Paradox (The Thornfield Affair #2) Read online

  “It’s only dinner,” I replied from my spot on the end of her bed.

  “Then why do you need to dress up?” she asked.

  I shrugged, though she couldn’t see me from inside the Narnia that was her personal fashion boutique. When she turned and raised her eyebrow in question, I said, “Because it’s nice.”

  “I wouldn’t hold it against you if you decided to have a little fling with the man,” Alice went on, oblivious to my discomfort. “I’m sure he’s used to it. Being used for pleasure, I mean.”

  “It’s not my intention,” I replied sharply.

  Alice emerged from the closet holding a black dress and handed it to me.

  “I’ve never had a lot of friends,” I went on. “Rivers seems nice, though his intentions seem a little off-center. He likes to talk about art and ideas, and it’s a refreshing change. Not everything has to be about love, sex, or something in between.”

  With this, I held up the dress, declared it satisfactory, and thanked her for her help. I suppose it was a little harsh of me, but I was through taking life on the chin like a good sport.

  “I’m sorry, Jane,” Alice said, looking forlorn. “You’ve become so closed off these past weeks, and I was only trying to help. I miss the Jane who first arrived at Thornfield.”

  “She was a different beast, I’m afraid,” I replied, beginning to feel terrible about brushing her off. “Thornfield has changed me, and I’m not sure if it’s for the good or bad. Too much has transpired for me to feel much comfort here.”

  “I would tell you everything, Jane, but I’m forbidden.”

  “Yes, Edward has that effect on people,” I replied. “I cannot pretend my feelings aren’t hurt by being purposely kept from things, even when I suspect it’s for my own good.”

  “What will you do?” Alice asked, staring at her feet.

  “I’m sure you already know,” I replied. “Once the retreat is over and the guests have departed, I will begin looking for a new situation.”

  “You’re leaving?” At this declaration, Alice stared up at me in shock, though I hardly knew why. Surely she’d seen it coming?

  “I cannot pretend I belong here any longer,” I replied. “Thornfield has scarred me quite deeply, and I feel I will be much better off leaving the events of this last summer behind me and forging ahead someplace new.”

  “I understand why, but I really wish you wouldn’t,” she said. “If I ever had a sister, I hoped it would be you, Jane.”

  I couldn’t smile, for her wish was one of my greatest desires, and those things seemed further out of my grasp than ever before. A family, a place to belong, and a name.

  Retreating to my room with the dress, I changed hastily, my temper rising at Alice’s throwaway regard for affection and her desire to call me sister. It was akin to Edward’s need to own me however he could. Was it wrong to say no to a passing fancy? Was it wrong to only want the complete love of a man? Was I so abhorrent for wanting the things I craved so desperately?

  Dragging my fingers through my hair, I untangled the braid I’d come to wear every day and smoothed out the curls the design had made in my long, brown locks. Studying my reflection in the little mirror, I wondered at the things John Rivers seemed to have spotted in my features that I had not.

  I’d always had a shade of doubt about my attractiveness where Edward was concerned, but I’d come to realize he’d ultimately wanted to control me more than he had wanted something pleasing to look at. I spoke back, I challenged, and I didn’t submit without complaint, so it was little wonder a man like him—a man addicted to wealth and power—would see me as more.

  But John Rivers… He was an enigma because I couldn’t see what he saw at all. Emerging from my room and weaving my way to the dining room, I decided I would ask if I had enough courage. Lately, I had very little, so I was entirely sure it would remain a mystery unless he chose to impart it on me himself.

  The dining room was full of riotous laughter and noise when I stepped through the double doors that joined the space with the main sitting room.

  Folding my hands in front of me, I surveyed the room, wondering if I’d made the right decision by coming here to dine with Rivers. I’d never second-guessed myself as much as I did now, and it took no great effort to understand why.

  Just as I spotted him, Rivers rose to his feet. He’d claimed a table by the windows in an out-of-the-way little hollow among the excitement, and I was thankful for it.

  Making my way toward him, I noticed the table was laid out for two. The centerpiece was adorned with red roses while the other tables had an assortment of peach and cream buds. A pair of tapered candles in silver holders sat on either side, and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne finished off the ensemble. It was a little too romantic for my tastes, but I was here now and couldn’t escape.

  “Jane,” Rivers said, looking me over with a keen eye. “You look stunning.”

  Knowing he was laying the compliments on thick for his own gain, I smiled, just thankful someone bothered to give them to me at all in my current state of flux.

  “Would you like to sit?” he asked, gesturing to the chair opposite.

  Glancing at the empty place, then at the full to bursting dining room, I hesitated. It was only an innocent dinner with a guest and not at all in the least romantic despite the layout. It was a chance to converse with an artist, something I’d longed for in the dreary winter months. I was as free as I could be as a single woman in rural England, and perhaps I’d learn something new about the world. What was the harm?

  I offered him another small smile, pulled out the chair, and sat.

  I glanced at the table arrangement and raised an eyebrow. “I see you went to some effort.”

  “Perhaps it was a little mischievous of me, but I thought it would be nice in light of recent events.”

  My skin bristled at his comment, and I reached for the champagne. It looked as if I would need some liquid courage to loosen my tongue if Rivers was going to keep putting his foot in it.

  “Allow me,” he said, taking the bottle from my hand. Pouring two glasses, he handed me one.

  “Please, don’t be so bold to think you know anything of me and the things I have been subjected to,” I said briskly. “It is a fool who believes the entire truth of a person is held within the confines of gossip.”

  Rivers paused, his eyes looking me over with an air of surprise. “Well said, Jane. I will endeavor to rise above the idle chattering of waitresses. Accept my apologies.”

  “I can hardly tell if you are being sincere or sarcastic,” I retorted.

  “Such fire!” he exclaimed, raising his glass. “I can see I was right about the iceberg. I must admit, my arrogance gets the better of me at times, Jane. A personal fault, but one I own up to in hopes of bettering myself.”

  “I’m glad to see it,” I said, my ire beginning to dampen. “There aren’t many people who would own up to it much less declare it with such vigor.”

  He smiled, his lips curling in a pleasing manner. “Let me buy you dinner. Pick anything you like.” He handed me a menu, and I hid a smile. “What’s that I see? A smile?”

  “You don’t need to buy me a single thing, sir.”

  “Why not?” Rivers seemed to understand that the mood was light, and he played up to my tone.

  I lowered the menu. “I am fortunate enough to work here, and the food is included.”

  “Then I am bested!” he declared with a wicked grin.

  When the waiter appeared, I greeted him by name and placed our order with precision, ignoring the knowing smile he was flashing. Did everyone think I was on a date with this man? It was madness!

  As we waited for our food to arrive and then as we ate, I allowed Rivers to talk about his upbringing and family, regaling me with the condensed version of his life story to date. If there was one thing he loved to do other than appreciating the female form, it was to talk endlessly about himself. We made a fine pair, and his unashamed a
rrogance made up for my unwillingness to talk at all.

  “Have you always wanted to be an artist?” I asked when he was done telling me about his fine studio in Shoreditch, London.

  “Yes, since I was a little boy, though my parents wanted better things for me.”

  “What’s better than painting?” I asked incredulously.

  “Law, medicine, finance. All well-paying professions, which come with respect, though I like your reaction to their oppression, Jane.”

  I didn’t understand his rebellion at his parents’ wish that he have a better life. I never knew mine, and I was sure I’d want my mother and father to wish grand things for me if they were alive. It didn’t seem like such a disagreeable thing to me.

  “Though, I’ve worked hard to hone my skill, and I can now command a grand price for my work,” he went on, his voice full of pride.

  “Then you ought to be congratulated.”

  Rivers shrugged. “Success is a strange beast, Jane, much like men and power. Once you have a taste, one tends to want more, and when the pinnacle of one’s profession is reached, what then?”

  “Contentment?”

  “One would think just that, but I am led to believe life is about the chase and the journey, not the obtainment. Once you obtain the thing you desire most, the journey is over.”

  “And so is life?”

  Rivers regarded me for a moment as he thought over my insight and said, “It’s quite a poignant thing to ponder.”

  I didn’t like the sound of his hypothesis and glanced down at the plate in front of me that held the remnants of my dinner. If what Rivers had said was true, then perhaps Edward and I were always going to be doomed, no matter what either of us said or did. Would he have eventually tired of me if I’d agreed to be his mistress? Would I have had the same misgivings if I’d gotten what I’d desired? It was all a little depressing dwelling upon what ifs.

  When I finally returned to my room after a long evening talking about art and color, I’d decided John Rivers was a nice enough man. Even though his faults were quite literally on display, he could acknowledge his wrongdoings and attempt to make up for them. It was a refreshing change, and I found it easy to talk to him about all manner of things.

  It was pleasurable to discuss ideas and outlooks for a change and not be forced to talk in riddles and conjectures.

  There was nothing complicated or hidden about John Rivers, and it was what I liked most about him. Perhaps I would take him up on his offer and visit his studio in London. I had nowhere else to go after I left Thornfield, and the city would be the most likely place to find an abundance of work.

  It seemed like a fine idea, and for the first time in a year, my plain, little life had a direction.

  6

  It was my first autumn at Thornfield, and the transformation the grounds had taken was stunning.

  Today was the last day of the retreat, and all the guests had spread out across the hotel grounds taking their last opportunity to work on their projects with fervor. It was a sad day because I too would soon be departing.

  Outside, the air had become crisp, signaling winter’s chill was fast approaching and much earlier than I was used to. The sun shone in a rare display as my boots shuffled through the carpet of golden leaves on the path, and I buried my hands deep into my jacket pockets for warmth. It was a stark contrast but beautiful to behold.

  Between the flagstones, bright green moss clung to every porous surface it could find while the canopy of oak trees above was lit with a shower of reds and oranges. The landscape was aflame with color and warmth despite the chill.

  Every so often, I would come across a lonely soul with a sketchbook or a laptop and occasionally, a small group discussing the things they’d learned in the last fortnight. Smiling, I felt a surge of pride at the event I’d masterminded and was glad I’d had the opportunity. I could finally see it for what it was without the taint of the events leading up to it.

  I fancied I’d separated myself enough from Edward that I could go on without the burden of feeling his parting, though I’d be sad to leave this place behind. Ultimately, I wasn’t sure if it was Thornfield I would miss or the locale in which I now found myself wandering. I was content out here in the wilderness, detached from modern life and the unbearably fast pace of love and loss.

  When I came to the edge of the manor gardens, I was about to retrace my steps and partake in another lap before returning to my duties when I saw a lone figure ahead. It took me a moment to realize I’d stumbled across John Rivers, and when I did, I found myself watching him carefully.

  He was sitting on the edge of the garden wall, an easel set up before him, his paints perched beside him, and a pallet laden with blobs of color sitting in his lap. My gaze went to the canvas he was working on, my curiosity getting the better of me. I’d listened in on some of the workshops and had peered at some of his sketches, but I’d never seen him paint before, nor had I seen the work he was so proud of.

  Fixing on the canvas, I studied the hues of oranges, reds, and browns he’d been splashing, and my eye followed the rise and fall of the landscape he’d dotted in the background, though I couldn’t make out much else. It was very much a work in progress.

  “Do you want to come and look?” Rivers asked abruptly, making me almost jump out of my own skin. “You’re more than welcome, Jane.”

  With all the anxiety of a teenage girl with a crush, I moved forward across the grass and stood by the wall. The image he’d been working on looked entirely different from this perspective, and a myriad of questions rose in my mind.

  “It’s an unusual style you have,” I said. “It’s very…”

  “It’s called pointillism,” he said with a smile. “Up close, it’s all just colored dots with hardly a shade of form to them, but stand back a bit, and all is revealed.”

  I took a few steps back, my boots rustling in the grass, and looked again. As I stared at the image he was creating, I could see the landscape I’d picked out immediately, followed by the grand oak trees and their autumn leaves, and then there was the road to the village segmenting the rolling moor.

  “Vincent van Gogh was a master in the style,” he went on. “So were Camille Pissarro, Paul Signac, and many others.”

  “I’m afraid you lost me after Van Gogh,” I said apologetically.

  As a representative of Thornfield, I thought it better if I kept moving and left him to his work, but I lingered, watching his brushstrokes with interest.

  “How do you know where to put everything?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

  Rivers smiled and patted the empty space on the bench next to him. “Sit, Jane, and I shall tell you all you wish to know.”

  Sitting gingerly beside him, I ran my eye over his palette, brushes, and little bag of supplies. His jeans were spotted with paint, and his fingers were covered in matching colors. He was a bedraggled sight, indeed, and nothing at all like the refined and sharp Edward Rochester. The sudden comparison started me, and I pushed it out of my mind.

  A cold breeze ruffled my hair, and I wrinkled my nose as the smell of paint wafted in my direction.

  Rivers laughed and lifted his brush, dabbing at the canvas. “It smells because of the solvents in the paint, but I like working with oils over acrylics. It’s more difficult, and I like the challenge. Especially the drying time.” He gave a wink at this last part, and I suppose it was a painter joke that had flown over my head.

  “How do you make a painting like this?” I asked, my eye drawn to the canvas. I could scarcely comprehend the amount of effort it took to complete something like this, let alone wonder what that amount of creativity felt like. I longed to wield such a talented display of art and perfection.

  Rivers turned and began explaining. “Much like any other, except with different brushstrokes. Underneath, I have drawn myself a simple guide of where I want things to go. They’re all balanced and centered, making a pleasing composition. See?” He pointed o
ut the faint pencil lines with his fingertip. “Then I begin to build up the colors over this, thin strokes and bold colors at first, then as the image gains form, I can become more detailed and heavy handed. I know the colors as I have a perfect reference in front of me.” With a broad sweep of his hand, he gestured to the view before us. “A photograph works just as well, though being in the scene I’m creating is much better. I can see how the light plays on the landscape as the day progresses.”

  “But how do you know which colors to put where?”

  “Practice,” he replied. “Also, patience and a little natural talent.”

  His arm brushed against mine, but I hardly noticed his closeness. I was too embroiled in puzzling out his painting, attempting to predict the next swash of his brush.

  “Jane…”

  I glanced up at the sound of his hushed voice, and my breath caught as I beheld his face so near mine. Then when he lowered his mouth toward mine, I was struck dumb, unable to move when I all I wanted to do was turn and stop this madness before it had a chance to blossom any further.

  It was too late when his hand cradled my cheek. It was too late when his breath mingled with mine. It was too late when he finally caught me in his intent to claim.

  The pressure of his lips on mine wasn’t reassuring or pleasurable. It was none of those things. His touch felt alien, and my only reaction was to tear myself away before I fell so deep I’d never claw my way back out again.

  I stumbled to my feet, my heart powering along as fast as a racehorse.

  “Jane, I…” Rivers stood, his expression surprised.

  The garden wall separated us, and I was thankful for the barrier, lest he tried again. I shook my head, my gaze darting everywhere but at him. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kiss another man when I could still feel Edward’s claws hooked deep in my heart.