Who Talks of Cadeaux?
Title: Who Talks of Cadeaux?
Ships: Jane Eyre/Edward Rochester
Rating: G
Disclaimer: As if Jane Eyre could be owned, she says it herself, she's a free person who will go and do as she pleases. That and Charlotte Bronte wrote her... not me!
Summary: Mr Rochester is quite eager for Jane to rise early one particular sunday morning! Again, a oneshot from me. And again, fluffy. Probably not quite canon, but I enjoyed it! My second Jane Eyre piece.
“Jane?”
I turned, pushing my hair roughly from my face.
“Jane?” the voice called again, cutting through the fog of my mind.
“Jane?” it called for a third time.” Jane, are you awake?”
“I suppose I am now,” I said, struggling to string words together so soon after being abducted from sleep. “Though, I wish I weren’t.”
“It is a fine morning,” he exclaimed with a sort of early morning enthusiasm that was foreign to me, “why not rise early?”
“Because I am exhausted!”
“You should not have stayed up so late, Janet. What were you doing anyhow?”
Burrowing myself further underneath the coverlet, I recounted my mundane doings of the night before that had occurred after he had gone to bed. “I finished writing a letter to Adele, and then was caught up in a book before I realized the lateness of the hour.”
“And… you went straight from the parlor here?”
“Yes,” I answered cautiously, “if you’d like a better report of my doings perhaps you should keep later hours with me. But the curious thing is, usually it is you who is impossible to rouse in the morning.”
“Perhaps I’ve had a conversion,” he said, adopting a false, light tone. I heard him rising from the bed and muttering the number steps to the dresser. “Perhaps I’d like to go to church this morning! It is Sunday!”
“Edward, do not joke about such things,” I chided, remaining under the sheets.
He continued to dress quietly while I tried to sleep for but a few more minutes. But, I could not help watching him while he thought I was not. I admired the way he had organized his wardrobe in such a way as he could dress himself and the colors still coordinate. Every button matched with its mate, and nothing on his person was ever askew. I had to smile, as I thought privately how much my life was knotted to this man.
“Well,” he announced, startling me out of my half slumber, half daytime reveries. “when you truly wake, do join me downstairs, Jane.”
As I descended the stairs, I took a moment to pause and observe the changes that had come to Ferndean House since my original arrival. In less than a year, it had changed from a mere dilapidated hunting lodge, to a true home. Edward had pleaded with me to find a more “suitable” estate to live in, but I had insisted that Ferndean had its own charms when taken care of, and was the perfect size.
Upon reaching the ground floor, I turned to walk in to the parlor - as that was where we always spent our time.
“Jane,” Edward called, walking instead the other direction. “Let us to the library!”
“The library?” I thought quietly. We had only yet purchased and arranged furniture for the room; we had not yet even cleaned out or put in a useful state the fireplace. It might surprise you, dear reader, how little attention I had paid to the library during my refurbishing of Ferndean. Although, allow me to point out that we had put a small bookshelf in the parlor and it was from there I chose a book to read aloud from in the evenings.
I kept all my thoughts to myself and walked to the closed French doors of the library.
“Shut your eyes,” Edward commanded.
“Alright,” I said, keeping them instead wide open, eager to see what the surprise was.
“I don’t believe you!” he said in a mock stern tone.
“You can place your hands over my eyes yourself, sir.”
Only cracking the door a bit, he then placed his good hand over my eyes, and with his foot pushed the door open. With an arm around my back, he guided me in.
“The blind leading the blind, is it?”
At that, he laughed heartily and pulled his hand away to reveal something that truly surprised me.
The fireplace had been cleaned; the room polished. The windows could have served as mirrors. And best yet, in the built in book shelves was rows of books upon books. Like a child on Christmas morning, I ran to the shelves, running my fingers across the volumes of encyclopedias, foreign and domestic.
“Happy Birthday, Janet.”
“Is it?” I laughed.
“You had forgotten?”
“I suppose I had!”
Edward walked over to where he had heard my voice. I put my hand out to receive his. “It is the seventh, my fairy,” he whispered, kissing my cheek. “You are twenty-one!”
“Oh no…”
“What?” he asked, struck by my sudden sound of disapproval.
“With each year I age,” I paused, sounding as if I had to think very hard to continue a difficult thought process. “With each year I age, that means you too age!”
“You are wicked!”
“You are old!”
“And ugly too?”
“Very, sir.”
“How astute you are, little witch.”
And with that, we kissed.
Ships: Jane Eyre/Edward Rochester
Rating: G
Disclaimer: As if Jane Eyre could be owned, she says it herself, she's a free person who will go and do as she pleases. That and Charlotte Bronte wrote her... not me!
Summary: Mr Rochester is quite eager for Jane to rise early one particular sunday morning! Again, a oneshot from me. And again, fluffy. Probably not quite canon, but I enjoyed it! My second Jane Eyre piece.
“Jane?”
I turned, pushing my hair roughly from my face.
“Jane?” the voice called again, cutting through the fog of my mind.
“Jane?” it called for a third time.” Jane, are you awake?”
“I suppose I am now,” I said, struggling to string words together so soon after being abducted from sleep. “Though, I wish I weren’t.”
“It is a fine morning,” he exclaimed with a sort of early morning enthusiasm that was foreign to me, “why not rise early?”
“Because I am exhausted!”
“You should not have stayed up so late, Janet. What were you doing anyhow?”
Burrowing myself further underneath the coverlet, I recounted my mundane doings of the night before that had occurred after he had gone to bed. “I finished writing a letter to Adele, and then was caught up in a book before I realized the lateness of the hour.”
“And… you went straight from the parlor here?”
“Yes,” I answered cautiously, “if you’d like a better report of my doings perhaps you should keep later hours with me. But the curious thing is, usually it is you who is impossible to rouse in the morning.”
“Perhaps I’ve had a conversion,” he said, adopting a false, light tone. I heard him rising from the bed and muttering the number steps to the dresser. “Perhaps I’d like to go to church this morning! It is Sunday!”
“Edward, do not joke about such things,” I chided, remaining under the sheets.
He continued to dress quietly while I tried to sleep for but a few more minutes. But, I could not help watching him while he thought I was not. I admired the way he had organized his wardrobe in such a way as he could dress himself and the colors still coordinate. Every button matched with its mate, and nothing on his person was ever askew. I had to smile, as I thought privately how much my life was knotted to this man.
“Well,” he announced, startling me out of my half slumber, half daytime reveries. “when you truly wake, do join me downstairs, Jane.”
As I descended the stairs, I took a moment to pause and observe the changes that had come to Ferndean House since my original arrival. In less than a year, it had changed from a mere dilapidated hunting lodge, to a true home. Edward had pleaded with me to find a more “suitable” estate to live in, but I had insisted that Ferndean had its own charms when taken care of, and was the perfect size.
Upon reaching the ground floor, I turned to walk in to the parlor - as that was where we always spent our time.
“Jane,” Edward called, walking instead the other direction. “Let us to the library!”
“The library?” I thought quietly. We had only yet purchased and arranged furniture for the room; we had not yet even cleaned out or put in a useful state the fireplace. It might surprise you, dear reader, how little attention I had paid to the library during my refurbishing of Ferndean. Although, allow me to point out that we had put a small bookshelf in the parlor and it was from there I chose a book to read aloud from in the evenings.
I kept all my thoughts to myself and walked to the closed French doors of the library.
“Shut your eyes,” Edward commanded.
“Alright,” I said, keeping them instead wide open, eager to see what the surprise was.
“I don’t believe you!” he said in a mock stern tone.
“You can place your hands over my eyes yourself, sir.”
Only cracking the door a bit, he then placed his good hand over my eyes, and with his foot pushed the door open. With an arm around my back, he guided me in.
“The blind leading the blind, is it?”
At that, he laughed heartily and pulled his hand away to reveal something that truly surprised me.
The fireplace had been cleaned; the room polished. The windows could have served as mirrors. And best yet, in the built in book shelves was rows of books upon books. Like a child on Christmas morning, I ran to the shelves, running my fingers across the volumes of encyclopedias, foreign and domestic.
“Happy Birthday, Janet.”
“Is it?” I laughed.
“You had forgotten?”
“I suppose I had!”
Edward walked over to where he had heard my voice. I put my hand out to receive his. “It is the seventh, my fairy,” he whispered, kissing my cheek. “You are twenty-one!”
“Oh no…”
“What?” he asked, struck by my sudden sound of disapproval.
“With each year I age,” I paused, sounding as if I had to think very hard to continue a difficult thought process. “With each year I age, that means you too age!”
“You are wicked!”
“You are old!”
“And ugly too?”
“Very, sir.”
“How astute you are, little witch.”
And with that, we kissed.