Authors: Doyle MacBrayne
“Ms. Eyre, did I not just spot you moments ago, several blocks away.”
She nodded, “Yes sir.” She nodded at his basket, “Planning your evening meal?”
He nodded, “Yes. I felt like indulging myself this evening. And you?”
“Susannah has requested a few specialty items.” She murmured, uncomfortable.
“How did the rest of your day with Tessa go?” he asked politely.
She relaxed, “Wonderful, she’s absolutely adorable.”
“She’s spoiled.” He said wryly.
“She should be indulged. She’s so precious.” Jane grinned. She regretted the words, because she saw Gray stiffen and a look of sadness crossed his face.
“True, she’s very precious.” He looked up at Jane, “Do you wish to have a family Jane?”
She swallowed, “I have family.”
He nodded, “Of course. How is your mother?”
“She’s home now and improving every day, thank you for inquiring.” She shifted the hand basket in her arms and stepped aside to let another patron pass.
“I’m glad to hear of it.” He leaned casually against a cracker display. “Why don’t Susannah and James have children?” he asked suddenly.
Jane blanched, “I, uh, what?” The truth was Susannah was desperate to have a child, but it never worked out for them. After her third miscarriage they stopped trying. They hoped to adopt, but until James had proof of a secure income, they wouldn’t even try. But Gray didn’t need to know that.
“And your mother, do you think she’d like to be a grandmother some day?” he continued. He was watching her carefully.
She raised an eyebrow and replied honestly, “Gray, why would I want to pass on crazy?”
He looked stunned for a moment, “You don’t want children?”
Jane sighed, “I would love to have children, but I don’t want,” she threw up her hands, “This. I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You think your mother’s peculiarities are inherited?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know. She was an only child. My grandparents died of natural causes, no dementia or such things.” She shifted her basket to her other hand, “The doctor thinks she may have been having small strokes for a long time, it could be that.” It didn’t explain Richard though. She could hope that it was from his mother’s side. Was being a sociopath inherited?
“Have dinner with me,” he whispered.
Jane looked up, surprised, “I can’t. I have to go home. My mother…” She let her voice trail off.
He nodded, “Of course.” He grinned wickedly, “You could invite me to dinner with you.”
Jane’s eyes widened, “No sir. That would create too many complications for me.”
He chuckled, “I am a complication?”
She nodded, “Most definitely.”
“You are complicated, Ms. Eyre. It seems suitable then, that I be your complication.” He said amused.
“Sir, you forget, you are not my only complication.” She looked up and grinned, “I thank you for your dinner invitation, and I regret that I am unable to offer one to you.”
“Do you Jane? Do you regret it?” he had leaned forward; his hand was trailing down her arm until he reached her hand and gently grasped it.
Her eyes closed and she sighed and then looked at her feet. “I believe I do sir.”
His head tilted, “I would like the opportunity to spend time with you. You can trust me Jane; perhaps I can help you with your other complications.”
She blushed, “I should go sir. Susannah is waiting for me.” She grinned sardonically, “She had a full day of mother, and requires a break.”
He grinned and released her hand, “Until tomorrow then.”
She wondered if he had any idea what he was doing to her.
The following day Jane absorbed herself in typing correspondence to people who had written Mr. Poole asking for everything from a signed autographed picture to their own jet. She was five letters in when a courier arrived carrying her framed painting of Piazza Navona.
He nodded at the painting, “Where does Mr. Poole want this?”
She arched a brow, “I’m sure I have no idea. Just a moment and I’ll see if I can help you.”
She buzzed Mrs. Fairfax to let her know of the arrival and where Mr. Poole wanted the painting hung. She stood up to better see the painting; it looked so different under the harsh lights. The wall in the background was no longer a warm terra cotta but a bitter yellow. She waited a moment and the answer came in the form of Mr. Poole, opening the door and waving the gentleman in. He watched her reaction, guarded.
She arched a brow, “An interesting selection Mr. Poole.”
He relaxed slightly, a corner of his mouth turning up in humor, “I was fortunate to find it, it appealed to me the most and the others were already sold. The artist is very much in demand.” He tilted his head and bowed slightly in her direction.
She took a step closer, “And I thought, Mr. Poole, with your wishes to master your peasants’ daily life that you would have had first choice the very day I mentioned it.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly, in warning and teased her, “I did not wish to make Ms. Eyre uncomfortable with my attentions.”
She bit her bottom lip, “No, instead you tease her with your verbal tapestries puzzling her for weeks.”
“Careful Ms. Eyre, you wear wicked tongue most attractively.”
She licked her lower lip unconsciously, and sighed tired of his teasing. “I will wear my tongue as I wish, as you are not my master, sir.”
His hand reached up and captured her head, bringing her lips to his mouth. The kiss exploded her senses, shattering all of reality around her and focusing her attention to only him, his scent, his warmth, his feel, the weight of his body against hers as he pulled her closer devouring her. She responded keenly, wrapping her hands around his arms to strengthen his embrace.
He pulled back slowly, “I do find your wicked tongue most delicious, Ms. Eyre and it seems I have found a way to master at least your tongue under my control.” He grinned at her wolfishly.
She released him, stepped back a half step, and let her hand trace her bottom lip. She grinned, embarrassed by her reaction and unwilling to deny her attraction, “Yes sir, I believe you have.”
Her eyes flicked over to the doorway, where Mrs. Fairfax looked at the two of them sternly. “The gentleman would like to know where you would like it hung.”
“Yes, of course.” He winked at Jane and left. She looked up at Mrs. Fairfax, her cheeks blooming with her embarrassment and Mrs. Fairfax simply shook her head and grinned, leaving Jane alone in her elation.
Jane sat back, reeling with the river of emotions flowing through her. He kissed Ms. Eyre, not you Jane, her brain warned her gently. She was unable to think straight, the computer screen blurred her senses dulled and useless.
She leaned her head into the office and whispered to Mrs. Fairfax, “Is it alright if I leave early?”
Fairfax grinned, “A hit and run then? Of course. That should drive him nuts, though” she warned.
Jane waved her hand dismissively, “He’ll be fine. Tell him I was unable to find my tongue and therefore useless at reception. I have gone home to find a spare.”
Mrs. Fairfax laughed as Jane left. Mr. Poole stuck his head out and looked at her questioningly to which she responded tartly, “Oh, don’t even play innocent, I know you heard her.”
He grinned as he filtered through the mail at her desk.
His fingers stopped for a moment, a simple white parchment card with a hand written note from Jane. The script was beautiful, written in ink, but it looked like calligraphy.
Thank you for the beautiful arrangement and your kind thoughts. They are much appreciated. Sincerely yours, Jane Eyre.
His eyes flicked up, “I assume I sent flowers?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Fairfax continued her typing ignoring his stare.
“Mrs. Fairfax, how long have you worked for me?” he asked patiently. This was the one woman in the office who never was intimidated by him, until of course, Jane.
She stopped, looked up confused, “Thirteen years.”
“How often have I sent flowers, unawares?” he asked, amused at her expression.
She shrugged, “Probably a few times a month.”
His eyebrows shot up, “I had no idea I was that thoughtful. And for what occasions do I send flowers?”
She relaxed slightly, he was in one of his peculiar moods and she decided to indulge him, “Weddings, births, illnesses and deaths.”
“And for what occasion did Ms. Eyre merit a bouquet?” his tone was still playful and Mrs. Fairfax shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
“Her mother’s illness.”
“How is she? Jane said it was nothing,” his voice changed, accusatory.
“She’s out of the hospital; it was a stroke I believe. I didn’t realize you were concerned about her personal life.” She answered quietly.
His voice grave, “I am concerned about all things relating to Ms. Eyre, are we clear?”
She nodded, “Yes sir.”
He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes, “Mrs. Fairfax, how did Ms. Eyre come to be my receptionist?”
“I suggested she apply for the job.” Her eyes were wary now, probably from fear he thought.
He sighed, “I don’t recall ever interviewing her or even reading a CV.”
Mrs. Fairfax sighed softly, “I handled that for you.”
“How often do you handle things for me, Mrs. Fairfax?”
“It’s my job Mr. Poole. I handle the small details, so that you may focus on the things that concern you.”
“She concerns me.”
Mrs. Fairfax leaned back, “I see that. I’m sorry if I overstepped boundaries.”
He sat on the corner of her desk and seemed to deflate, “No, I’m the one overstepping. She’s very young.”
Mrs. Fairfax said quietly, “She was born old.”
Surprised he asked, “How long have you known her?”
“She was Maddie and Emily’s babysitter.”
His eyes opened in wonder, “The girl you loved. The girl you called peculiar and left to go to finishing school.”
She smiled, “Yes, I’m surprised you remembered.”
He rolled his eyes, “You concern me too.”
She grinned, “Thank you.”
Tate entered the office and shook Poole’s hand. He handed him a bound folder, with a slick presentation inside. Poole leaned back against the desk and thumbed through it. He knew that Tate could have never put together the text and graphics in the folder, and that this must have been the job Jane referred to that kept her late.
“What do you think of this proposal, Mrs. Fairfax?”
She blinked and paused for just a moment before continuing, “I think you should ask why he feels he needs to outsource production. There’s a company in Michigan that could manufacture your product. While labor costs would be higher, the shipping costs would be lower. It seems it would be beneficial to both the company and your bottom line.”
He chuckled and watched Tate turn green. “So Mr. Tate, what say you to Mrs. Fairfax’s observation?”
Tate shifted, “I can run the numbers if you want, however I believe she’s mistaken about the cost benefit.”
She spoke up, “Oh, this wasn’t my observation, it was Ms. Austen’s. I believe she emailed you regarding this already though, didn’t she?” Her glare knocked the easy look from Tate’s face.
Tate waved a hand, “I read it briefly.” He looked at Poole, “Do you seriously want me to consider the whim of the receptionist?”
“Yes.” His voice was acid, and Tate blanched, turned on his heel and left.
Poole got up and arched an eyebrow at Mrs. Fairfax. “Would you have told me about her suggestion?”
She shook her head, “No. It’s highly inappropriate for her to make such a suggestion, and I wouldn’t encourage it.” He considered that for a moment, and she added, “However, since you are concerned about her I feel you should know that she would never have brought this up with you. She did contact Tate who ignored her. It didn’t bother her, because in the end she knew it wasn’t her place as your receptionist to make recommendations.”
“And when did she tell you all this?” he asked drily.
“We’ve spent time together; she’s been tutoring me, helping me get up-to-date on MS Office.”
His brows furrowed, “How is she then, I mean about her mother’s illness?”
Mrs. Fairfax shook her head sadly, “Jane is one of the sweetest, kindest people I know. She dotes on her mother to an extreme. Jane does everything she can to make her mother happy.”
“Is there anything she needs?” he asked.
Mrs. Fairfax held his gaze, “I think her stepbrother Richard is a real piece of work. If he tried to institutionalize Mrs. Austen it will kill her and Jane. I’m not sure what legal rights Jane has in her mother’s care, as he is the eldest. She may need help if Richard gets involved.”