Christmas at Ferndean Manor: Book #3 in The Jane Eyre Chronicles by Joanna Campbell Slan

Author:Joanna Campbell Slan [Slan, Joanna Campbell]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Spot On Publishing
Published: 2021-07-05T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Each day, I eagerly awaited our mail. The workmen brought it to the house, when they came, so our deliveries were daily. I opened each correspondence with hope, as I was sure that we would receive responses to our request for a man to help James. No, the rector wouldn’t help, but I’d written to the bishop, and he’d promised to ask around. Mr. Carter, the doctor, finally dropped by and said he’d been making inquiries. Edward’s agent wrote back to say that anyone he recommended in London would more than likely need lodging, but he would still do what he could.

Despite all of these persons being vigilant on our behalf, our efforts had come to naught. How could it be that we lived in the largest county in England and no one wanted a steady job? A roof over the head and food in the belly?

Edward patted my hand. “Remember, dear Janet, we are miles from a bustling metropolis, and thus the few city dwellers who would be suitable for work in a stable cannot imagine being isolated out here. For others who might be right for this job, there is no way to contact them, if they are scattered around, working at other estates. Winter is not the time for most to go wandering in search of employment.”

“Please do not give up. Please do not sell Mesrour. Not yet.” I grasped him by the shoulders and pleaded with him. “Give it until spring, won’t you?”

In my mind, selling Mesrour had become tantamount to Edward giving up on life. Such a desperate solution would mean my husband would never be the man he once was. Whilst there was truth to that, there was also folly, as Edward’s spirit was unbroken, even if his body had suffered from the fire that consumed Thornfield Hall.

“Ah, my loving wife,” he said. Since we were alone at the breakfast table, he reached over and caressed my face. I kissed his hand. I loved these quiet moments at the start of each day. Mrs. Fairfax typically carried her tea and toast into her bedroom, leaving me and my husband a bit of privacy. Occasionally, she would join us, but more often than not, this was a time for the two of us, husband and wife, to discuss the day ahead.

“The weather will soon turn raw.” We had moved to his study, where my husband leaned back in one of the armchairs near the fire. His boots stretched toward the fireplace. Outside, workmen chiseled away at new stones. Where the old stones showed stair-stepping cracks, the master mason suggested replacement. The surface of some of the new stones would need to be chiseled flat to match the existing ones. This proved to be exacting work, as the man with the chisel had to have an artistic sense of sculpture to properly do this job.

Much of the replacement had been accomplished. Since today dawned mild, the masons were bustling around repointing, removing crumbling mortar and replacing it.

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