jane/mr. rochester; roses, smoke, and wine
roses, smoke, and wine
..........|jane eyre; jane/mr. rochester; pg; eventually, she tried to forget his smell.
i.
the first man in her life wasn't really a man, but a boy.
she wasn't old enough to understand that, though, and all she heard about him was what his power-and-perfumed mother called him.
he smelled horrible, like too many faked baths and not enough cologne. maybe he didn't have any soap. that would have explained the dirt stains on his chin, too.
spilled milk was one thing she noticed directly. it was probably due to spending so much time eating in the kitchen where the push-over chefs who cleaned up whatever he (purposefully) messed up resided.
his aroma was distasteful, and she gagged whenever he got too close to her. she often hid in the rosebushes to drown out the disgusting smell of him. she often spoke with her hands when she hid like this because the rosebushes, they were deaf, but they most certainly were not blind.
it helped, too. whenever she caught a hint of him, she'd sign a warning to the bushes and never have to make a noise. he never found her.
too-thick molten chocolate shadowed his presence wherever he went, and every time she got a whiff of it, she retched and had to make herself take a few deep breaths.
eventually, she tried to forget his smell.
.
ii.
the next man didn't smell like the place he worked. he didn't want to smell like that heathen school, but sometimes, she rather wished he did.
she wasn't used to the musty, almost mothball-like fragrance that pervaded from lowood, and at first she detested it. she was used to deaf rosebushes (of which she couldn't visit at this school) and mrs. reed's perfume, not dust and old age.
when he came though, he smelled differently. it was a(nother) sickening smell, but this time too sweet rather than spoiled.
if he had dumped three bottled of cologne on himself and then taken a bath in incense, he scarcely would have smelled different. he might have smelled better, actually. he might not have smelled as much.
she got a headache whenever he was around and had to force herself to breathe through her nose because the smell would soon go away. that's what everyone said, what helen said, and helen had lived around him for longer than she.
the smell never did go away, though. not while he was around. especially because she couldn't dive in rosebushes like she was used to.
eventually, she tried to forget his smell.
.
iii.
the third man in her life was a much better person than the first.
before she left, she picked a rose from his garden and enveloped herself in its scent.
she buried herself in their fragrance, drowning out what bit of his cigar-smoke-and-wine smell she couldn't wash off her skin. roses reminded her of mrs. reed's old house, and she thought right then, anything was better than thornfield hall.
she said goodbye with her hands (because the rosebushes were deaf, not blind, and they could still catch wafted scents, but not as keenly as she) like she used to do when she was young, if she ever really was young, and when she walked away, she smelled him again.
it was sophisticated, tickling her nose with its thick, musky air. his smell was better seasoned than hers, telling an age-old story she wished she had gotten the chance to help him author.
she lingered in the garden, but didn't will herself to cry. not yet; not like that. everywhere around her (in her) she could smell him: in her nostrils, her throat, her heart. she spent the most vivid time in that house, memorizing his smell. now she knew that she can never forget it.
really, the above only began to describe it. the smoke and wine were the most noticeable, but he also smelled of peppermints due to long nights in the drawing room, sucking on the little candies, enjoying mild banter with her.
there was a hint of pine somewhere in there as well, she suspected from all the time spent on his horse out in the woods.
after letting a few tears slip (but she didn't let the house see, only the bushes, because the bushes were deaf, not blind), she wallowed off the rochester property, bound for the unknown.
eventually, she tried to forget his smell.
.
iv.
there was another man in her life now, and he didn't smell like the last.
he had a faint aroma of basil and sweet onions. she liked his smell, too, and thought maybe she would have liked it much more if it had found her before the other gentlemen's.
he had a dominate smell of old books buried within the curls of his hair, the folds of his shirt. she figured it was due to the fact that most of his nights (at least, the nights she saw him) were spent in the delicate little library, fingering through volumes and novels and anthologies. later, when he was away and she was alone with diana and hannah somewhere else in the house, she would pick out the same books he did and see if they would offer up his secrets. they never did.
sometimes, she still got a faint whiff of cigar smoke up her nose, but no one around here smoked, no one drank wine, but she could have sworn she smelled something of the sort.
it was times like these when she would escape to the rosebushes and remember the familiar feel of her hands forming letters and words foreign to anyone but her and the bushes. she liked it; it was something she never shared with anyone.
soon, though, the air thickened with the smell of knowledge, and she knew exactly who was at home.
when she finally left his house, his family, his fragrance, she felt freer.
eventually, she tried to forget his smell.
.
v.
technically, he's still the third man in her life, but he's the only one who reappeared.
he was the same man, too, his smell was just a little different. the musky pine aroma that he had before was much more prominent because of his new permanent placement in the woods. he smelled less like cigar smoke and more like chimney smoke, but still wine (even sometimes, like a little too much wine) and even though his new house had no rosebushes, she wasn't giving up.
he was blind now and not deaf. the complete opposite of her childhood allies, but he was her new ally, and so she finally shared that secret with someone, not anyone, but him and he told her to make a word with her hands.
confused, she obeyed, and slowly but surely he found her hand with his good one and felt the position her fingers were in. eventually, he learned how to feel for each word, each letter, and eventually, he didn't need to anymore.
with her back, she decided, he smelled more like she remembered him. the pine scent was always there, though. she laughed; that wasn't changing.
eventually, she forgot the other men's smells. but not his. never his, she thought, and turned her nose to his neck once again.
..........|jane eyre; jane/mr. rochester; pg; eventually, she tried to forget his smell.
i.
the first man in her life wasn't really a man, but a boy.
she wasn't old enough to understand that, though, and all she heard about him was what his power-and-perfumed mother called him.
he smelled horrible, like too many faked baths and not enough cologne. maybe he didn't have any soap. that would have explained the dirt stains on his chin, too.
spilled milk was one thing she noticed directly. it was probably due to spending so much time eating in the kitchen where the push-over chefs who cleaned up whatever he (purposefully) messed up resided.
his aroma was distasteful, and she gagged whenever he got too close to her. she often hid in the rosebushes to drown out the disgusting smell of him. she often spoke with her hands when she hid like this because the rosebushes, they were deaf, but they most certainly were not blind.
it helped, too. whenever she caught a hint of him, she'd sign a warning to the bushes and never have to make a noise. he never found her.
too-thick molten chocolate shadowed his presence wherever he went, and every time she got a whiff of it, she retched and had to make herself take a few deep breaths.
eventually, she tried to forget his smell.
.
ii.
the next man didn't smell like the place he worked. he didn't want to smell like that heathen school, but sometimes, she rather wished he did.
she wasn't used to the musty, almost mothball-like fragrance that pervaded from lowood, and at first she detested it. she was used to deaf rosebushes (of which she couldn't visit at this school) and mrs. reed's perfume, not dust and old age.
when he came though, he smelled differently. it was a(nother) sickening smell, but this time too sweet rather than spoiled.
if he had dumped three bottled of cologne on himself and then taken a bath in incense, he scarcely would have smelled different. he might have smelled better, actually. he might not have smelled as much.
she got a headache whenever he was around and had to force herself to breathe through her nose because the smell would soon go away. that's what everyone said, what helen said, and helen had lived around him for longer than she.
the smell never did go away, though. not while he was around. especially because she couldn't dive in rosebushes like she was used to.
eventually, she tried to forget his smell.
.
iii.
the third man in her life was a much better person than the first.
before she left, she picked a rose from his garden and enveloped herself in its scent.
she buried herself in their fragrance, drowning out what bit of his cigar-smoke-and-wine smell she couldn't wash off her skin. roses reminded her of mrs. reed's old house, and she thought right then, anything was better than thornfield hall.
she said goodbye with her hands (because the rosebushes were deaf, not blind, and they could still catch wafted scents, but not as keenly as she) like she used to do when she was young, if she ever really was young, and when she walked away, she smelled him again.
it was sophisticated, tickling her nose with its thick, musky air. his smell was better seasoned than hers, telling an age-old story she wished she had gotten the chance to help him author.
she lingered in the garden, but didn't will herself to cry. not yet; not like that. everywhere around her (in her) she could smell him: in her nostrils, her throat, her heart. she spent the most vivid time in that house, memorizing his smell. now she knew that she can never forget it.
really, the above only began to describe it. the smoke and wine were the most noticeable, but he also smelled of peppermints due to long nights in the drawing room, sucking on the little candies, enjoying mild banter with her.
there was a hint of pine somewhere in there as well, she suspected from all the time spent on his horse out in the woods.
after letting a few tears slip (but she didn't let the house see, only the bushes, because the bushes were deaf, not blind), she wallowed off the rochester property, bound for the unknown.
eventually, she tried to forget his smell.
.
iv.
there was another man in her life now, and he didn't smell like the last.
he had a faint aroma of basil and sweet onions. she liked his smell, too, and thought maybe she would have liked it much more if it had found her before the other gentlemen's.
he had a dominate smell of old books buried within the curls of his hair, the folds of his shirt. she figured it was due to the fact that most of his nights (at least, the nights she saw him) were spent in the delicate little library, fingering through volumes and novels and anthologies. later, when he was away and she was alone with diana and hannah somewhere else in the house, she would pick out the same books he did and see if they would offer up his secrets. they never did.
sometimes, she still got a faint whiff of cigar smoke up her nose, but no one around here smoked, no one drank wine, but she could have sworn she smelled something of the sort.
it was times like these when she would escape to the rosebushes and remember the familiar feel of her hands forming letters and words foreign to anyone but her and the bushes. she liked it; it was something she never shared with anyone.
soon, though, the air thickened with the smell of knowledge, and she knew exactly who was at home.
when she finally left his house, his family, his fragrance, she felt freer.
eventually, she tried to forget his smell.
.
v.
technically, he's still the third man in her life, but he's the only one who reappeared.
he was the same man, too, his smell was just a little different. the musky pine aroma that he had before was much more prominent because of his new permanent placement in the woods. he smelled less like cigar smoke and more like chimney smoke, but still wine (even sometimes, like a little too much wine) and even though his new house had no rosebushes, she wasn't giving up.
he was blind now and not deaf. the complete opposite of her childhood allies, but he was her new ally, and so she finally shared that secret with someone, not anyone, but him and he told her to make a word with her hands.
confused, she obeyed, and slowly but surely he found her hand with his good one and felt the position her fingers were in. eventually, he learned how to feel for each word, each letter, and eventually, he didn't need to anymore.
with her back, she decided, he smelled more like she remembered him. the pine scent was always there, though. she laughed; that wasn't changing.
eventually, she forgot the other men's smells. but not his. never his, she thought, and turned her nose to his neck once again.