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 out 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.

“I’m sorry,” I said hastily. “Forgive me.”

Turning, I fled back the way I had come, and when I rounded the corner of the house and was thoroughly out of sight, I leaned against the wall and clutched my heart. My breaths came in heaving gulps as the realization finally sank into my conscious mind of how changed my heart was.

I hated him then. Edward Rochester. I hated and loved him all at the same time. He’d taken more than my heart the day we parted. He took the strength I found in solitude.

I was cast adrift, doubting the very fabric of my being and the choices I’d made. I was off balance with my very soul, and I hated him.

I hated even though I would never stop loving.

I spent the night in a state of uneasy rest.

I was so sure of my direction in the days leading up to the retreat, I was fixated, but now I only saw it as a distraction. I was lost once more, a wanderer and a nobody in the grand design of the universe. I was small and unhappy, unwilling to change or adapt to find the things I wanted.

Was I running from Thornfield because it was the easiest course of action? Or was I leaving because it was too small and too full of dark mysteries for me to bear its weight any longer? I scarcely knew who I was anymore, not that I had an inkling of it before.

I rose early, bleary-eyed and worn, to bid farewell to the guests as they departed on their journey home. As I descended into the main gallery to meet Alice, I stood on hesitant feet, embarrassed to face Rivers after leaving him so abruptly the previous afternoon. He must think me completely mad.

It wasn’t a particularly splendid day. Outside, a misty rain had begun to fall, the kind that only served to annoy those who were forced to brave it. The sky was bleak, the sunshine of the previous day all but a distant memory. The weather was changeful this time of year, and it only served to remind me of the master of the house. He’d departed, but some of his energy remained, forever bound to the landscape his family called home.

When Rivers finally appeared, surrounded by a group of female authors, he sought me out immediately, much to their annoyance.

“Jane,” he said, looking sheepish. “May I have a word before I leave?”

Alice’s eyebrows rose as I stood there in blatant hesitation, and I did my best to ignore her judgment. Eventually, I nodded and moved us toward a quiet corner where we could speak freely.

“Yesterday,” he began, his fingers fidgeting with the zipper on his leather jacket.

I noticed his hands were still stained with the colors of his painting, which I assumed was the wrapped package that sat with his bags. Perhaps in another life or if we’d met sooner, we may have been romantically involved, but it wasn’t to be.

“I shouldn’t have let it get that far,” I murmured. “My circumstances are…unstable right now.”

Rivers nodded, and we stood in silence for a minute.

“I overstepped,” he said, his gaze darting to the place where I knew Alice was standing, attempting to overhear our conversation. “You were very clear about not being interested in romance of any kind, and I didn’t listen. Please, accept my apology.”

My gaze met his, and I nodded my acknowledgment, unable to piece together words that would have been a suitable reply. I was unaccustomed to such an apology.

“Perhaps we’ll see each other again,” Rivers said. “You’re welcome to visit my studio any time you wish.”

“Perhaps,” I replied, folding my hands in front of me.

“Then I shall wait and hope,” he said with a smile.

Bidding him farewell, I stood and watched as each guest was installed fully on the minibus, and I followed the vehicle’s path with my gaze as it departed. Then, just like that, silence descended on Thornfield once more, and my future was laid out before me, dark and uncertain.

“What did you and Mr. Rivers talk about?” Alice asked as I stood next to her.

“Nothing,” I replied, my mind elsewhere. “Nothing at all.”