September arrived, and with it came the long awaited artist retreat.

Thornfield was alive with color and movement, in the changing of the seasons as well as the arrival of guests. The retreat was a great boon for the hotel. The business it had brought with it had livened up the coffers, and the staff were pleased to be running around after people who appreciated their service.

There was a great deal to do, and I had no time to dwell on the darkness of the last few weeks and months. Truthfully, I was thankful for the reprieve in my gloomy outlook and the distraction from the face that haunted me still.

There had been no word or messages from Edward, not that I expected it, and life went on as if he’d never been in residence at all. If only my heart were as strong in casting aside the recent hurts it had been dealt as it was in coming to terms with the old.

Finally, the first day of the retreat arrived, and thankfully, all was in place, including my mind. I felt stronger than I’d ever been before, the trials I’d passed serving to fortify my resolve. If clouds did, in fact, have a silver lining, I was sure I was going to find it someplace within the fortnight to come.

Alice and I stood at the ready as a minibus came to a stop outside. We had a little shuttle running to and from the village train station, which was included in the cost of the package, and the first had arrived right on time. So far, everything had been going smoothly, and I felt a surge of pride. I’d planned everything so meticulously, and to see it all coming together was a treat.

The main door was open, the gallery was ready and decorated with garlands made from dried heath, bracken, and ivy from the gardens, and housekeeping was poised ready to escort guests and their bags to their assigned rooms. It was a grand production, and everyone looked as if they were excited to welcome a new kind of custom to Thornfield.

Artists, painters, sculptors, writers, and poets were all coming to spend the next two weeks learning and swapping ideas, working on projects, and experiencing the clear country air.

I didn’t see myself as a creative person—I wasn’t good with a pen and didn’t know beautiful words—but I loved to be around both. Books had sheltered me growing up at Lowood and in the years after, their ideas and fantasies enriched my life beyond compare. I was ecstatic with longing to think I’d be among so many beautiful ideas. The future seemed bright for the first time in months.

I straightened up as the first of the guests filed into the main gallery, dragging their bags along behind them. There were a great deal of women, some of which were quite stunning, and some who were plain. Some held notebooks under their arms, others mobile phones. One woman even had a worn-out paintbrush stuck in her wild hair to hold it up into a bun. It was such a stark contrast to the group we’d greeted at the beginning of summer it had my shoulders sagging in relief.

Glancing over the group, my eye was instantly drawn to a man standing among the gaggle of women. He was over a foot taller than everyone, his expression showing he was loving every second of the female attention he was currently receiving. His hair was dark and unkempt, short at the back and sides with a long shock on top that fell into his eyes. I found his coloring similar to Edward’s, but that was where the similarities ended. The man carried himself with self-assured arrogance and had the particular air of a bohemian. His shirt was loose, his leather jacket creased and worn, his jeans were tight, and the black boots on his feet were sloppy at best and spotted with flecks of paint. Paired with his striking eyes and a sharp jaw covered with stubble, he was quite handsome. The problem was he knew it.

“He’s delicious,” Alice whispered into my ear.

My gaze met the man’s, and I almost dropped the clipboard as he smirked. It seemed he knew when he was being appreciated, too.

“Alice,” I hissed as she began to laugh at my reaction.

“What do you suppose he does?” she asked and squeaked in surprise when he pulled himself away from his harem of admirers and came to stand before us.

“I’m a painter, Miss,” he said with a good-natured chuckle. “John Rivers. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

My heart fluttered a little as he stared at me a little too long for my liking, and I took a deep breath. Surely he didn’t find me appealing?

“Mr. Rivers,” I said as I shook his hand. “Welcome to Thornfield. This is Alice Fairfax, and I’m Jane Doe, one of the hotel managers and the head of the retreat. If you have any requests or questions, please, don’t hesitate to ask.”

He smiled, his lip pulling up on one side a little more than the other, a trait that made him look positively wicked. In a good way.

“Jane Doe,” he said, his brow creasing in thought. “There’s a story in that.”

I inclined my head but didn’t offer to explain.

Alice handed him his room key, and he lingered, his gaze never leaving mine. When he seemed to be satisfied he’d seen enough, he wandered off after the porter who’d retrieved his bags, following him up the grand staircase to the first floor.

“I can smell a rebound,” Alice whispered.

I sighed sharply, beginning to feel tired. It’d been a month since the day on the moor, and I was not looking to rebound from anything. I’d fast learned in the years after leaving Lowood that I was not made for flings and friends with pleasurable benefits. I wanted to love with everything I was made up of, and it didn’t bode well for casual attachments. I couldn’t do it, period.

I waved Alice off with a flick of my hand and busied myself checking in the rest of the guests, putting the wickedly handsome John Rivers out of my mind.

The first few days of the retreat went off without a hitch.

Workshops were held, talks were delivered, and guests roamed the halls and grounds. The west wing, including the library, study, and Edward’s vacated rooms, were out of bounds, but the rest of the hotel was alive. It was unlike anything I’d seen to date at Thornfield.

Dinner was a riotous affair every night, breakfast was full of bleary-eyed artists, and the bartender was run off his feet from lunchtime to midnight every day. I was enlisted to help out as much as I could, even learning how to make a few cocktails and carry trays to and from the kitchens.

After so much heartache and depression, it felt as if life and laughter were breathed into my body, dislodging cobwebs and the mire of my darkest thoughts. The weight of Edward and his illusive demon were locked away, and I could live again, unhindered in my exploration of the world. I was revived in all senses of the word.

It was on the fifth night on a rotation through the kitchen when they were beginning preparations for that night’s dinner, I was reminded of the misery I’d locked away.

“Mr. Rochester?” I heard a woman’s voice exclaim.

Despite my better judgment, I lingered. Standing out of sight, I peered through the kitchen and saw two waitresses lingering by the back door on their break. They were talking earnestly, scandalized by some gossip they’d heard about Edward, no doubt.

I knew I should’ve turned and left them to their whimsy right then and there, but I was frozen to the spot.

“He’s back with Blanche Ingram,” one waitress said.

“Really?” the other replied, looking shocked. “Where’d you hear that?”

Nausea rose inside my body, and I leaned against the wall, my head spinning. How could it be? I thought Edward and I had shared something profound, and the things he’d said about Blanche led me to believe he would never stoop to marry her on pain of death. Unless he was using her for pleasure.

I wasn’t sure which was worse.

“My sister is friends with one of Blanche’s second cousins, and they love to gossip,” she went on. “Apparently, they met up in Paris not long after he left.”

“Poor Jane. Do you suppose she knows?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” the first waitress replied. “I always knew he was mean but to do this to her! It’s a right slap in the face.”

“I hoped he’d see reason,” the other said wistfully.

“People like him never see past their bank account.”

I took a deep breath, forcing life into my frozen limbs. Walking in the other direction as fast as I could manage with my head spinning, I retreated into the dining room, my mind fluttering with all kinds of scenarios.

Edward had gone straight back to Blanche Ingram? I never knew that a man with so much wealth and power could be so fickle with his affections, or perhaps it was all for show. When I did not agree to become his mistress, he’d instantly taken up with the creature he’d called soulless and heartless. It was shocking, and I shouldn’t be surprised, but I felt betrayed when I had no right to. He was free of me, and I was free of him.

“Jane?”

I blinked at the sound of my name and realized I wasn’t alone in the grand surrounds of the dining room as I’d thought I’d been. Finding John Rivers standing opposite me, a table fully laden with a floral centerpiece between us, I smiled hastily in an attempt to appear professional.

“Mr. Rivers,” I said. “May I help you with something?”

“You looked a little distraught there,” he said, his brow creasing in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m quite fine, thank you.”

He smiled, his unruly hair falling into his eyes. Raising his hand, he swept the lock away and said, “I do have an inquiry if you would be so kind.”

“Of course,” I replied, smoothing my hands over my waist and straightening my jacket.

“Would you escort me around the garden?”

I blinked, beginning to feel shy at his proposal.

“I would like to know more about Thornfield, but I must admit, it would be nice to spend some time among all that color with a beautiful woman.”

He thought me beautiful? Poor plain, unwanted Jane Doe? Immediately, my barriers went up, and I forced my astonishment at his request to fade away. It was much too soon to think about turning to another man, and in all honesty, I wasn’t sure I could. I’d been scarred deeply by my sudden and passionate love for Edward Rochester, and there was every possibility I would be unable to move on from it at all.

“Do you have time?” Rivers asked. “I know you must be busy, what with a hotel full of guests.”

I nodded hastily. He was a guest, and it was my duty to see his stay was enjoyable, just not so enjoyable it ended up with a tryst in the forest. There was only one man who would ever hold that title.

“You don’t have any workshops scheduled?” I asked.

“Not this afternoon,” he replied. “What do you say, Jane?”

Thinking of how easily Edward seemed to have forgotten me, I decided there was no harm. It was an innocent walk through the gardens, and I was free to do as I wished. It wouldn’t be long before I was to depart, and I wasn’t to see Edward again, anyway. He no longer had a hold over me. I was a slave no more.

Lifting my hand, I gestured toward the main gallery. “Of course, Mr. Rivers.”

“Please, call me Rivers,” he said as we walked through the house. “Or John. Anything but Mr. Rivers. There is nothing gentlemanly about me, I’m afraid.”

Outside, the air was crisp but not cold enough that it was uncomfortable to walk without a coat. Leading Rivers around to the rear of the house, I guided him through the garden. The house looked lovely from the rear, especially with the colors of autumn overtaking the vast swathes of green.

“What can you tell me about the house?” Rivers asked as we walked along the paths lined with box hedges. “It’s rather old in places.”

“The foundations of Thornfield were laid in 1267,” I explained as we wound our way toward the west side of the hotel. “Various additions to the house were made over the years. Most notably, in 1689 when the bulk of the main house was constructed. Because of this, it’s mostly Tudor in style, though you can still see many of the medieval elements in the west wing, which was the original part of the building.”

“Why is it called Thornfield?” Rivers asked, looking up at the snarl of climbing roses that clung to the bluestone. “I assume it’s because of the vertical rose garden.”

I nodded. “It began as Avenell Hall after the Avenell family. It was taken over by the Rochester’s in the 1800s and has been their ancestral home ever since. I’m not sure when it changed its name to Thornfield as there are no written records. It became a hotel in the 1960s, but it was a fleeting fancy. The current owner has begun to revitalize the property in hopes of returning it to its former glory.”

Rivers nodded, signaling he’d been listening to me prattle off inane facts and dates, his gaze studying Thornfield with a keen eye. What he hoped to find hidden in the old rock was beyond my comprehension. After a long while, he returned his attention to me and smiled. I decided he had a kind face, and unlike Edward, he had a carefree nature about him, which was attractive and new to me.

“I heard some of the staff talking earlier,” he said absently. “About the proprietor.”

“I’m sure it was nothing,” I replied, perhaps a little too quickly. “I apologize. You shouldn’t have to hear the staff talk like that. I’ll have a word with them.”

His eyes sparkled as if he’d found a horde of buried treasure. “Ah, by your quick response you already suspect the contents of their chitchat.”

“Idle gossip,” I replied, feeling my cheeks begin to flush.

“They seemed convinced of their hatred of the man,” Rivers went on. “He seemed to have broken the heart of some poor lady this summer.”

“Gossip,” I said again, this time asserting my voice more firmly. “That’s all it is.”

“If you say so, Jane.” He leaned forward as he spoke, smiling as if he knew I was embellishing. I had not fooled him at all.

“Are you sure you’re only a painter?” I inquired. “Not a journalist in disguise? Or perhaps you’re a writer with a novel you’re trying to complete? Am I research?”

He laughed, the sound echoing across the garden and bouncing off the stone beside us. “Are you sure you’re not a detective, Jane?”

His words triggered a recollection I was desperate to forget—tearing apart Thornfield in a vain attempt for answers—and I shook my head. “Far from it, sir.”

Rivers stared at me with his strange eyes, studying me more than the landscape around us, and it put me on edge. It seemed as if he could see right through me and into the places I wished to hide away.

“Would you have dinner with me, Jane?” he asked suddenly.

I was blindsided by his request, and it took me a full minute to reply.

“I’m not sure—”

“You must,” he interrupted. “You are a curious thing, do you know that? You appear to me like an iceberg, not cold and harsh. Not at all. There is a little of you peeking above the surface, but below, there is so much left undiscovered.”

His words struck me dumb, and I could scarcely believe what he was saying. It was beautiful and terrifying all at once, and I wondered if he was overly perceptive or if I’d been doing a terrible job at hiding my heartaches.

“Why do you hesitate?” he asked. “It’s just two people conversing and delighting in marvelous food. It’s no secret I see you as a thing of beauty, Jane, but I don’t wish to pressure you, for I can see you’ve been hurt gravely. I only wish to know you.”

“Is my facade so cracked you can see right through it?” I murmured, forgetting where we were standing—in the shadow of Edward’s bedroom.

“No,” Rivers replied. “You’re a master, Jane, but so am I. As a painter, it’s my greatest asset to see below the surface. I wish to paint true representations of my subjects, and it requires detailed analysis. I’m told it can be rather annoying.”

“It is,” I declared, causing him to laugh once more.

“What say you, Jane? Will you have dinner with me?”

I smiled and allowed my resolve to crumble a little, allowing this curious man into the fold the tiniest amount I could manage.

“Yes,” I replied. “I will.”