A/N: As my summary states, this is a story inspired by gothic novels of old, complete with a creepy old house and a hint of ghosts, mystery, and intrigue. It is set in current day, though, in keeping with the spirit of Jane Eyre, I have made a wider disparity between Lisbon and Jane's ages than in the actual show. I have never done this before. Also, Charlotte appears once again in an AU of mine, this time as a girl about the same age as when we first saw her in Jane's flashback in the series. I remain fascinated with the idea of what Jane might have been like as a father, had Charlotte lived. I hope you like these incarnations of our beloved characters. Also, this opening chapter is very long, but the other chapters will be considerably shorter. Enjoy!

Jane's Error

Chapter 1

The interior of the taxi became decidedly dark and dreary as the rain began pounding against the windows. When the wind shook the car alarmingly, Teresa Lisbon wondered if she was about to be caught in a tornado or maybe a hurricane, though Northern California wasn't really known for either of those phenomena. The driver cursed under his breath and leaned forward to peer through the slashing rain and the frantic swish of the windshield wipers.

"Lady, you sure you don't want to go back into town? This place will still be here tomorrow…" His voice sounded oddly skeptical however, as he worriedly assessed the storm around them.

"No," she insisted. "I don't have anywhere else to stay. I'm supposed to start my job there today and if I don't show up—"

Abruptly the paved county road turned to an unfortunate mix of slick mud and sparse gravel, and the taxi slid dangerously close to the rapidly filling ditch at the side of the road.

"Jesus, Christ!" he profaned, struggling for control of the vehicle. Lisbon desperately held to the armrest and the cloth seat with both hands, her seatbelt digging into her shoulder, slamming her back into the seat as the car violently fishtailed. When the cabbie finally managed to stop the car, it had turned almost 360 degrees in the middle of the road.

Their combined harsh breaths filled the cab, and the driver still gripped the steering wheel for dear life.

"That's it," he said finally. "We're heading back."

"But the GPS on my phone says it's less than a mile up this road."

"Are you crazy? This car ain't equipped to go off-roading, lady. You want to go on from here, you're gonna have to walk."

"You're kidding me."

"Look around you. It's a freakin' monsoon out here."

"I'll pay you double," she said, mentally taking stock of the meager contents of her purse.

He shook his head. "That's not gonna cover the cost of a tow truck to pull this thing out of the ditch."

"Well, if you don't take me the rest of the way, I'm not paying."

She heard the unmistakable sound of the doors unlocking. "Fine by me. Now get out of my cab."

"You're not just going to leave me here."

"Oh, I'll gladly take you back to town, but now it's definitely gonna cost you double, for all my pain and suffering."

Lisbon sat for a moment, stunned at the situation she'd gotten herself into.

"At least let me get my luggage out of the trunk."

"Be my guest," he said.

Pulling the hood of her light raincoat over her head, Lisbon grabbed her small handbag and opened the car door, her boots sinking into about an inch of mud.

"Shit," she muttered. She slammed the door and walked gingerly and somewhat blindly to the rear of the car, the wind whipping the rain into her face.

"Open up!" she yelled over the deluge, pounding the trunk for emphasis. To her horror, the driver ignored her and sped off, the car's rear tires spinning up cold mud that splattered on her face and coat.

"Hey!" she cried, "My bags!"

She stood for a minute, momentarily shocked by her ill treatment as the red lights of the cab disappeared into the blur of blowing rain. Fortunately, she had memorized the cab number printed on the side of the car, and she whipped out her cell phone to call the company. But the phone slipped from her wet fingers, landing face down in the muddy road with a sickening plop.

"Dammit," she said, squatting to retrieve it. But when she brushed off the mud in disgust, the screen was cracked, the picture black. "No way," she said in disbelief, attempting to turn it on and off in the shelter of her bent head. But it remained stubbornly dead.

She closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry, while the rain poured down upon her in icy cold torrents.

She looked back toward the paved road where the taxi had gone and remembered that it was at least five miles back to the main highway, and she had seen no houses along the way. Her only option, she decided, was to trudge up the muddy road to her original destination.

Resigned to her fate, she wiped the phone on her jeans, and began her treacherous hike. With each step she felt herself becoming colder and wetter, her jeans damp to her knees within a quarter-mile's walk. Her jacket seemed to be merely water-resistant, not waterproof, and the dampness began to seep through the fabric and into her bones, causing her to shiver and curse the cab driver anew.

She was vaguely aware of the golden California hills around her, their luster somewhat tarnished by the heavy rain and the darkening sky. She supposed it must be around six o'clock in the evening, though it was beginning to appear much later as the clouds took an even firmer hold, the deluge showing no signs of letting up. The countryside was strangely empty for California, the dirt and gravel road unusual in itself in her limited experience of the area. She was used to seeing every bit of available property built up into either businesses or housing, and being a city girl she was decidedly out of her element in this wild looking country.

But this job offer had been too good to pass up. It would pay enough to go back to college during the summer semester, and she wouldn't have to pay rent for a few months. And being a full-time nanny beat waitressing any day.

Now, she just had to make it to her new home.

The rain was so loud she didn't hear the car coming up behind her, and apparently it was so heavy the driver didn't see her, dressed as she was in her dark raincoat and jeans. Fortunately, the car wasn't traveling very fast, given the state of the roads and the blinding storm, but it was moving down the middle of the road to avoid the danger of the overflowing ditches on either side—exactly where Lisbon had been plodding. At the very last minute, they both realized the other's impending impact. Lisbon's eyes went wide with surprise as she whipped her head around and the car swerved. Lisbon jumped (or rather slid) out of the way at the very last moment, landing on her behind in the thick mud.

The car—some low-slung, antique foreign job-skidded to an eventual stop ahead of her, sliding and fishtailing much as the cab had done earlier, though its slower speeds narrowly prevented an accident. Covered in mud from the backs of her calves to her backside, Lisbon let out a frustrated growl to the heavens.

"What the devil are you doing in the middle of the damn road?" The driver's voice was clipped and heavy as the rain with annoyance. "You could have been killed!"

Lisbon looked up, blinking against the rain to see her accuser. Anger suddenly burned in her like a hot lance, though she was vaguely struck by the beauty of the man, incongruously standing in the rain in an expensive three-piece suit, his blond, curly hair becoming quickly soaked, his brown shoes already caked with mud and probably hopelessly ruined.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," she shot back, yelling to be heard over the storm.

She struggled to get up, but only managed to slip again, landing even more heavily this time. She was mortified as she felt the mud ride up beneath her coat.

With a suppressed curse at her lack of coordination, the stranger reached down and grabbed her arms with two strong hands, pulling her up to her feet with little effort. His shoes didn't even slip, she noted darkly.

Teresa's hood slipped off her head, revealing her stringy mahogany hair and angry green eyes, and he stared down into her face, struck dumb for a moment by her fey loveliness. He swallowed and dropped his hands, his face turning cold as the rain. Teresa, of course, was oblivious to his regard, her anger at him, the rain, and the entire situation getting the better of her normally even temper.

"What are you doing way out here?" he asked, his voice considerably calmer.

"I'm on my way to work," she said, uncaring of how absurd her assertion must sound, especially in the middle of a downpour.

"Ah," he said simply, but asked no further questions on that score. His tone changed to one that was, while not exactly congenial, filled with much less aggravation."Would you like a lift?"

She supposed she should be frightened, or at least cautious, given this stranger had nearly run her over in the middle of nowhere, but the prospect of three-quarters of a mile more of mud and rain decided things for her. Besides, oddly, she had no bad feelings about the man, despite his gruff treatment of her.

"Yes," she said. "If it's no trouble." She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, she really did. He caught it, and his lips quirked with suppressed humor.

"Come on then. It's a bit damp out."

She followed him to the small car and she opened the door on the passenger's side.

He was already sitting in the driver's seat, noting how she hesitated to get inside his clean car in her muddy pants and shoes.

"Get in," he said.

She shrugged and did as he directed. It was his car.

The man drove slowly, for which she was grateful, and after a few moments, he spoke loudly to be heard over the steady pounding on the roof.

"Going to the old Ruskin place, I assume."

"I'm not sure what it's called," she admitted. "I'm supposed to meet someone named Jane. Do you know her?"

"Don't know any women named Jane. But I'll take you there, since that's the only house on this road."

"Oh."

"I know we just met," he said ironically, "but I'm curious to know why you decided to take a walk this fine afternoon."

"I did have a cab," she said, feeling her anger renewed.

"Did you lose it somehow?"

"No," she said, ignoring his sarcasm. "The asshole dumped me off, took my luggage and everything. He was too chicken to drive up this road in the mud."

"Not very gentlemanly," he commented wryly.

She gave a little huff of agreement. Then something occurred to her.

"Why are you out here then, if there's only one house ahead? You live there or something?"

"Or something," he said mysteriously.

She looked at him sidelong, waiting for further explanation that didn't come.

Though the storm was raging harder than ever, the man seemed unusually relaxed. He sat back in the seat, his hands resting easily on the steering wheel. He had very nice hands, she thought; long, thin, dexterous fingers. He had run a hand through his wet hair, slicking it back so that now she could see his perfect profile in relief whenever she glanced surreptitiously his way. He had what appeared to be deep laugh lines about the corners of his eyes and sensual mouth—at least she assumed the man laughed, she thought uncharitably. He must be at least fifteen years older than she was, but somehow that didn't take away from his attractiveness at all. He was the type of man who must improve with age. She noticed he wore a wedding ring, and wondered at the brief stab of disappointment she felt.

"Do I pass inspection?" he asked dryly, after the silence had continued to fill the little car. "Not a maniacal rapist or anything."

She was mortified to have been caught staring, but strangely, his words didn't scare her as they probably should have.

"A girl can't be too careful," she replied with dignity.

"Hm."

"So what are you going to do at the Ruskin house?" The man asked conversationally.

She considered politely telling him it was none of his damn business, but he was giving her a ride after all…

"I'm going to be a nanny."

"For little Charlotte?"

"Oh, you know the family?"

"Yes. Quite intimately."

They had come around a hill, and a huge structure suddenly loomed before them. Teresa gasped involuntarily. The house looked like a French chateau against the dark, wind-tossed sky, with tall towers and even gargoyles on the cornices, the grotesque gothic creatures spewing rainwater from their ghastly open mouths.

"What is this place?" she asked the stranger in awe.

"Ruskin Manor," he said simply. "Welcome to your new home, Miss Lisbon."

He stopped the Citroen in front of the house.

"How do you know my name?" she demanded. Then it dawned. "Oh, God, you're-?"

"Patrick Jane. And I presume you are Teresa Lisbon."

Teresa turned to him with very mixed emotions, the forefront of those being embarrassment at her behavior.

"Jane," she repeated numbly. "Why didn't you tell me right away who you were?"

"It occurred to me, Miss Lisbon, that I didn't have a proper interview with you before my housekeeper hired you over the phone. I couldn't pass up this opportunity to assess your character before I introduce you to my daughter."

She wondered if she had come up wanting, and her face flushed with deeper mortification as she remembered how caustic she had been with him earlier.

"And…?"

He gave the faintest of shrugs. "That still remains to be seen now, doesn't it?"

Xxxxxxxxxx

Teresa was ushered into the foyer by an older woman, whom her new employer introduced as Dana Martins. She was still very lovely, though her chestnut hair was gray at the temples and bound into a severe bun, her clothing seeming to belong to a much older woman. She wore a black pantsuit, a black blouse beneath it, the only hint of brightness about her, a short strand of white pearls at her throat. Teresa mused that she had the air of one in deep and tragic mourning, like a character from a gothic novel. To complete the image, the woman held a single candle that barely lit up the gloom.

"The storm has knocked the electricity out again, sir," Mrs. Martins explained.

Mr. Jane gave a grunt of annoyance. "I'll go and check the breaker. In the meantime, please see to Miss Lisbon. Show her to her room and a shower, and get her something to wear," he ordered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And bring me some tea in the library."

"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Martin obediently.

As Teresa stood dripping on the shining marble floor, Mrs. Martins fussed and exclaimed at her bedraggled state. At the older woman's insistence, she toed off her muddy boots and left her dirty raincoat in a heap on the floor.

Mr. Jane left them, not sparing either woman a backward glance—a man used to his demands being obeyed without question.

"I'm sorry to be so much trouble," Teresa said, her embarrassment returning at the muddy drops that trailed her as Mrs. Martins led her up the grand staircase that dominated the large foyer. "The cab driver left me to walk in the rain a mile down the road. He took my luggage back with him…"

"You poor thing," said Mrs. Martins, appalled.

As they ascended the stairs, Teresa looked at her surroundings in awe. It was as if she had stepped back in time, to a medieval castle, though she knew intellectually of course that they were in the middle of modern day Northern California. Antique iron candle sconces had been lit, casting dim light and eerie shadows upon the tapestry-covered walls. The ceiling was high and vaulted, disappearing into the darkness, and their steps and voices echoed faintly as they ascended the stairs.

"I spoke to you on the phone, didn't I?" Teresa asked. Suddenly she gasped in fright at the full set of polished Spanish armor in the corner of the staircase landing. She would have sworn it had been a man standing there. She chuckled softly at her own overreaction.

"Don't worry; it's happened to me many times in the night," said Mrs. Martins kindly. "I forget it's there."

"Creepy," Teresa said under her breath.

"Yes, we spoke," said Mrs. Martins in answer to her earlier question. She led her now down a wide corridor of the second floor. The flickering candlelight shone upon vintage photographs of what appeared to be a carnival sideshow hanging upon the walls. Lisbon cringed a bit at the framed images of oddly sinister clowns; a bearded lady; a strong man-bald, bare-chested and heavily muscled; a string of elaborately ornamented gypsy wagons…

"Little Miss Charlotte is excited to meet you. She's been staring out the windows all day."

"Where is she?" asked Lisbon. "I can't wait to meet her too."

"She's eating her supper in the kitchen. After you get cleaned up, I'll introduce you. Are you hungry, Miss Lisbon?"

She remembered she hadn't eaten since the vending machine sandwich she'd had in the bus station at San Francisco.

"I am a little," she admitted.

"I'll bring up a tray for you."

Mrs. Martins stopped then before a door and opened it, going inside ahead of Teresa so she could light a candle on the bedside table. Once again, Teresa felt like she had stepped back in time. A queen-size, four-poster canopy bed, elaborately carved in cherry wood, stood as the focal point of the room. The coverlet was made of cream satin and antique lace, and a red velvet fainting couch stood at its foot. To Teresa's delight, there was also a window seat, whose heavy curtains had been drawn back to allow any remaining light to help detract from the darkness. Rain ran in rivulets down the windowpanes, and Lisbon shivered as a sudden chill overtook her.

"Your bathroom is through that door," said Mrs. Martins. "There should be enough hot water remaining in the tank. Unfortunately, the well pump runs on electricity, so you might want to take a quick shower to conserve it. I'll light the fire for you. It gets cold quickly in this house when the electric heat goes out."

It was then Lisbon noted the dark fireplace on the wall opposite her bed, already laid and waiting for a fire.

"Thank you," said Teresa.

"While you're bathing, I'll bring you something to wear. There's a robe on the back of the bathroom door."

"I appreciate all your trouble."

"Oh, please. It's my job," Mrs. Martins said, smiling genuinely.

When Mrs. Martins left, Teresa took up the candle and went into her bedroom's adjoining bathroom. She was thrilled to find an old claw-footed tub, fitted in recent years with a showerhead above it, a shower curtain on an oval rod surrounding the deep tub. She disrobed, disgusted at the muddy mess that was her clothes, wadding them up as best she could and laying them on a wooden chair in the corner.

The water was indeed still hot, though she quickly washed her body with rose-scented cake soap and her hair with lily-of-the-valley shampoo. She stepped out of the tub smelling like a summer garden and reached for a towel, then found the white terry cloth robe the housekeeper had spoken of. She longed for the use of the hair dryer that hung by the sink, but settled for gathering her shoulder-length hair in a towel, attempting to squeeze as much moisture out as she could. She resigned herself to the idea that her hair would dry in natural waves instead of the usual straightened style she preferred.

Teresa sighed. She supposed she was long past making a good first impression.

A sudden crash from above made her jump, her eyes automatically going to the ceiling, from whence she assumed came the source of the ruckus. She stilled to listen, heart beating unaccountably faster. She heard the sound of quick footsteps, a muffled cry, and then silence. She waited another few moments, her ears straining to find some sort of explanation, but she was disappointed.

She emerged from her bathroom to find, as if by magic, another candle by her bed, the fire lit and roaring, a pair of designer jeans and a bright red cashmere sweater arranged on her bed. There were also socks, expensive lace panties with the tags still attached, and a matching black bra. Teresa blushed a little—she would never have picked out undergarments this sexy for herself, and wondered at the thought of the staid Mrs. Martins in possession of such things. Hidden depths, she supposed, grinning at her own fanciful thoughts.

She had just finished dressing when a knock came upon her door, and Mrs. Martins entered with a tray of hot soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. It smelled heavenly. She set it down on the small table near the fireplace.

"I'm glad we have gas stoves to cook with," said the housekeeper. "Mr. Jane said it wasn't the breaker; the power company must have an outage." Mrs. Martins looked up to eye Teresa's new attire.

"Those clothes just fit," she said, obviously pleased, though Teresa detected an increased bit of wetness glimmering in her eyes. "I thought they might."

"Yes. Thank you. Were these your things?" she asked, though she doubted it. Mrs. Martins was several inches taller than Teresa.

"No," said the woman. "They were my daughter's actually. Lorelei."

"Oh." Something in her manner told Teresa that Lorelei was no longer living, and she didn't pry. "Well, thank you. Hopefully once I call the cab company, I can get my own stuff back."

"No hurry," said Mrs. Martins. "I'm glad to see Lorelei's things being used. She had good taste, didn't she?"

"Yes," Teresa admitted, though the other girl's preferences had been much more flamboyant than hers.

"When you're finished eating, Mr. Jane and Charlotte are in the library downstairs waiting for you. It's the first room to the right of the staircase. Do you want me to come back and show you?"

"I think I can find it."

Mrs. Martins retrieved Teresa's soiled clothes from the bathroom, the bundle now wrapped in a bath towel. "I'll wash these the minute the electricity comes back on."

"You don't have to do that. Just show me where the laundry room is, and—"

"No trouble. It's my job," she repeated, and Teresa had the feeling Mrs. Martins had many responsibilities in this house.

The housekeeper turned to leave her to eat in peace, when Teresa suddenly remembered the strange sounds she had heard earlier.

"Is everything all right upstairs? I heard a noise…"

Mrs. Martins looked momentarily startled, but recovered quickly, giving Teresa a polite smile of reassurance. "Probably those squirrels in the attic again. It's a never-ending battle out here Mr. Jane wages against those pests. I'll let him know they must be back again. Sorry if they disturbed you."

"No," said Teresa. "They didn't. I was just concerned someone might have been hurt." She would have sworn in court it had not been squirrels. And she'd definitely heard a cry, probably of a woman. But something in Mrs. Martins's guarded manner made Teresa hold off on her questions.

"There's no one in this house but Mr. Jane, Charlotte and myself, Miss Lisbon. If it's not the squirrels, it's the house itself. It's an old place, built here in the late eighteen-hundreds. It makes plenty of squeaks and creaks, especially when the wind is blowing like it is. You'll get used to it."

"Of course," Teresa said politely. "There is no Mrs. Jane then?" She found she couldn't help herself asking this question at least.

"No," she said tightly. "Mrs. Jane is no longer with us."

"Oh," said Teresa, though this begged many more questions in her mind. She resolutely stifled them, however, knowing from experience how her curious nature could get her into trouble. "Well, thank you for the food. It looks delicious."

"You're welcome. I'll leave you to it then, before it gets cold."

The woman left her alone, shutting the door with a quiet click behind her.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa made her way down the dark corridor again, wearing borrowed slippers over her stocking feet, candle in hand. She gave an amused nod to the knight on the landing, then followed the sound of piano music to the open door of the library. She stopped to peer inside, and watched as a curly-haired child sat on a piano bench, the flickering light from the large fireplace turning her curls to gold. Her Mary Jane-clad feet swung in time to the halting classical piece she was playing for the man who sat beside her.

Occasionally, he would redirect her finger to the proper key, but his attitude was that of loving indulgence. Though she could only see the back of his matching blonde head, she somehow knew he was smiling. Her heart softened toward the patient father who seemed so unlike the gruff man who had picked her up in the rain.

She listened a few minutes longer until Charlotte finished the piece, and Mr. Jane kissed his daughter's temple, complimenting her on her fine performance.

"Come on in, Miss Lisbon," he said suddenly, though his back was still to her. For the third time that evening, Teresa was startled enough to jump. How had he known she was there?

Charlotte turned around on the bench and gave a little squeal of delight upon beholding her new nanny.

"Miss Lisbon! You're here at last!" she proclaimed dramatically.

The angelic little girl ran across the room to meet Teresa, hugging her around the waist with all her strength. Teresa stared down at the golden head, then looked up to find Mr. Jane watching her critically, unemotionally, and Teresa felt suddenly like she was about to take a final exam she hadn't studied for. She chose to ignore his stern expression, however, and acted on instinct, her hands going to Charlotte's slim shoulders, a dimpled smile of amusement lighting her face.

"You smell like roses," commented Charlotte.

"Thank you," said Teresa. "And you smell like strawberries. I take it you are Charlotte?"

"Yes!" She leaned back to look up at Teresa. "Your hair's wet."

"Yes. I had to take a shower because I got caught in the rain."

"I hate the rain. I can't play outside."

"I know what you mean."

"Do you like kittens?" Charlotte asked, changing topics in the stream of consciousness speech patterns of a six-year-old. She took Teresa's hand and led her to a basket near the ceiling-to-floor shelves of books. She could suddenly hear the faint mewing of tiny felines, and when she squatted down beside the basket with Charlotte, she saw that it contained a calico mother cat and a litter of six matching kittens.

"How adorable!" Teresa said honestly. Though she was more of a dog person, she loved all domesticated animals, especially baby ones.

"Daddy said I mustn't touch them while they are eating, or handle them too much while they're this little."

"That's very good advice."

Teresa's eyes strayed to Mr. Jane, who had risen from the piano bench to sit in a leather wing-backed chair near the fire. He poured himself a cup of tea from a china teapot, and sat back, sipping from a dainty cup that seemed out of place in such masculine hands. He felt her eyes upon him and lifted a sardonic eyebrow at her. Teresa felt an unexpected jolt of awareness, and her gaze skittered awkwardly back to her new charge.

"Do you like to read?" asked Charlotte.

"Yes. Very much."

"I like fairy tales, but Daddy and I have been reading A Little Princess. It's not really about a princess though, but I like it."

"Yes," she said. "It's one of my favorites."

"Really? Maybe you could read with me later."

"I'd love to."

"Charlotte," said Mr. Jane suddenly. "It's time for your bath. Miss Lisbon will help you with that and get you tucked in. Come here and kiss me goodnight."

She skipped back to her father and hugged him tightly around the neck while he showered her face with kisses until she squealed in protest. And then, low and behold, Patrick Jane smiled. Lisbon, still standing near the cat family, caught her breath a little at the beauty of that smile, and she felt compelled to bask in it, as when the sun suddenly came out after the rain. His eyes crinkled in much the way she had imagined they would earlier, his teeth straight and very white, and the love and joy he had for his daughter fairly radiated from him in waves.

"Good night, my little princess," she heard him whisper. "You are safe. You are loved. And you are wise."

Teresa felt tears prick her eyes as the little girl repeated the phrases with him, then kissed her daddy on the cheek with a loud smack.

"Would you mind coming down here after Charlotte's in bed, Miss Lisbon. I'd like to speak with you further."

Teresa could only nod, her throat tight from the touching moment she'd witnessed.

Next thing Teresa knew, a small hand was pulling her out of the library, into the foyer, then up the stairs to Charlotte's room. It was lavishly decorated in fluffy pinks and fairy tale golds, as if a princess actually lived there. She helped Teresa fill the bathtub with water and half a bottle of kids' bubble bath, and soon she was clean and dry and beneath the covers of her canopy bed, the fireplace in Charlotte's room making it cozy and warm. Teresa read to her by candlelight, having to stop frequently to answer the little girl's incessant though highly intelligent questions, until Teresa looked up from the book in surprise to find her charge was sound asleep.

She quietly laid down the book on the bedside table, then stared at the beautiful cherub a moment before diligently banking the fire and taking the candle with her back down the stairs.

She found Patrick Jane reading as well, but he closed the book before she had the chance to clear her throat politely. It was eerie, really, how he seemed to sense her presence.

"Sit down, Miss Lisbon," he said, nodding toward an opposing chair. He had added a few logs to the fire, and it crackled merrily in spite of the gloom.

"Charlotte is fast asleep," Teresa said brightly. "One moment she was asking for the history of the Boer War, the next she was out like a light."

Mr. Jane nodded, his face passive once more, though she saw the light of pride in his eyes at his child's cleverness.

"And what did you tell her?" he asked, challenging her once more. "About the Boer War?"

Teresa shrugged with a nonchalance she did not feel. "All that I knew. That it was a war the British fought in South Africa. I told her we would look it up tomorrow for more details. She seemed intrigued to know more about it. She's a very bright and curious child."

"Yes," said Mr. Jane. "She gets it from me. I have a few questions for you myself, Miss Lisbon."

Teresa tensed, but told herself she had nothing to hide. "Fire away."

"You're putting yourself through college, Mrs. Martins tells me. That's very admirable."

"Thank you. Many students must earn their own way these days."

He didn't comment. "You came highly recommended by the nanny service in San Francisco. Why did you leave your last position?"

"I earned enough money to pay for another semester, and besides, the little boy I'd cared for was going into private school, so I was no longer needed."

"Ah," he said, as if she had only confirmed his suppositions. "You seem very good with children. I suspect you have had quite a bit of experience for one so young. You were the main care-giver for your younger siblings, weren't you?"

How did he know this?

"Uh, yes. My three brothers."

"I can tell by your accent, you're from Chicago."

"Yes."

"Your parents are both gone, I assume. So you came to California for a new start."

"Yes." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How do you know all this? The nanny service did a thorough background check on me, but I assumed personal information was confidential to the clients."

Mr. Jane's mouth twisted wryly. "I'm just very good at reading people," he said, but she had the strange feeling he was laughing at her.

"So I am correct in assuming you will be able to help with Charlotte's homeschooling," he said, changing the subject to more pertinent matters.

Teresa nodded. "Yes, I was told that was a requirement for the position. I am a senior in college, so I believe I can handle elementary textbooks."

Mr. Jane's eyebrows rose a bit at her impudence, though her bearing remained deceptively respectful. He almost smiled again.

"But teaching and child development are not your majors," he stated knowingly. "No—"

He held up a hand. "May I guess?"

He leaned forward in his chair, evaluating her with so much intensity that it was all she could do not to squirm in her seat. His eyes—blue-green, she now realized—were very difficult to look away from.

"Criminal justice," he announced positively, a few uncomfortable minutes later. He sat back against the chair, in complete confidence in his deduction.

Her own eyes widened. "Well, yes. And you figured that out just by looking at me?"

"And observing your demeanor up until now. You have an almost military bearing about you. You are a straight-shooter, both figuratively and literally, I imagine. You want to be a police officer some day, helping people like both your parents did, though not exactly in their same occupations."

"Yes," she said, still wondering how he'd gotten his information. "Ultimately I want to join the California Bureau of Investigation, or maybe even the FBI. You need a college degree for that."

Mr. Jane nodded. "You'll make a very good agent one day," he commented, with annoying self-assurance. "If you do your job very well with Charlotte, I'll make sure you have enough cash to finish that last semester of college. Though I can already tell Charlotte likes you very much, and will miss you when you leave."

"I did tell Mrs. Martins I could only fill this position for a few months, until you find someone who could be more permanent to continue her home education. But if that's a problem, I'll leave first thing-"

"No," he interrupted, his tone succinct. "You'll do fine for now, Miss Lisbon. But you first real test will begin tomorrow. I have to go on a business trip to Southern California for a few days. I'll expect a full report on Charlotte's progress when I return."

He picked up his book again, and Teresa saw she was being dismissed. She rose.

"I'll wish you good-night then," she said, taking the hint.

She looked up longingly at the impressive collection of books lining the walls, and of course, Mr. Jane, who seemed to notice everything, rightfully interpreted her fleeting glance.

"Feel free to borrow whatever books you like. The mystery novels are on the second shelf to your right."

She didn't even question how he'd rightly figured out her literary preferences. Picking up her candle, she moved to the massive bookcase, pleased to find a leather-bound PD James novel she had never read.

"I think you'll prefer The Murder Room," he called, as she walked to the door with her selection. He hadn't even looked up from his own book, and she was once again amazed at his ability to read her mind.

"Thank you," she said with forced politeness. "I'll try that one next."

She didn't see him smile a little at her stubbornness as she left the library, holding her novel protectively to her lovely chest. His smile faded into the darkness along with her fleeing figure, while, outside the window, the rain continued its lonely patter.

A/N: So what do you think so far? Like many of you, I'm still feeling withdrawals from the show, so hopefully this little fic will be a balm for both of us. Thanks for reading. More very soon.