|Photo from Bel Ami--but Rob could easily portray a young Edward Fairfax Rochester, no?|
After thinking about the obvious similarities between Twilight and Jane Eyre, I sat down and started writing a one-shot from Edward Rochester's POV of the morning in which he finds that Jane has left Thornfield. It still needs *a lot* of work as I focus on writing with the vocabulary and cadence of the mid-nineteenth century in which Jane Eyre was set and written.
So let me know what you think as I write from a different (but strikingly similar) Edward's POV:
“My Hope—My Love—My Life”: A Jane Eyre Alternative POV
I paced the floors of my room all the night. Unable to find escape in repose, unable to still my restless mind and body, I walked, each breath a sigh of anguish.
She had looked so beautiful yesterday morn, robed so unaccountably in white rather than in her dark, simple gowns. Her face aglow with expectation and happiness, she descended the stairs to my anxious impatience.
After declaring her “fair as a lily, and not only the pride of my life, but the desire of my eyes,” I hurried her through a breakfast that neither of us wanted.
Although wound as tightly as a watch spring, I made all the practical arrangements necessary to ensure our swift leaving of Thornfield as soon as we were legally wed. I refused to allow my conscience its voice as it declared to me roundly: This young innocent shall never be your legal wife, for you are already wed to another. It makes no matter that you were mightily deceived, for today you commit two sins: first, the breaking of your wedding vows to your first wife to whom you are legally, if not morally, bound, and, second, the deception and wrong you do to Jane. For no matter how utterly and completely you love this young girl, you well know that these vows you shall speak before God and the witnesses gathered in God's House are false when you remain legally bound to another, no matter her mental instability.
But I dismissed the loud objections of my conscience, determined to fully own the one thing I desired above all others: the fragile yet indomitable woman-child, Jane Eyre. Knowing well that I would not breathe easily until Jane was made legally and bindingly mine, I had nearly dragged her to the small chapel, holding her childlike hand in mine as, grimly resolute, I strode through the house, out the wide front doors of Thornfield Hall, and just beyond the gates to the small but ancient chapel in which our wedding ceremony was to proceed.
It was only as we reached the churchyard gate that I realized that Jane, her tiny legs forced to run to keep up with my long, determined strides, was nearly faint from my rushing her so. Her face was nearly as pale as her gown, and a light sheen of perspiration covered her face; her lips were as colorless as her cheeks, and I berated myself for my unforgivable hurry.
“Am I cruel in my love?” I inquired solicitously. “Delay an instant; lean on me, Jane.”
Her arm wrapped around mine, Jane filled her lungs with the crisp morning air, and very soon all was well once more, and Jane and I entered the church.
As Jane had regathered her strength after my rushing her to the church, I had noted two strangers speaking quietly in the shadows of churchyard. Both entered quietly as Jane and I took our places at the communion rails, preparing to speak our vows to one another.
The service began but then was rudely interrupted. Even now I cannot bear to think on the flurry of activity that took place once our wedding was broken off for a mere “insuperable impediment to this marriage.”
I battered my poor Jane with the truth, with the attempt at bigamy, at the presence of my first wife, crazed and murderous, within the very walls of Thornfield Hall. She took all in, her eyes becoming larger and her visage paler with each revelation. I asserted Jane's innocence in the legal matters, then escorted clergyman, wife-to-never-be, and our two guests to view the “wife” whom legally belonged to me.
After I had effectively tussled with and restrained my mad wife, I had told the shocked witnesses, “And this is what I wished to have,” as I rested a hand on her delicate shoulder, “this young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon.” I asked my witnesses to compare the wild Mrs. Rochester, at present bound to a chair for her safety and ours, to the young girl beside me and demanded their judgment.
But now, as I paced my floor this long, long night, I thought I knew judgment; however, my own judgment had scarcely commenced.
So this is what I have written thus far. Please keep in mind that this is only a first draft, so I hope to improve it and extend it.
Please do let me know what you think. :)