When I was six years old, I dreamed often of a great black dog prowling the grounds of Gateshead, the manor home in which I was brought up by the Reeds.

Sometimes, it sat by my feet, its eyes blazing with fire as its tongue lolled from its mouth. In others, it circled me as I stood on the lawn, snapping and snarling until I was forced to run. I’d dream about the beast for a week, then on the last night, I’d see visions of a car that had been reduced to a twisted lump of metal, steam and smoke billowing from under the bonnet with green radiator fluid leaking onto the road below. The hound would circle, scratching and snapping at the doors and windows in an attempt to get inside.

I was only a baby at the time, but it was my young mind attempting to remember and make sense of the accident that claimed my parents’ lives and changed mine irrevocably. And thus, I came to associate the dream with darkness and death.

Later, as I grew up, I came to understand it was a dark omen, a symbol of bad things on the horizon. I dreamed of the beast occasionally, and the very next day, something would happen. Someone I knew would be in an accident, someone would pass away, or someone would be in trouble—the latter was usually me—and I came to fear the appearance of the hound.

Perhaps it was a premonition after all because, that night, after seeing Edward in the library, I dreamed of the black dog, and the next morning, a visitor came to Thornfield.

I hadn’t seen the dog in years. Truthfully, I’d quite forgotten about it, but when I saw him again, I recognized his furry head and flaming eyes as if he’d never left. He was a relic from my past, so perhaps that was why he’d come back to me then.

That morning, I was alone in the office lamenting the prior night’s events when I heard a noise out in the gallery. The heavy oak door had opened, letting in a blast of icy air that tickled at the nape of my neck. Rising, I ventured out to see who had come. It had been a long time since guests had crossed the threshold, and it was a harsh time of year to brave the moor for a holiday.

A young woman stood in the center of the room, her gaze turning about the walls, studying the paintings hanging all around. When she removed her woolen hat and faced me, I immediately recognized her blue eyes and golden hair.

It was my cousin Georgiana but not the same Georgiana I remembered.

The last time I’d set my sight upon her, she’d been a slim, fairy-like girl of eleven. Now she was twenty-six, fully grown, fair skinned, and curvy. Not plump but average. Her hair was as gold as I recalled, coiled with tight ringlets and shiny, and her eyes sparkled blue with youth, but her expression carried the burden of her mother’s illness.

“Jane, is that really you?” she asked, looking me over with as much surprise as I had her. “You’re so changed but just as waifish as you were as a child.”

“Georgiana,” I said, standing before her.

“I can’t get over it,” she said, looking me over yet again. “You’re so pretty, Jane! How are you?”

I grimaced, hardly understanding her reasons for being so nice. When we were children, she’d always disregarded me and my quarrels with John, hardly noticing I was there at all. Now she seemed interested and engaged, and I wondered at her growth.

“I’m as well as can be,” I replied. “And you?”

“Tired mostly,” she replied. “But I suppose you already know the reason why.”

I nodded. Mr. Leaven had told me of it when he’d come to entice me back to Gateshead, and it was likely the reason Georgiana was here now. Knowing the answer, I asked anyway, merely to be done with the pleasant pretenses.

“What brings you here?” I asked.

She sighed and lowered her gaze for a moment before saying, “When Mr. Leaven returned without you, it sent the entire house into a frenzy. Mother was very displeased.”

“I’m sure she was, but it can’t be helped,” I replied.

Aunt Sarah and her illness had been the furthest thing from my mind in the last weeks, and truthfully, I’d forgotten about her entirely. Perhaps it was uncharacteristic of me to push away the request of a dying woman, but the past was where it should be. Not forgotten but not reimagined in my present wanderings, either.

“I know you were treated unfairly, Jane,” Georgiana said, her gaze meeting mine. “I’m sorry I allowed John to harm you so, but I was only a child.”

“I’m not doing this to punish you,” I said, shaking my head.

She grasped my hands, and her eyes began to mist with tears. “Then why won’t you come?”

I couldn’t move. Staring at Georgiana, I pondered her words. Was I being unjust in declining to see my aunt? Was I now the cruel one? For as long as humankind could write, the law of the land had been an eye for an eye or a variation of it, but was it the right course of action?

Removing my gaze from my cousin’s, I glanced around the gallery, attempting to collect myself. I became aware of a dark figure looming on the landing above, and I beheld Edward leaning against the banister, watching our exchange with a blank expression. Scowling, I pulled on Georgiana’s hands and ushered her into the sitting room away from prying eyes. If there was one thing I didn’t want Edward meddling in, it was my past.

I sat us by the windows in a little recess made up of two seventeenth-century-styled gilded brocade armchairs and a matching couch. The room was empty save for us and would be private enough if we kept our voices low.

“Do you remember the last time you saw her?” Georgiana asked.

“I haven’t seen her since the day she forced me to go to Lowood,” I said. “Do you know what I suffered there?”

She lowered her gaze and stared at her hands, looking rather uncomfortable. Of course, she knew. The story of Mr. Brocklehurst and the things he’d done to the children in his charge had made the news for weeks. Had Aunt Sarah understood exactly what she was abandoning me to?

“Please, Jane,” she said with renewed vigor. “She’s been quite adamant you come. I scarcely know why, but she has some things she wants to talk to you about.”

“And I have to come in person?” I inquired. “To Gateshead?”

Georgiana nodded.

“And what does she want to talk to me about?”

“She won’t say, I’m afraid. You know what Mother is like. When her mind is set…”

I held my tongue and turned my gaze to the window. I knew exactly what Aunt Sarah was like when her mind was made up. I’d experienced it all my life.

“What do you think?” I asked.

Georgiana was silent for a moment as she pondered my question. “Amends,” she replied when she’d arrived at a conclusion. “After John’s suicide and her stroke, she seems to have changed. I certainly don’t recognize her. There are parts of her still there, but her disposition has altered. If she disliked you still, she would not call for you as adamantly as she has. I believe she wishes to make amends before she dies.”

I stared at her incredulously. “Her dying wish is to make amends with me?”

“Seems like it.”

I didn’t know if Georgiana’s belief was true or not. I had no way of knowing if Aunt Sarah would apologize or berate me further or if she merely wished to see what had become of me, but I would go. It seemed the right thing to do, no matter what had transpired between us in the past.

“Fine,” I said, grimacing as Georgiana leaped from her chair and threw her arms around me. “I will come, but it depends on permission from my employer.”

“Of course,” she said, extracting herself from me. Remaining on the couch beside me she added, “We must talk about everything, Jane. I wish to know you now and forever. That is my hope. I never had a sister, and John was never much of a brother. Now that he is gone and Mother is soon to depart, I am very much alone. I wish to make amends.”

“Amends? After all this time?”

“I was a weak-willed child,” she admitted. “I followed Mother blindly and never stopped to think for myself.”

“What has changed?”

“I moved to London when I was eighteen,” she explained. “I did without fine things, I made my own choices, I found employment, and I forged my own path. It was difficult at first, but I came to realize many things about myself. When all that horrible business with my brother happened and I came home to Gateshead, I was no longer influenced by Mother’s wicked tongue. I think it helped…with you.”

“Well,” I declared. “Independence becomes you.”

She beamed at me, her cheeks flushing with pride, and I began to warm up to her. I would proceed with caution, but I would welcome this newfound relationship. It might be the only one I ever had with what was left of my family. I craved a connection with the places I’d come from—my history and blood—so it would be foolish if I shut myself off completely without at least knowing if it were genuine or not.

I had Georgiana installed into one of the suites in the east wing of the hotel, promising to organize my travel arrangements that day. She chattered happily about Thornfield, about how grand she thought it was and a myriad of other things, but my mind was elsewhere.

I wasn’t sure if it was an admirable thing, to clear the slate of so many years of hardships with one swipe, but that was exactly what she did. To her, we were instant best friends. For me, it would take some time, and I assumed we’d get plenty of it on the journey to Gateshead.

I left her to settle in her room, and while Alice manned the office, I sought out Edward. Like it or not, I was still an employee of Thornfield, and as such, I was required to ask permission to take leave. I didn’t like having to request something of him so soon after our liaison in the library the previous evening, but it seemed time was of the essence.

I could see no reason why he’d decline besides wanting to make me even more uncomfortable—there were no guests apart Georgiana and no prospects of there being any until winter thawed. Alice would be able to handle the operations quite adequately on her own.

Lingering outside the study, I could hear the low murmur of the television within, echoing the chattering of some news program. Closing my eyes, I whispered a little prayer for strength and then knocked on the door.

“What is it?” came Edward’s thundering voice, signaling he was in one of his famous moods.

My hand trembled as I turned the doorknob, and my nerves almost shattered completely as I entered the lion’s den. Out of habit, I closed the door behind me, and it made the space shrink until all I could focus on was him. The sound of the television faded, the walls of books and paintings were nothing but blurs in my peripheral vision, and the world ceased to be.

When his gaze beheld me, he made a curious grimace and then asked, “What can I do for you, Jane?”

His voice was not of Edward, my lover, but the lilt of Mr. Rochester, the businessman. It was as if a thick wall of professionalism had forced its way between us, and even though I’d asked for it, the pain was insurmountable.

“I wish to ask for a leave of absence,” I replied simply, thinking it best to reply in kind.

“A leave of absence?” he echoed. “What to do?”

“My aunt is ill, and I have been asked to go see her before she passes,” I said, folding my hands in front of me to stop them shaking. “I wish to leave tomorrow morning.”

He set down his pen and regarded me, his gaze lingering on my hands before returning to my face in full. He did not look pleased, but he rarely did.

“Who is the woman?” he asked, affronted. “I didn’t think you knew anyone other than yourself.”

Ignoring his petulant tone, I replied, “Georgiana is my cousin.”

His head rose at this, and a scowl distorted his features. “Cousin? I thought you had no living relatives? Have you lied to me, Jane?”

“Not at all. I have always been honest in the fact I have no living full-blood relations, none that I know of, and any family that remains is by marriage only, and they did not want to know me.”

“And this Georgiana is one of the latter?”

“She is my aunt’s daughter.”

“The same aunt who shipped you off to an institution for delinquent children? Lowood?”

I never thought for an instant Edward would remember the scant few things I’d told him about my past, and I hesitated. Not that I’d purposely withheld more from him, he’d simply never asked. I suppose he’d been too interested in my body.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Why?”

“Because I was poor, burdensome, and she disliked me.”

“And now she is ill and wishes to see you? I daresay she has some ulterior motive.” He narrowed his eyes, measuring my mettle. “And you would go knowing this?”

“If you know anything about me, sir, it’s that I would do—”

“Anything that was right,” he finished for me.

“Yes.”

“And the old man who came to see you. I suppose he was requesting the same thing as your cousin?” When I nodded, he went on, “Then their plot depends on it.”

“Why must they plot?” I asked, my annoyance rising at his argumentative state. “Perhaps she only wants closure on her death bed. Who am I to deny an old, feeble woman?”

“An old, feeble woman who abused you,” he shot back, looking quite put out by it.

My scowl deepened, and my hold over my temper began to slip. “If you will not give me your permission, then consider this meeting notice of immediate termination of my employment.”

“You’re that determined to see the old bat?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I am.”

Edward sighed and rose to his feet. Rounding the desk, he paced back and forth a few times, positioning himself between the door and me. I’d thought to get away from here cleanly, but it looked as if I would stay until he was quite done talking at me.

He ran his hand over his face and scratched at his chin, his brow darkening as he brooded over something, which seemed to unsettle him. Once, I would have asked, but now I only remained silent, waiting for him to reveal it or not.

“Promise me you’ll only stay a week,” he murmured.

“I cannot,” I replied, startled by his humble tone.

“Cannot or will not?” he asked. “They are two different things, Jane.”

He moved closer, and I steeled myself. “I cannot promise you. I will be gone for as long as I am needed.”

Edward snorted, his lip curling. “Defiant to the last.”

“I am a free human being,” I replied, my voice lowering to a rasp. “I am no longer employed at Thornfield, and I have not been yours for months. We have all moved on, sir.”

“I suppose we have,” he returned. “Though some time remains where I can look upon you as a free man, Jane, and I will have it. Besides, I have not accepted your resignation. I won’t allow it.”

“There you go again, claiming dominance and power over everything you touch,” I whispered, even though I was thankful for the wage continued employment would bring.

“Promise me one thing, Jane,” he said, and his voice held such a strong note of reverence, I inclined my head.

“What is it?”

“Do not search out employment. Let me find you a suitable position that is respectable of your talents and pays well. Allow me to help you with this, and I shall leave you be. Your wish to move on, clear and free, will be granted.”

I shivered under the weight of his gaze and glanced away, knowing all our goodbyes were nothing compared to this one. My heart beat so furiously it was the only thing I could hear, and my throat was burned so raw with constricted emotion it was the only thing I could feel. The air had a weight of finality to it that drove an axe into my heart.

“Goodbye,” I croaked, stepping around him.

His hand shot out and grasped my forearm, stopping me from fleeing. “So you’ll do no more than say goodbye?”

“It is enough considering our past,” I replied, tensing at his touch.

“Very well,” was his reply. “Though it is very distant considering the ways I’ve known you, Jane.”

“You taunt me,” I replied harshly. “You cannot speak these things to me when you now belong to Blanche Ingram. It is neither fair nor right.”

His eyes narrowed in a glare as he let me go and stepped away from the door.

“Then goodbye,” he declared.

I departed Thornfield the next morning with Georgiana by my side, and I never laid eyes on Edward after my request was granted. I didn’t expect to, but he still held a strange power over me I wished he would relinquish.

We caught the eight a.m. train from the village station, and thus, I was plucked from the claws of Thornfield. What I was going to find at the end of the line was unknown, but I would face it with as much mettle as I could muster.

I was no longer poor little plain Jane Doe but a strong woman with a hard heart and a newfound respect for her person. Edward Rochester had seen to that.