Euphoria (The Thornfield Affair #1) Read online

  Euphoria

  The Thornfield Affair - Book One

  Amity Cross

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Other Books in The Thornfield Affair

  About the Author

  VIP Newsletter

  Paradox (The Thornfield Affair #2)

  Euphoria (The Thornfield Affair #1) by Amity Cross

  Copyright © 2016 by Amity Cross

  All rights reserved.

  Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë is a public domain work and is legally out of copyright. Public domain works can be freely used for newly copyrighted derivative works, and as such this work is protected by copyright from date of publication as stated above.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All song titles, song lyrics, products, networks and brand names mentioned in this book are the property of the sole copyright owners.

  Cover Design © Amity Cross / Nicole R. Taylor

  “As far as love is concerned, possession, power, fusion and disenchantment are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

  - Zygmunt Bauman

  1

  The sky had darkened by the time I reached the lane.

  The ground was hard underfoot, the air was still, and the road was lonely. I walked fast along the broken asphalt, my boots slipping on the occasional patch of black ice, increasing my pace until warmth seeped through my bones. Then I slowed my footsteps to enjoy the freedom and nature, which I now found myself in.

  It had been a long two months locked within the walls of Thornfield. The old manor was falling down around itself, and though it was a fine place, it was dreary in the midst of winter’s chill. The grand house had been turned into a hotel some fifty years before, but it scarcely saw any guests in summer, let alone in the icy months of the year.

  I was wanting for adventure, for conversation and action, my situation calling for a change of scenery lest my anguish devour my soul. That was how I found myself on my way to the village, an escapee of the confines of Thornfield, no matter how terrible the weather outside was.

  The lane inclined uphill to the village. Having reached halfway, I leaned against an old bluestone fence that bordered an ancient farmer’s field to catch my breath.

  The moor stretched out around me, the copse of trees I took shelter in making every sound feel closer than it actually was. Fog had begun to descend, and below, the battlements of Thornfield sliced through the mist marking just how far I’d come.

  On the hilltop above my perch, the moon was rising, pale and low in the sky, and beyond that, the lights of the tiny village appeared hazy through the weather. I had about a twenty-minute walk until I reached the limits of civilization and the pub, which was my ultimate destination.

  The longer I sat and listened, the more I could piece together the sounds of life ahead. The rumbling of a lorry on the motorway beyond, the bark of a dog, the slam of a door…all carried farther afield by the dense air.

  Then, as if out of nowhere, a harsh noise broke through the beautiful stillness. The roar of an engine farther down the lane whipped me out of my state of calmness, and I leaned back against the fence lest I be flattened by the approaching vehicle.

  The windings of the narrow road hid it from view for quite some time even though the noise increased the farther it came along, and I stilled to allow it to flash past.

  It was so dark and unsettling, and my mind mulled over the ghost stories Alice had been regaling me with while at the lonely hotel bar the last few nights. She’d taken great delight in telling me about the black hound, which prowled the lonely roads and would catch unwary travelers by surprise. Much like the approaching vehicle. But it was silly of me to be afraid since Jane Doe was afraid of nothing, especially not a walk through the moor in the dark!

  A light flashed around the corner, and I was illuminated and blinded all at once, then there was a cry. It was a big chrome and black motorcycle approaching and as the rider saw me and swerved, the rear wheel hit a patch of ice and slid.

  The whole thing veered to the side of the road, barely scraping past me. The wheel spun in the gravel, turning the entire motorcycle on its end, and the rider lost the last ounce of control they had over the beast. The machine fell, landing heavily on the road, the clang echoing across the lonely moor.

  I pressed back against the bluestone fence, my heart pounding wildly, and for a moment, I was fixed in place, shock setting in. I’d almost been squashed!

  The rider scrambled away from the motorcycle and pulled off their helmet with an audible curse. The word was spoken with so much vitriol that I recoiled lest it be turned on me.

  I now saw the rider was a man, his broad shoulders encased in black leather, his dark hair askew, and his jaw covered in the shadow of a beard that had grown in his neglect to clean shave. He was as wild as the look in his eyes, and when he turned to me, so came his anger.

  I was rooted to the spot, partly due to the black motorcycle that had almost run me down and partly to the vehemence, which was now fixed upon me. My usual no-nonsense attitude had been dulled in the aftermath of such excitement, and I was rendered mute.

  The man pushed himself to his feet, moving unsteadily on his left foot, the same foot that had been underneath the motorcycle.

  “Dammit!” he exclaimed, hopping unsteadily. He leaned over and poked at his ankle, but the leather of his boot hindered him.

  Finally, as the shock wore off and my heartbeat returned to normal, I found my voice and stepped forward to offer my assistance. “Are you injured, sir?”

  He shooed me away, not even taking care to look at me, deciding insults were due punishment. “Are you a roadside bandit lying in wait to rob unsuspecting travelers? Or are you a modern-day gunslinger with a penchant for feminism?”

  “Pardon?” I asked, my eyebrows rising in surprise, not expecting the words that gushed from his mouth. “I am no such thing.”

  “Then you are a spirit sent to slit my throat,” he said with a snarl, limping over to his motorcycle.

  “I am no such thing!” I exclaimed again. “I’m only walking to the village, which any person, living or dead, is free to do so.”

  “The spirit has spirit,” the man drawled, brushing mud from his jacket. “From whence do you come?”

  I pointed down the road toward the hotel. “Thornfield.”

  “Thornfield? And pray, spirit, what do you do there?” He spread his arms wide, mocking my tone of voice.

  “Many things,” I stated, my ire rising to match his. “None of which are your concern.”

  “Do you wor
k there?”

  I nodded.

  “Who owns it? Thornfield?”

  “Mr. Rochester,” I replied.

  “Do you know him?”

  “No, I have never met him,” I said, curious at to the reason behind his questioning.

  “You’ve never seen a picture, then? Googled to see who he is, perhaps?”

  I shook my head. “I have no need.”

  “No need?” The man seemed surprised. “Is he not in residence?”

  “No, sir.”

  He regarded me for a long moment, finally seeing that which was before him. His eyes were full of a quiet storm as he took in my attire and state of wildness. Whatever he thought, he kept it to himself, gesturing for me to step forward, instead.

  “Help me right my bike,” he commanded. “It is the least you could do since my ankle is twisted, spirit.”

  I nodded and pushed off the fence. As I approached, I took his appearance in as he had mine, finding him rugged and wild. He was not much taller than I, his shoulders wide and his attire plain but well suited for a motorcycle ride in the dark. Enclosed helmet, thick black jeans, black leather jacket and gloves, and big, black boots on his feet. He seemed past his youth, though he wasn’t old at all. Perhaps thirty to thirty-five though I was never a good judge of anyone’s age.

  The man grasped the handlebars, his gloved hands curling around the grips, and I took the rear, pushing as he applied weight on the front. We righted the beast with little effort between us, and he threw his leg over with a grimace. Fetching his helmet, I held it out, my gaze lowering to his ankle.

  “Do not bother yourself,” he said briskly, snatching the helmet from my hands. “What are you doing out in the dark?”

  “I’m going to the village,” I replied, glancing down the road.

  “You came from Thornfield?” he inquired again like he had already forgotten, and I nodded. “It is a hotel, yes? Do they not have a well-equipped bar?”

  “It’s very well equipped,” I said, returning my hands to my jacket pockets. “I merely wished a change of scenery.”

  His stormy eyes narrowed as he pondered my words like they were a riddle, and he grunted. “Then be quick about you,” he said. “It’s cold and dark out here. This lonely road is no place for a woman to walk alone.”

  I would have scolded him for thinking me a weak-willed woman—I could fight as well as any—but he put on his helmet and kick started the motorcycle to life, the roar of the engine drowning out even my own thoughts. Then in a whirlwind, he took off down the lane toward Thornfield, his destination most likely the motorway and then to London beyond. No one ever stopped at Thornfield.

  Turning back toward the village, I hurried off, my mind swirling over the events that had just passed.

  It was an incident of no consequence, no romance or interest at all, but it was a moment. In a life that had become monotonous and empty in its unchanged routine, it was a mark of something, at least. A new face had been installed in my mental gallery, and it stood out because it was stern, masculine, and dark. All other faces had blurred in its wake.

  I’d left Thornfield for a breath of fresh air and a dose of excitement, and I’d gotten it…no matter how small.

  2

  It all began the day my parents died.

  I was too young to remember them, but later, I was told they’d died in a car accident. A lonely road, a sharp turn, and a disaster for all but one.

  When a local farmer happened upon the scene, he found a swaddled baby in the back seat with not a single scratch on her fragile skin. When help could be found and the wreckage taken away, she’d been left in the care of the hospital for the evening until the next of kin could be contacted.

  If my family had a name, I was unaware what it was. For as long as I could remember, my name was Jane Doe. The name the law gave to those who had no identity or no discernible way of finding one. I was no one.

  My uncle Reed cared for me at first and doted perhaps a little too much. When I was three years old, he passed away from a heart attack, and I was left to endure with my aunt Sarah and my cousins, John and Georgiana.

  From that moment forth, my aunt constantly told me I was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. My parents and her ungrateful husband had the audacity to die and leave their demon child in her care. I was a burden who sucked the soul from her life, and in its place, her dalliance in substance abuse couldn’t sooth the blow.

  Reed was not my name and never would it be. My mother was my uncle’s sister and had married what Aunt Sarah described as a vagrant, and that was all I knew. My past was withheld from me, my despicable adoptee mother the gatekeeper and she made it her mission to belittle the memory of my parents. Not that I had any memory aside from daydreams and fantasies I dared to experience whilst hiding from my cousins.

  The Reeds were rich enough that their fine manor house had room for a family three times the size of what we were, but I was prescribed the smallest room in the house, the castoff clothes of my cousin Georgiana, and a list of chores a mile long. My education suffered, I did not go to school, all ignored me, and when there was need of a scapegoat, I was blamed for every mistake that happened within the confines of the house.

  Compared side by side with my cousins, I was plain, undersized for my age, my skin was pale, and I always looked sickly. I had no talents to speak of and no prospects outside of the house, and I was reminded of it every day without fail.

  Little Jane Doe was the runt of the litter. Useless, unwanted, despised, a blight on the house of Reed.

  Some souls start to believe what others say they are if they’re told it often enough. Was it because their mind was weak? Or was it because the pressure of despair was so great they crumbled under the weight of it? I didn’t know. All I was certain of was my story.

  And how did the tale of poor, plain, unwanted, Jane Doe end? Well, I suppose I resorted to extremes just to spite Aunt Sarah and her bully son.

  Simply put, I fought. Tooth and nail, hammer and tong. One day, when I was eight-years-old, I had reached my limit of pinches, slaps, and brutish thuggery John delighted in exacting upon me, and I put my plain, little fist straight into his piggy, little nose so hard it bled all over Aunt Sarah’s best rug. He ran off crying like the little squealer he was, and of course, all of it was my fault.

  I was locked in a closet for three days as punishment for my misdemeanor.

  When the door finally opened, I was dragged away to yet another miserable existence. Being a eight years old, I didn’t have much choice in the matter, so off I went.

  That’s how I found myself enrolled at Lowood, the school designed to teach problem children how to walk on the straight and narrow and be upstanding citizens of the world.

  They took me kicking and screaming from that closet, and it was in that moment of total abandonment that I realized I was in this life alone. The love and care I’d craved all my life was not in the cards for a child such as me, so I let go of such foolish notions and embraced the harsh nature of real life. From there on out, I didn’t count on anyone but myself.

  I never saw the Reeds again, and as the days passed into years and hardships came and went, I began to think less and less of them until I had little regard for their memory.

  I’d been mistreated, beaten, and scorned by those who should have been family, so perhaps I had every right to rue the day my parents were taken from this world and my name was withheld from me, but I saw Lowood as a chance to make something of myself. If only I had known what trials the next ten years would contain, I might’ve run away, but I felt spirit within me. Spirit which bade me to endure, so endure I did.

  Lowood was brutal, and the stench of misery had forced a callous to grow over all the softness and wonder my parents had passed on when they made me. I grew into a hardened woman, intelligent and determined yet closed and cold, and the moment I could leave that place, I did.

  I imagined a world bigger than all I had experienced and beli
eved with all my heart there was a place for a nameless woman like me. I was keen to find adventure outside of the halls of Lowood, and adventure I found.

  Five years I traveled the country, seeking meager work that paid enough for me to skip to the next city, and then to the next. I experienced life, lust, and sinful desires, and still, I floated aimlessly in the waters of life, not knowing where I belonged—if I did at all.

  And that, reader, was how I found myself quite literally at a crossroads. The total darkness of the moor shrouding my presence as I made the trek from a tiny English village to yet another beginning.

  The wind tore at my hair as I pulled my hoodie up over my head to keep warm, the duffel bag that held all of my earthly belongings thrown carelessly across my back. The sky was dotted with a million stars, the desolate landscape only serving to make me feel small and alone in a world that was bigger than I could ever imagine.

  The lone light that winked in the distance—a beacon in an otherwise bleak future—was from a grand, dilapidated manor turned hotel, which I was told was in need of some tender loving care. They hired me upon my application, and the wage was acceptable, so I came.

  It was to be the place of my beginning and end.

  Thornfield.

  3

  Two months ago…

  * * *

  The manor was a menacing presence as I approached on foot.

  Lights shone from windows above, tiny pinpricks of warmth in the chill of night. All was still and close as frost began to settle on the lawn beside the long drive. My boots crunched on the gravel, making quite a racket as I advanced, and I fancied it was loud enough to wake the dead from their graves.

  I never liked making a spectacle of myself or drawing unnecessary attention, leaving it to more outward folks, so my noisy path had my nerves on edge. I was one of those rare women who went about life quietly, indulging where she may but as a mostly solitary figure among the crowd.