed to look right through her and into some sad memory. Unable to read her thoughts, I turned back to Adele and nodded my assent. 

I was unprepared for the sound that erupted when she opened her mouth to sing. Her voice was uncommonly beautiful, and her technique surprisingly good for a child her age. I wondered what I could teach her with my own limited vocal talents, but then I remembered that her guardian was also a musician and that he had perhaps already taken her under his wing. But if that were the case, why would she ask for my assistance? 

Madame Giry rose from the breakfast table as soon as Adele finished her song, leaving me alone to offer my pupil a genuine round of applause. The child responded by slipping her little hand in mine and practically marching me to the schoolroom to begin lessons. My curiosity about the housekeeper's strange response would have to wait for another time. 

An early quiz of her reading and arithmetical skills revealed that Adele had a sharp mind; she only lacked guidance. Besides Madame Giry, her nurse had been her sole company during her time at the chateau. It was clear she saw me as much as a companion than as her teacher, but for now I was content to relax the the boundary between us so that we might get to know each other. 

“Have you always been here at Chateau Sainte-Cécile?” I questioned her. 

“Not always,” she replied, wrinkling her nose as she sifted through her memories. “I was left at an orphanage when Maman and Papa went to the Holy Virgin, but I do not remember it.” 

“Do you remember your parents at all?” 

“No, mademoiselle.” Her answer was solemn. I commiserated with her, reminded of my own history. I knew nothing of my parents, owned no keepsake to even remember them by. No matter how much Gateshead and Lowood had hardened me, occasionally I still found myself grieving a loss that I could not even quantify. 

“But Madame Giry knew Maman,” Adele added. “Madame says she was a dancer and opera singer. She says Maman had the voice of an angel.”

“How wonderful,” I said, putting an arm around her. My earlier questions about Madame Giry were piqued by her revelation. Just how well had the woman known Adele's mother? But Adele seemed content to change the subject from thoughts of a mother she never knew. 

“Monsieur le Comte has a beautiful voice too. Sometimes he hums to me or plays a song on the piano, but only if I have been very good.” 

“You are very fond of him, then?” 

The child paused for a moment, before answering, “He is kind to me. And he always brings me presents when he returns from traveling. But sometimes I’m lonely.” 

She turned her face up to mine and placed a book in my hand.

“But now I have you, Madamoiselle!”

---

My early days at Chateau Sainte-Cécile were satisfactory. Adele and I fell into an orderly rhythm made all the better by her quick grasp of the materials I presented her. Madame Giry and I also seemed to understand each other, though conversation never ranged far. 

Otherwise, the chateau was deathly quiet. Despite its size, there were very few permanent servants and little opportunity for discussion outside my pupil, her nurse, and the housekeeper. The emptiness meant that most of my leisure hours were spent alone–-usually reading or playing the piano in the study, but also walking and performing various errands for Madame Giry in the small township of Boscherville. 

It was on such an errand one day, walking briskly through the forested path that led from the town through the estate, that I started to brood over my solitude--and my own impatience. 

Isn’t this what you wanted? I fumed with myself as I crossed over that lonely road. Hadn’t I prayed for safety, security, a kind place to work? And yet, I still desired action . I began to wonder if this was all my life would be–-a series of tombs in different forms, always drifting from house to house, and yet alienated from the world except for the pupils I taught and those with whom I labored?

It was as silent outside the chateau as it had been within. Not even breeze or birdsong punctuated the wintry air. But my thoughts were loud and raging, and they kept me fully occupied. I marched on like that for more than half an hour, only faintly aware of my surroundings. 

Maybe that’s why I neither heard or saw the white stallion barreling toward me. 

The horse and rider rounded the bend at a perilous gallop. By the time I looked up, the large beast was already hovering over me, front hooves in the air as it reared violently. With a loud cry, it threw the rider to the ground and sent me running several paces in the opposite direction. 

It took a few moments to still my pounding heart before I turned to help the horseman, who remained crouched on the ground where his steed had flung him. With his back to me, the man was nothing but a mass of black. 

“Can I help you, monsieur?” I called, rushing toward him. 

“Stand back!”

His menacing growl stopped me in my tracks. He’d only asked for space, but the threat in his voice chilled me to the bone. His command traveled through the space between us as if he were snarling right in my ear. Again, I struggled to recollect myself, resisting the impulse to run back in the direction from which I’d come. Instead, I hung back and allowed him time to recover. 

The stranger cursed to himself and crawled frantically across the rough ground searching for something amidst the gravel. In a few moments, he seemed to find what he sought: a white item lodged in a puddle of mud nearby. Before I had a chance to identify the treasure that had sent him into such a panic, he’d already taken the object into his grasp. It disappeared from my view, blocked by his black-cloaked form as he fussed over it.  

At length the horseman seemed to regain his senses. With a continuous, reptilian movement, he lifted his head, slicked his palms over his jet-black hair, and adjusted his shoulders into a commanding posture before rising to his feet with a pained groan. I watched in stunned silence as he transformed from a broken, panicking passerby into–-a force.

When he finally glanced over his left shoulder toward the horse, the moonlight shone over his profile to reveal a pearly face, angular jaw, and dark eye. At his full height he towered over me, his form rendered all the more impressive by the flowing black cape draped over his broad shoulders. Standing under the evening light where day turned to dusk and the moon had begun to materialize, his frame seemed to draw all the celestial energy from the atmosphere and into himself. 

As yet, he still hadn’t acknowledged me, and I didn’t dare approach him again. His earlier threat, and now his powerful presence, fixed me to my spot steps away. Meanwhile, the horse grazed at the edge of the path as if it had nothing to do with the commotion. 

“Well?!” The stranger rounded on me with a graceful and lightning-fast movement, hardly impeded by the limp that accompanied it.  

When his full face came into view I finally recognized the item that had fallen onto the ground and caused him such discomposure. It was a white porcelain mask, now wiped clean and firmly affixed to the right side of his face.

“What were you doing in the road?” he demanded. I retreated back another step. 

“I–-” I choked out, cursing my voice for faltering, “Are you injured, monsieur?” 

“A sprain,” he said dismissively, gesturing to his right foot. “But I will survive, despite your carelessness. You may leave now.” 

Whatever my feet wanted to do, his peculiar face held me captive. The mask that molded to the contours of his right cheek and forehead was so delicate that it should’ve shattered into pieces when it hit the ground. My eyes took in its grooves, the light shading and blush on its cheekbone. Much effort had been taken to make it appear as lifelike as its mirror image, yet it looked almost sinister.

But I was more transfixed by the icy blue eye that glared at me from beneath its eyehole, the only part of his expression on that side that was visible to me. It was so light that his iris nearly blent with the white. The pupil darkened when he noticed me staring at him. 

And yet, he’s just a man, I remembered. An injured man on a solitary road. And I wasn’t one to gawk or cower, so I gathered myself and determined to be useful. 

“I don’t think I should until I see you’re fit to mount your horse,” I insisted, this time with more resolve.  

The dark, defined brow on his left side arched slightly at my words. He glanced at me and then up to the sky, which was rapidly losing light. 

“You should be home yourself,” he remarked, “Where do you come from?” 

“I live in the chateau just below.” 

He ran his mismatched eyes over me with puzzled intensity.

“You are not French,” he stated, more of an insult than an observation. 

I was aware that I should lower my eyes; he’d clearly caught me staring at him. But his impoliteness, and his own undisguised gaze, unburdened me of any sense of shame. 

“I am not, monsieur.” 

“What are you doing in this part of the country?” 

“I’m the governess at Chateau Sainte-Cécile,” I explained. At the mention of the house, his head tilted and he regarded me with slightly less ferocity. 

“Ah, the governess,” he said, nodding. “Doesn’t the Comte de Rouen own the chateau?”

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“You’ve seen him, then?” 

“No, he’s abroad and I’ve only just arrived.” 

“They say he’s a recluse, you know,” he fished. “Quite the eccentric.” 

I thought to remind the man that my master’s eccentricities really weren’t his business, but my non-reply gave just the same idea. 

“The house is not far, monsieur,” I changed the subject deftly. “I can fetch help there and return to you shortly; I’m not afraid of being out in the moonlight.” 

“I should think not, an elfin creature like you,” he smirked. He took pleasure in toying with me. “But there’s no need for that. I merely require you to fetch the horse and bring him over to me.”  

Of course he’d requested the one thing I was ill-equipped to do. I had no experience with horses, and this one seemed particularly wary of me. I looked over hesitantly at the ivory creature, who returned my gaze out of the corner of its eye. I approached it cautiously with an outstretched hand. 

“Whoa–-” I paused. 

“Cesar,” the stranger prompted from behind me. 

“Whoa, Cesar.” 

Cesar lifted his neck with a regal air–then backed away with an agitated stamp of his front hooves. When I took another step toward him, he objected with a loud neigh. I turned back around to his owner. 

“It’s of no use; we don’t trust each other,” I deduced. “I’ll have to help you over to him.”

All sense of propriety had vanished, replaced by a problem to solve, and a decision to make–-to be trampled beneath Cesar’s hooves, or risk the verbal ire of a complete stranger. The decision seemed obvious to me. 

In response, the man’s eyes flickered with something like admiration at first. How many governesses would address a strange gentleman so directly? But it was quickly followed by a look of skepticism–-and even, I think, worry–-that clouded his features. We did not trust each other either. 

“No, that won’t be necessary.” 

He shrank away just a fraction at my suggestion, spurning me just as his horse had just done. I exhaled in exasperation. Was he...afraid of me? 

“Either I go to find help, or you’ll have to fend for yourself,” I sighed.  

“I’m used to taking care of myself, mademoiselle,” he retorted. “I’ve done just that for most of my life and seen injuries far worse than this. And anyway, I’ve told you already that you may leave. You’ve discharged your charitable obligation commendably, you should have no scruples about–-” 

I didn’t bother indulging his monologue. By the time he knew what was happening, I had already crossed the lane and stationed my small frame under his shoulder. He froze under my touch, no doubt shocked into submission by my brazen disregard for social conventions. But to hell with those now! His stubbornness left me no choice. And what did manners matter anyway when I’d likely never see this traveler again? 

I took advantage of his awed silence and grabbed his arm to pull it around my shoulders. My fist clenched around his own when he attempted to jerk away. I had enough shame to avoid his eyes, but I heard his sharp intake of breath at the liberty of my touch. With a determined grunt, I started walking toward Cesar. The stranger relented and limped along with me. 

“There now, is this really so awful?” I asked as we hobbled along together. 

He gave no response, but I felt him lean his body more heavily against mine and I pressed myself upward into his shoulder and chest to steady him. 

Enveloped in his strange embrace, I noted how differently felt from how he looked. To the eye, he was uninviting, almost scary. The mask obscured a full half of his face from view, and yet the expression on his visible side was just as opaque. But draped over me now, his lean body felt surprisingly soft under the layers of silken black clothing. He smelled of something rich and foreign–sandalwood and some other spice I couldn’t name. I only knew that I’d bottle the scent if given the ability. With a sudden movement he shifted his face toward mine, reaching around me for Cesar’s reins. When his cold breath grazed my temple, I realized then that this was the first time I’d ever touched a man. 

I looked up to find those contrasting eyes locked on my face, and I abruptly backed away from him. Luckily, the horse was now available to keep him from foundering. The stranger parted his lips as if to ask a question, and I almost fancied that he was going to solicit my help in mounting the horse. But he was far too proud to admit dependency, and I was too embarrassed now to offer any assistance that might involve touching him again. I was relieved when he lifted himself onto the saddle, though he clearly wrenched the ankle further. Serves him right for his pigheadedness . 

He looked down at me curiously. What was it displayed on that half-concealed visage? Frustration, perplexity, maybe even a hint of wonder? I couldn’t decide.  

“My hat,” he muttered. 

I was happy for his commission, if only to hide from his gaze and the blush it had caused to rise on my face. I turned and picked up the black, wide brimmed fedora from the ground. He snatched it from me without a word. 

“Thank you,” he said after a while, as if any expression of gratitude pained him. I was tempted to provoke him again, but he had regained his sense of power back astride Cesar.  

“You’re welcome. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur–-?” 

I received no answer. With a rude twitch of the crop, Cesar was off again before the sentence had even finished tumbling from my mouth. I watched horse and rider disappear around the bend; the latter did not look back. 

The lane they left behind was still once again, but the encounter left me feeling invigorated. For one brief moment on this forested path, a new character had been introduced into my mundane world. I tried to repress the pang of regret that followed the momentary thrill, but it bubbled up anyhow. How does one miss a stranger? And yet, his absence pained me. I didn't believe that every chance meeting was providence–-especially not my brief conversation with an impolite traveler. But for some reason, I did feel that we had more to say to each other than the few words exchanged on that road.  

Perhaps, I thought, casting an eye in the direction the man had ridden, Perhaps I might see him again. I hope so. 

Notes:

As you can see, I'm sticking to the plot of Jane Eyre so far. (It won't stay that way, though.) You'll even occasionally see me pull some direct quotes from the book.

Hope whoever's reading this enjoyed the little Jane Eyre meetcute lol.

Chapter 3: "A Little"

The massive blaze in the fireplace of the great hall was a welcome, if perplexing, sight when I returned. Madame Giry didn’t usually order it lit, but I would be the last to complain after the long walk back to the chateau in the cold and darkness. I drew near the warmth, replaying the night’s events against the murmur of the flames. 

I could still feel his phantom embrace across my back from shoulder to shoulder. My palm tingled with the remembrance of taking him by the wrist. My mind jumped unfixed from sensation to sensation–-the flat, solid feeling of his body; the mists our mouths emitted intermingling in close proximity; the sound of his gasp. 

It was all incidental contact, but pouring through the pages of my memory I found no precedent for it. My life was bereft of touch. I could count the friendly hugs and hand squeezes from Miss Temple and, further back, from Helen and the Gateshead nurse, Betsy. I could more easily recall the feeling of Miss Scatcherd’s rod, Aunt Reed’s switch, and Cousin John’s various forms of abuse. But this evening’s act of aid was as novel in its effect as it was neutral in its purpose. I'd approached a man, lent my body in support of his own. Was this what it felt like to be full grown? 

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Madame Giry’s fleet steps carrying across the floor. She entered the room agitatedly, arms full with a basin, pitcher, and towel. 

“Ah, there you are!” she said tersely. 

“What’s all this?” I asked. 

“Monsieur le Comte has returned,” Madame Giry explained. “His horse fell in the lane and his ankle is sprained.” 

Jane Eyre, you idiot. 

That was my first thought. The second was that I’d be relieved of my duties on the spot. 

Every touch that had just elicited wonder in me now provoked utter shame. Felling my own employer’s horse was the least of my crimes. No, I had assaulted him on top of that–-touched him unbidden, spoken to him irreverently, even been reckless enough to put his arm around me! Even if I’d been too much of a fool to guess that an upper-class gentleman on the road toward Château Sainte-Cécile might very well have been its owner, I should have at least had enough sense to be silent and obliging given our difference in status. Now I’d pay for my lack of manners by losing my job. 

“He’s asked you to take tea with him in the study,” Madame Giry continued. 

“What?” I asked, convinced my ears had deceived me. “I mean–me? Now? Tonight?” 

“Yes,” she replied. She glanced over my tousled hair and muddied frock and added, “I would suggest changing into something more formal first. We will await you in the study.” 

She left me with my mouth ajar. Clearly my master hadn’t told her about the cause of his fall or what had happened after. Perhaps, then, he was summoning me to dismiss me himself? But that made little sense either. After all, what master would make his employee dress up and take tea just to fire her? Whatever the case, I took the stairs and treaded the gallery toward my room to prepare.

Each portrait of the Carriere heirs mocked me along the way. A mere glance proved that he looked just like them: the same jet black hair, marbled features, and dark eyes–or, in his case, just one obsidian-colored one. He was their spitting image…up to a point.

Once inside my chamber, I looked through my few worldly possessions to find something that might pass for formal. I had only four dresses to my name, all neutrally colored and none of them fine. I picked out the black one, hoping it would match the Comte’s and Madame Giry’s funereal tastes. With little fanfare, I undid and redid my hair and donned a broach before taking a perfunctory look in the mirror.  

I already knew what I would find: “a plain little thing,” as I was often called. Lowood had abused all the vanity out of us. Those of us whose hair wasn’t cut due to lice or the sin of having curls were forbidden from styling it, so I’d become accustomed to combing my mousy brown locks into a plain bun. The school also hadn’t done our bodies any favors by underfeeding us, but I was probably small, thin, and flat chested by nature as well. The rest of me was just as nondescript. I wasn’t altogether unpleasant to look at, but there was enough imperfection in each of my features to ensure that no one would look twice. 

There wasn’t much use in dawdling in front of the looking glass, then. My master had seen me once already, and this was surely an improvement on my windswept appearance from earlier. Within ten minutes I was out of my room and back downstairs approaching the study. 

Thankfully, the Comte had seated himself in the armchair near the fire with his back facing the door. That gave me time to scan my surroundings as I entered.

The Comte had furnished most of the house with electricity or gas lighting, but the fireplace was still the only source of light. It cast an uneven glow, leaving most of the room in shadow. Madame Giry and Adele were tucked away in the window seat, and my pupil perched at the edge brimming with excitement at her guardian’s presence. Seeing me, she jumped up like a shot, took my hand, and led me right to the Comte as if presenting him with a treasure she had found all by herself. Her enthusiasm would have been heartwarming had I not wished to present myself without spectacle. 

“Monsieur, this is Mademoiselle Eyre!” Adele introduced me proudly. 

Under the firelight, the Comte was just as striking as before. The flames from the grate glinted off his porcelain mask, making its curves and edges dance. The interplay of glow and shadow on his face made him look less stony than he had in the lane--an unneeded reminder that he was indeed flesh and blood.

But he compensated for that with his icy attitude. If I was expecting any acknowledgement from him, I was disappointed. Instead, he gestured to the chair across from him with an impatient flick of his hand. 

“Let her sit,” he sighed, his gaze never leaving the fire. I followed his order and placed myself where he indicated.

How quickly things change. An hour ago in the no man’s land toward Saint-Martin, I’d fancied myself his equal. Now he was more than my superior; he was my master. The pale hands I had aided and pulled around me held my livelihood. And the woman I’d imagined myself to be–-the one who had nothing to lose and cared not how she was received–-was put in her proper place…a dependent. 

“Jane Eyre,” he pronounced my name slowly in a thick French accent. “A very English name.” 

“Yes, monsieur,” was my only reply. 

Even with the sneer in his tone, his voice struck me just as it had before. It was melodious in that he truly seemed to speak musically. Every word had a crystalline key. His mouth shaped each vowel and consonant meticulously, and his rich baritenor carried through the room with little effort. He hadn’t raised his voice much beyond a mutter, but it was still dangerous. He achieved with sound what a predatory animal might accomplish with color or illusion. Like the poor prey, I was both lured and repelled. 

When he finally raised his mismatched eyes to me, I lowered my own in deference this time. He huffed in boredom. 

“So tell me,” he wondered aloud, “Why would a young Englishwoman leave her family and friends to work in a chateau at the edge of the world?” 

“I have no family,” I responded, and then added, “and this seems like a wonderful opportunity.” 

“So you are an orphan, then,” he interjected, as if he was already bored with me. “No friends, no family, no home.” 

“I–,” I fumbled for words, baffled by his rudeness. I looked to Madame Giry and Adele for a hint of encouragement or some indication of how to respond. Both were tucked in the corner with their faces cast into their laps, cowering from his ill humor. Clearly I was on my own. 

“Yes,” I answered, my voice more sure this time. “My parents died after I was born. I was raised by my aunt for a time in a house even finer than this one.” 

I’d hardly mentioned Gateshead to anyone since I'd left it. It was no Eyre family estate and even less a “home” in the sentimental sense. I’d probably never see it again. But now it was my only trump card against this man who spoke to me as if he could already guess my life story. He appeared so certain that he intimidated me. And perhaps he did, but not on account of his wealth or status. 

“So why didn’t you stay there?” he asked. 

“She cast me off, monsieur.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I was burdensome and she disliked me.” 

“Where did you go?” 

“To Lowood Institution, monsieur–-a charitable school.” 

“How long were you there?” 

“Ten years.” 

“You must be tenacious of life,” he observed, interrupting our volley of obligatory questions and answers. “Your constitution hardly seems built to survive such conditions.”

You’d be just as unlikely to survive in my position, I thought to myself. Now that he was unburdened of his cape, I realized just how lean and pale he was. If he weren’t surrounded by luxury, I might have guessed that he’d grown up in harsh conditions. The fire bathed him in warm light, but it only accentuated how thin--nearly translucent--his skin was. He crumpled his long, awkward limbs into his chair like a spider shrinking from touch. 

“Do you play?” He asked suddenly, pointing to the upright piano in the corner of the room. 

“A little,” I replied. 

“Isn’t that what all Englishwomen are taught to say? Go over there and play a tune.” 

Given Madame Giry’s praise of his talents and the general tenor of our conversation thus far, I was well-prepared for my moderate musical accomplishment to fail in his estimation. I approached the piano in resignation, as a weary inmate might walk to the gallows. The first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata was still open from Adele’s afternoon lesson when I went to the piano, and I didn’t bother to find a more suitable piece. I heard the Comte sigh in agitation almost as soon as I played the first chord, though I couldn’t figure out what I’d done wrong so soon. 

“Play the second movement!” He commanded. 

I stopped, flipped through the pages with little urgency, and resumed. Hardly a minute had passed before he called out again. 

“That’s enough! I won’t ask you to attempt the third; you do indeed play a little.” 

I was relieved to get that out of the way, at least. 

“So then,” he continued, “how did a friendless orphan of middling talent find her way to a French chateau?” 

“I advertised, monsieur, and Madame Giry answered my advertisement.” 

“She’s been a valuable addition to the house,” the housekeeper finally chimed in, “and a kind and careful teacher to Adele–-” 

“Don’t trouble yourself too much on her behalf, Madame,” the Comte interrupted. “I have her to thank for this sprain, after all.” 

“Monsieur?” Madame Giry looked between us in confusion. 

The corner of the Comte’s mouth twitched upward in a small, mischievous smile. My face burned with embarrassment. 

“She didn't tell you, Madame? It was she who felled Cesar in the lane.”--he turned to me– “I must have interrupted your communion with the fairies. What are they called in your homeland? The Ao Sí? The men in green?”  

“Whatever we call them, I doubt you’d find them in France,” I quipped. “And at any rate, I don’t believe in children’s tales.” 

“Not even ghosts, Mademoiselle?” the Comte countered. “Or monsters?”

I shook my head, and his eyes bore into mine. Then he burst into bitter laughter, at once beautiful and chilling. 

"My word, Madame Giry, you’ve managed to hire an English nun,” he teased. “You must have worshipped the rigorous doctrine and Protestant teachings of your little charitable school.”

“Not at all, monsieur.” 

I felt the heat rising further to my face–-the familiar indignation from childhood that simmered at the thought of being ridiculed or belittled. Aunt Reed and Mr. Brocklehurst had faulted me for my “passionate nature.” Helen and Miss Temple’s influences had curbed it slightly, or at least bent it toward constructive channels, but it still took every effort to rein. The Comte seemed determined to embarrass me, to punish me even. For what? For helping him, or for seeing him helpless? I wondered if I wouldn't have been better off leaving him on the ground. Perhaps I should have shown him as little decency as he showed me now.  

“Careful, that sounds almost blasphemous,” the Comte smirked. 

“It’s hardly funny, sir,”--my French lapsed in my frustration–-“I disliked Lowood. They cut off our hair, starved us, and beat us. And at night they read us stories of lost sinners that threatened us with hellfire and damnation. Theirs is not a God I’d want to worship.”

The Comte tilted his head curiously. 

“Do you not believe in damnation then, Miss Eyre?” he asked in English. His voice in my native language sounded soft, comforting. Something flashed in those mismatched eyes–-a hint of openness that I’d seen only briefly before. We’d left Madame Giry and Adele in the dark now; the conversation belonged to us alone, and it felt heavy and intimate. I turned his question over in my mind before answering, unsure what was at stake in my response. 

“The nature of sin and punishment has always confounded me,” I meditated. “The idea that we are sinful from birth, or that God condemns us for heritable faults we can’t help seems…implausible. I believe we're born pure at heart–-not cursed.”

He issued another ironic laugh under his breath and brought his hand absentmindedly to his mask. 

“Well, you’re wrong about that,” he asserted. And then, switching back to French, he added abruptly, “It is past Adele’s bedtime and I am tired. I bid you all goodnight.” 

Madame Giry, Adele, and I filed out of the room quietly and walked through the corridor in equal silence while I tried to sort through my feelings. Deflated? Disappointed? Indignant? Some combination of the three brewed inside me. I don't know what I'd expected meeting my employer, but it wasn't this verbal battering. 

And yet, the Comte didn't strike me as a cruel man in the mold of Mr. Brocklehurst or my aunt--just a wounded one. I had seen him fragile, wide-eyed and nervous. Somehow I had scared him. And now he wanted to scare me. 

At the top of the stairs, Adele gave me a consoling hug. I handed her off to her nurse for the night before turning to Madame Giry. 

“He is–-very changeful and abrupt,” I observed. She grimaced in commiseration.  

“I should have warned you. I’ve grown so accustomed to his manner that I hardly think of it. But you must make allowances for him, if you can.”

"Why?" I wondered. 

"He has…painful thoughts,"

"What about?"

“I daresay you’ve noticed the mask,” she sighed. “Monsieur’s face is–-well, it isn’t normal. He was deformed from birth, and it cost him a great deal.” 

“Is the condition painful?”

“I’m sure it is, but the treatment it elicited caused him even more suffering." 

“But how?” I asked impertinently. Sure, his mask was peculiar, but if it enabled him to live in society then in all other respects the Comte seemed normal. Were his features really so grotesque that the world wouldn't forgive him, especially with immense wealth and a famous family name to secure its respect?  

“The Comte’s family disowned him almost as soon as he was born," Madame explained. I inhaled sharply. 

"The late Comte and Comtess claimed the child was stillborn. In reality, they abandoned him. For most of his life, the young Comte had no idea he was of noble birth. Then, after half a life spent attempting to sire a more ‘worthy’ heir, Monsieur Charles revealed on his deathbed that he had a son. He bequeathed him everything--begrudgingly. The present Comte has only been in possession of the title for about seven years.”

"So his family disowned him and then raised him back from obscurity? Where had he been all that time?” I questioned. 

“That I cannot say,” Madame eschewed. “But you know as well as I that the life of an orphan isn't easy, Mademoiselle Eyre." 

She could not, or would not say more, and I dropped the subject accordingly.

I went to bed exhausted by the dramas of the day, but found no rest. What kind of man was my employer? Nobleman, philanthropist, and...erstwhile orphan? I hated his pride, his false bravado. He'd clearly wanted to "humble" me, even humiliate me, after the events in the lane. But I couldn't deny that I did sympathize with him more after Madame Giry's revelations. 

I knew what it was like to be cast out by rich relatives. I'd steeled myself against it now; I'd spoken of being burdensome and disliked by my own kin as if it were mundane, even though the sting of being unwanted by my only family would never quite go away. But my only balm in childhood had been my sure knowledge that my own parents would have loved me had they lived. The Comte’s, by contrast, had handed him over--let him loose in the world even though they'd had the means to care for him. He was born condemned by the people who made him.  

I sighed, frustrated with myself for the parts of me that hurt for him, and impatient with Madame Giry's half-answers that might never be fully revealed. We were all mysteries to each other in this house. We went about our daily lives nursing secret wounds, tending to ourselves in distant corners of this empty castle. 

Notes:

There's a line in this chapter lifted from Jane Eyre (2011) dir. by Cary Fukanaga. I mix in some lines from the book and adaptations from time.