My Mr. Rochester 1(24)

I looked up to the amused expression of a man not much older than myself. He had large dark eyes and thick eyebrows, wonderful cheekbones, a square jaw, and full lips. He brushed his loose brown hair off his face and smiled.

“You did come in for shoes, miss?” His voice was like a dream, deep and rumbling. I wanted to answer, but I’d forgotten how to speak.

“Where is Mr. Blackstone?” I finally managed to get out.

“My dad’s not feeling well today, I’m afraid. But I can help you. I’m Gideon.”

“You were away.” I grabbed on to a piece of intelligence I’d heard in the kitchen about Mr. Blackstone’s son. “On border duty.” Having a topic of conversation brought me back to my senses. Gideon Blackstone was the current fascinating thing in the gossip factory known as the Lowood kitchen. The descriptions of his beauty hadn’t come close.

“You’ll love this boot,” he said. He took me by the elbow and led me to an overstuffed chair by the fire. I’d never been touched like that before, not with kindness. Not by a man near my age. Not by a prince in a fairy tale. Pulling a stool close to my chair, he sat down in front of me and lifted the skirt of my dress over my knees.

“What are—”

“To fit you, miss.” He spoke matter-of-factly and went about his business. An ember on the fire snapped as he slipped off my shoes. His hands were nearly as large as my feet. He left my stockings alone—I didn't know if I was grateful or disappointed.

“Was the border awful?” I could hardly believe this was happening. “Did you have to…” Good lord, Jane! I very nearly broke the unspoken commandment: Never ask about the border.

Of course he might have had to kill someone. At the very least, he’d caught runners who’d be sent off to hard labor in the hellish factory farms of Carolina or worse, to clean contaminants along the dead zone of the Keystone spill.

“I’ll be right back.” He let my foot down gently and fetched his tools. He sat down again as I stuffed my dress between my legs, and his mouth twitched with a smile. “A deep purple boot would look well with that dress, miss.”

But not much else. “I’d like black, please.” I didn’t say I could afford only one pair which had to go with everything. “I think it’s wonderful that you went for citizenship,” I said. “Your father must be proud.”

To earn full citizenship and secure voting rights, a young man not joined to a Righteous Household or Estate had to serve two years in the New Judean militia. If he was lucky, he’d be garrisoned in the interior, risking nothing more than a pulled muscle while drilling for war with the United States that everyone knew would never come.

The unlucky ones got border patrol.

“My father didn’t want me to go,” he said. “Didn’t think it was worth it.”

Before I could be shocked by the idea, he lifted my left foot firmly in one hand and ran the other down my calf. Oh! Butterflies flitted across my stomach…and I felt hot in other places.

He measured my feet, the diameter of each calf, the lengths from my heels to just below the backs of my knees.

“Perfect,” he said. “It will be a pleasure to boot you.” He wrote in his order book, still holding my foot absently in one hand. Then he closed his book and touched my knee. He ran his fingers over the top of my thigh and leaned forward. His eyes were so deep and beautiful, and against my will my lips parted.

I trembled as he kissed me, so strong and so soft at the same time. His tongue pushed in, and I didn’t mind. Far from it. I liked the way he made me feel, even as it frightened me. I pushed him away.

“Mr. Blackstone.”

“Call me Gideon,” he said. “You’re so lovely.”

He moved to kiss me again, but I regained my senses.

“Mr. Blackstone, don’t tease me. I know I’m not pretty.”

“Aye.” He agreed readily and sat back on his heels. I felt like a fool. “You’re no flower. But don’t sell yourself short, Miss Eyre.” He leaned close to my ear, and his voice was husky and low. “There’s a spark inside you I’d love to blow into a roaring blaze.”

I snatched up my purse and slipped into my shoes. As I hurried away, scandalized by my own actions, Gideon Blackstone’s laugh echoed behind me. At the door the magical bells jingled as he called out, “Your boots will be ready next Thursday.”

That was the day I woke up. Back at Lowood, it struck me: teaching there wasn’t far different from being a student. I was in a play on a never-ending run, the same actor cast in different roles. Jane Eyre as student. Jane Eyre as teacher. In the future perhaps Jane Eyre as superintendent—with a lover from the village she thought she kept hidden but was fodder for the kitchen’s gossip.