Author's Note: Hello, dear readers! Here we are again. I'm attrotious at updating, but you all already knew that. I'm sorry! Please enjoy this next chapter. Much love, Princess Kanako x

Title: Scattered Roses

Author: Princess Kanako

Pairing(s): (Self-insert!OC)Jane Eyre/Mr. Rochester

Date Submitted: 20/1/20

Disclaimer: I do not own Jane Eyre, it belongs to the marvellous Charlotte Bronte.

Claimer: I do own Rose Carey, a few plot ideas, and any other OCs that pop up along the way.

Genre: Romance, Drama, Angst

Summary: Dying and being reborn into Jane Eyre's body wasn't exactly what Rose had in mind. Then again, she hadn't exactly planned on dying, either.

Warnings: Contains Rose's sassy attitude

The days passed by, and Rose scarcely saw her employer. The incident on the road was never mentioned again, and she was glad to let it fade from memory. When she arose each morning, Mr. Rochester was already sequestered in his library, working on business affair and the like. By the time afternoon lessons started, gentlemen would call upon the Master of Thornfield, often staying to dine with him. When his leg had recovered, he returned those visits, and often did not return until it was quite late, much to Adele's disappointment. If he spent an evening at home, he tended to be surly, and refused to see his poor ward on a number on occasions. As for Rose's own interactions with the man, it was a mix-match of encounters in the hall or on the stairs. Sometimes, he would storm past her with a sniff and an icily brisk manner; other times, he would nod his head and press on; yet again he would bow, smile and engage her in polite conversation for a few moments. He was mercurial in temperament, and after the third time when he had utterly baffled her in his behaviour, she'd cornered Mrs. Fairfax and demanded an explanation. The widow had given a brief outline of his childhood - his mother's death, his father's coldness, and his subsequent sentence to a strict school - it was enough to satisfy Rose. With such emotional upheaval in his childhood, it was no wonder he was such a changeable character. After that, she did not become offended at his mood swings any longer; she had done nothing to alter them so.

One rainy evening while Rose was correcting some of Adele's school work, Leah knocked on her door and informed her that herself and Adele were requested in the drawing room. The girl helped her change into one of her nicer frocks before she hurried away to make Adele presentable, while Rose tidied her hair and washed some ink splotches from her fingers. Adele and Leah appeared, and after assuring herself that they were both neat, they made their way to the library, her pupil wondering aloud whether a 'petit coffre' had arrived yet - it had apparently been delayed. Her delight when she spotted the rather large trunk on the library table as they entered the room was palpable.

"Ma boite, ma boite!" she exclaimed in glee, dashing towards it.

"Take it into a corner and disembowel it, you daughter of Paris," Mr. Rochester said from the depths of his armchair by the fireside. "Bother me not with the process - let it be done in silence, comprends-tu?"

Though his words were harsh, his tone was jovial; Rose would even dare to label it as 'fond'. He was clearly in a better mood tonight, though whether he had had a good day attending to his business affairs or it was the wine he'd consumed at dinner, she could hardly be sure. Although, she smirked as Adele tore into her parcel, if she was a betting woman, she'd put her money on the wine.

"Is Miss Eyre there?" he asked, half rising from his seat to peer round to the doorway where she still stood.

"I am here, sir."

"Come, sit there." He gestured to a chair three feet from his own. "I am not fond of the prattle of children," he continued as she closed the door and crossed the room, "It would be intolerable to me to pass a whole evening attempting to hold a conversation with a brat." At that remark, Rose pulled the chair back, annoyed that he would refer to Adele with such disdain. "Don't draw that chair farther off, Miss Eyre; sit down exactly where I placed it - if you please, that is." He muttered something to himself before ringing the bell and dispatching Leah with an invitation for Mrs. Fairfax to join them, which she did swiftly enough.

"Good evening, madam; I sent to you for a charitable purpose. I have forbidden Adele to talk to me about her presents, and she is bursting with repletion: have the goodness to serve as her adoring audience; it will be the most benevolent act you ever performed."

Adele no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax, than she summoned her to the sofa, and there quickly filled her lap with porcelain, ivory, and other contents of her 'boite'; pouring out explanations and raptures in a mish-mash of English and French.

"Now I have performed the part of a good host," Mr. Rochester purred, "I ought to be at liberty to attend to my own pleasure. Miss Eyre, draw your chair forward, you are still too far back; I cannot see you without disturbing my position."

Gritting her teeth, Rose stood and again drew her chair forward before she returned to her seat. She felt a little exposed being bathed directly in the light of the fire, and far too warm for her liking. If she passed out, she'd do her best to knock over the side table holding Mr. Rochester's wine, if only to deprive him of his alcohol.

The minutes passed quietly, the only audible sounds being the crackle of the fire, Adele's quiet chatter, and the faint pattering of rain on the windows. After her eyes had wandered around the room thrice, her gaze landed on her employer. Mr. Rochester was watching the fire with thoughtful eyes and a smile to his lips. Even with his features softened with a smile and the gentle light of the fire, he still looked as though he had been hewn from granite. His eyes (they were soft, dark, fine eyes) watched the flames dance in the grate. He seemed to sense her gaze, and he turned to stare directly into her eyes as she felt a tickle of embarrassment fly up her spine.

"You examine me, Miss Eyre," he said distinctly, cocking his head at her. "Do you think me handsome?"

There could have been a moment afforded, perhaps, to think before she replied; far from revealing her thoughts on her employer. As it was, she blurted out -

"No."

Instantly, her face flamed red. Oh god, why couldn't she have demurred and said something polite but vague? His eyes lit up while she cringed.

"By my word, there is something singular about you," he said, eyeing her in a way that made her feel like she was under a microscope. "Sometimes you have the air of a little nun; quaint, quiet, grave, with eyes generally bent on the carpet; and when one asks you a question, you rap out a reply. What do you mean by it?"

She swallowed. "Sir, I was rude. I beg your pardon. Perhaps I should have replied that to me, beauty is of little consequence."

"You ought to have replied no such thing," he rapped out, linking his fingers together. "What fault do you find with me?"

"Mr. Rochester, please, I meant no offence. It was a mistake."

"Just so, and you shall be answerable for it. What displeases you? I have all my limbs and features." Rose held her tongue. "Now, ma'am, do you think me a fool?" Still this irritating man insisted on her to speak out.

"Far from it, sir." And yet, she couldn't resist a little jab. "Perhaps this is rude, but I inquire in return; are you a philanthropist?"

A smile, a soft snort, the dark eyes closing briefly. When they opened, his mood had turned to something new. "No, young lady, I am not a philanthropist; but I bear a conscience. When I was as old as you, I was a feeling fellow enough; but Fortune has knocked me about since, and now I flatter myself I am hard and tough as an India-rubber ball; pervious, though, through a chink or two still. Does that leave hope for me?"

"Of what, sir?" she asked in confusion. He's probably had a little too much to drink, she assured herself. Or else he just enjoys watching me twist myself into knots at his riddles.

"You looked puzzled, Miss Eyre. Though you are not pretty any more than I am handsome, a puzzled air becomes you; besides, it is convenient..." again he trailed into a series of mumbles, and Rose glared at him. Presently, he coughed and seemed to return to his senses. "Young lady, I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night. That is why I sent for you; you, I am persuaded, can suit me if you will." She glanced down at her hands as he continued. "You puzzled me that first evening. I have almost forgotten you since; other ideas have driven you from my head. Tonight I am resolved to be at ease; it would please me now to draw you out - to learn more of you - therefore speak."

She glanced at him, incredulous.

"Speak," he urged. She blinked foolishly.

"About, sir?"

"Whatever you like."

She turned her face to gaze at the fire, her jaw clenching. If he expects me to talk to entertain him, he has another thing coming, she thought.

"You are dumb, Miss Eyre." He stood from his seat and bent his head to look at her, the movement drawing her eyes to his. "Stubborn. And annoyed, hm?" As she felt her cheeks heat, he cocked his head to the side. "Ah, I see. I put my request in an absurd, almost insolent form. Miss Eyre, I beg your pardon. The fact is, once for all, I don't wish to treat you like an inferior. I speak merely with twenty years more of age, and a century's experience. I beg you, to have the goodness to talk to me a little now, and divert my thoughts."

And again, he had surprised her with his mercurial temperament. He had begun his statement with an almost smug superiority, but instead of chewing her out for it, he had given her an explanation; indeed, he had sincerely begged her pardon, almost entirely unheard of from a master to his servant. It would be rude to ignore such sincerity and gracious manners, though she wouldn't quite forgive him for it yet.

"On that ground, sir, I am willing to converse with you, but-" she shrugged at him as elegantly as possible. "-you have me at a disadvantage. How should I know what will interest you? In one aspect I believe we are alike; we dislike meaningless chatter, and prefer intelligent conversation." Tone it down, she warned herself as he stared at her in bemusement. "Perhaps if you ask me questions, I will answer, and perhaps a conversation will grow from such a point."

He snorted, then asked, "Well, do you agree that I have a right to be a little masterful, abrupt, perhaps exacting, sometimes, on the grounds that I am old enough to be your father, and that I have roamed over half the globe, while you have lived quietly with one set of people in one house?"

This time, it was she who snorted. "Do as you please."

"That is no answer," he growled. "It's irritating and evasive. Reply clearly."

"I don't think you have a right to command me merely because of your age or experience. Any claim to being 'superior' greatly depends on what you have made from both quarters."

"Hmph! Promptly spoken. But I won't allow that, it would never suit my case; I have made an indifferent use of both advantages. Leaving superiority out of the question, then, you must still agree to receive my orders now and then, without being piqued or hurt by the tone of command."

A smile curled at her lips, and he pounced on the expression instantly.

"Ah! She smiles at last. Why, pray tell? Do I amuse you?"

"There are very few masters would trouble themselves to ask such a thing of their paid subordinates"

"Paid subordinates?" he repeated incredulously before a sly look entered his eye. "Ah yes, I had forgotten the salary. Well then, mercenary girl, will you agree to let me hector a little?"

"No sir, but rather that you forget it."

"And will you agree to dispense with a great many conventional forms and phrases, without thinking me insolent?"

"It would please me greatly sir, but I hope that I would never mistake informality for insolence; as I like one, but the other is something the free-born should submit to, even for a salary."

"Most things free-born will submit to anything for a salary. However, I mentally shake hands with you for your answer, despite its inaccuracy. Not one in three thousand raw schoolgirl governesses would have answered me as you have just done." At the smile on her face, he continued. "I don't mean to flatter you; for all I know, you may have intolerable defects to counterbalance your few good points."

You're in a glass house yourself, sir, she thought with as her lips turned downward, meeting his eye as he took his seat again. At her look, he sighed heavily, his mood again changing to something - darker. More melancholy.

"Yes, yes, you are right," said he; "I have plenty of faults of my own. I was thrust on to a wrong tack at the age of twenty-one, and have never recovered the right course since. I might have been different. I might have been as good as you. Wiser. Almost as stainless. I envy you your peace of mind, your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory."

"How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir?"

"Oh, I was your equal, Miss Eyre. Quite your equal. Nature meant me to be, on the whole, a good man, Miss Eyre. But, you see, I am not. I am a trite, commonplace sinner, hackneyed in all the petty dissipations with which the rich and worthless. I wish I had stood firm–God knows I do! Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the poison of life."

"Repentance can cure it, sir," she offered cautiously. The dark head shook.

"It is not its cure. Reformation may be; and I could reform but what's the use? Hampered, burdened, cursed as I am? Besides, I have a right to get pleasure out of life: and I will get it, cost what it may."

"Your burden would increase further."

"Why should it, if I can get sweet, fresh pleasure? And I may get it; as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee gathers on the moor."

She swallowed nervously after a moment's silence. "To speak truth, sir, I don't understand you at all. I feel the conversation has got out of my depth."

"At this moment, I am paving hell with energy."

"Sir?"

"I am laying down good intentions, which I believe durable as flint."

At that, she rose, determined to quit the room and put her sphinx-like employer from her mind. These changeable moods were giving her a headache, and his riddling words would drive her mad if she stayed a minute more.

"Where are you going?" he cried as she crossed the room.

"To put Adele to bed. It's nearly nine."

"You are afraid of me." The words were quietly spoken, yet filled with sadness, and a self-loathing that Rose was all-too-familiar with. She sympathised. She stopped, turned and offered a small smile.

"I'm not afraid," she assured him. "I just have no desire to speak nonsense."

At that moment, Adele entered the room. Gone was the plain brown dress she had worn; instead, a pink silk frock the colour of a blooming rose with a full skirt adorned her, silk stockings and pristine white satin shoes were on her feet, and her hair was crowned with a wreath of rosebuds.

"Madamoiselle, do I look beautiful? Like a princesse? she cried gaily, spreading her skirt and pirouetting once. Rose smiled and nodded.

"Enchanting, Adele," she agreed, "But it is quite late, even for princesses, to be awake. Bid Monsieur Rochester good night and I shall take you upstairs."

With minimal fuss, the child crossed the room and planted a kiss upon her guardian's cheek before returning to Rose's side and taking her hand.

"Little seductress," Mr. Rochester muttered. "A miniature of her mother."

"Excuse me, sir?" she asked sharply, praying that Adele hadn't learned that particular word in English just yet. He waved her off, ignoring her tone as he reached for his wine.

"Never mind, I shall explain some day. Good night, Miss Eyre."

Pursing her lips, Rose did not reply but left the room, and her puzzling employer, to tend to Adele.

To be continued...