Rewriting Jane

So this week’s challenge was to rewrite a scene from a story. All stories fall into one of seven categories:- 
Overcoming the Monster, Rags to Riches, The Quest, Voyage and Return, Comedy, Tragedy, and Rebirth. 
I decided to have a crack at re-writing the scene in Jane Eyre when Jane meets Mr. Rochester for the first time. I have attempted to change the plot from the original rags to riches to another type of plot, hopefully, you can guess which! I have also taken the step of modernising the story to fit into 2016, just because it worked more fluidly in the modern day in my mind.
Hopefully you find it enjoyable! The photo above is from the trail to Bronte Falls, so I thought it was appropriate!

As was my habit, when having any brief free time, I pulled on my thickest winter coat to walk the two miles to Hay. It was the only place I could find internet signal and scant signal at that. Beneath the clock tower, turned 45 degrees to the north, the sweet spot for 4g would bring forth multiple notifications to my phone.
There I could message my friends and those within my family, that I still wished to associate with. It was an unusually cold morning, my nose pink and cheeks flushed. Even the ear flaps of my knitted hat were not preventing the cold air seeping into my head.
All around me autumn was displaying it’s bounty, a rich orange and red ballet as leaves fell gracefully to the earth. Mingled in was the odd Horse Chestnut tree, with little parcels of childish glee in the utmost branches, where little hands had not been able to reach up to pry the conkers free. Even the birds were in full recital, clear and bright upon the still air.
From a distance, I perceived a rude noise, a guttural roar of some powerful vehicle. From how the sound increased with such rapidity, though I could not see it, I understood it was coming towards me quickly. With haste I tried to scramble away, having nowhere but a steep embankment to go, the lane so narrow I feared it would hit me.
There was a flash of silver then the squeal of breaks before an unhealthy clunk and metallic groan punctuated the vehicle’s front bumper breaching the hedge. For a moment I stood transfixed, unable to understand what I had just witnessed. Then my body began to move, as though on its own, running towards the stricken vehicle and the occupant inside.
As I wrenched open the door I was startled as a canine shape flew past me, all stumpy legs and fluffy cream fur. For a second I almost hastened after it as it scampered from the car, thinking, at least, I should not allow it to escape. Until the occupant turned to call out “Down Pilot!” I had but a second to behold his features before the airbag exploded full force into them.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, taken aback as this man, face filled with fabric turned in my direction, scrambling to get out of the vehicle. Unable to do anything but step back I watched him emerge. Of average height, his shoulders swelled outwards, filling the suit which was very obviously tailored to his fit and of a high quality. His face, when I beheld it was stern, handsome in the way of men about to grey at the temples, mature and firm.
I would have found him intimidating, had it not been for the stamp emblazoned upon his brow, where he had obviously headbutted the steering wheel and was now branded by Aston Martin. “Are you injured?” My voice was meek, his gaze ireful as he stepped towards me. “I could go into Hays and ask for help?”
It was then he looked towards his vehicle and saw the wheel fully within a pothole. It might have been he swore but I was so shaken I could not say for sure. “No, no need, I’ll have to get someone to recover this, though. Damnit. I thought I’d hit you, appearing like some damn ghost. What are you even doing out here?”
Wavering, my concern was primarily with his physical damage and not that of the vehicle, I felt I should at least stay with him until the recovery vehicle arrived. “I’m working just down the lane.” I gestured towards Thornfield, feeling at least partially responsible for what had taken place.
“Thornfield?”
“Yes, I work there.”
“Who employs you?”
“I work for Edward Rochester.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“No.”
I felt his gaze heavily upon me then, taking in my heavy woolen coat and neat appearance, as though he was trying to weigh my worth. There was a question in his eyes and I sought to answer him, it was the least I could do.
“I’m working as a nanny at Thornfield, I started a little while ago.”
Again he stood in judgment before broad shoulders rolled and he released a sigh. “I see… Well then, I’m sure I can manage here, don’t let me keep you.”
The whole encounter struck me as rather strange, and it was only after several insistences on his behalf and witnessing his tiny white dog chew his shoelace that I consented to continue my journey into Hay. Still, my thoughts lingered on him, long after I’d ensconced myself in the local coffee shop, satisfied I’d had my fill of social media. Who was he? Did he manage to summon help? It was going to cost a fortune to fix his car. Why was he so bothered by my place of work?
The answer to these questions, I found, was not far away. In fact just 2 miles, my return journey to Thornfield. For there upon the drive was a silver Aston Martin, wheel twisted out of joint. Then at the porch I was greeted by Pilot, his tongue lolling out, tail beating so swiftly he nearly tipped over.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, taken aback. “Oh bother.”

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