Jane Eyre vs. The Mighty Boosh

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Vince Noiyre, a young governess, takes a position at Thornfield Hall under the watchful eye of Howard Moonchester. But what are those noises coming from the attic? Why does everyone think Vince is a girl? And how old is Naboo?

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Chapter Seven: In which typhoid provides Miss Noiyre with an escape route, prostitution is recommended, and the impossible seems slightly less so.

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Chapter Seven: In which typhoid provides Miss Noiyre with an escape route, prostitution is recommended, and the impossible seems slightly less so.

I hear the clock downstairs chime three when I wake up, still clutching my comb, and for one horrible moment I think I must have gone back in time, that I’ll have to live the whole horrible night over again. But I pull the sheets off my head and see daylight outside, and I realise that I must have slept the whole day through. No one’s come to wake me.

It’s weird – normally with something like this, once day breaks everything feels a lot better. But instead of the blazing hot July sun outside my window, the day is drab and grey, and I shiver. I mean, you’d have to go far to find someone less brooding than me. But a day like this, with the clouds hanging close to the ground, the grass bending and bowing to the biting wind… after a night like last night…

Putting on my carefully customised “uniform” cheers me up a little. The material’s still rubbish, but with the extra weight of the sheets I’ve added it swishes around my legs nicely. What I couldn’t do with some real fabric, eh? Silk, maybe. I puff up my hair, add a little eyeliner (bollocks to Mrs Gideon, I mean, I think when she sees me in this my make-up’ll be the last of her worries) and head downstairs. I’m still a bit nervous, though, and I slip the metal comb up my sleeve and rebutton it, just in case.

As I open my door I see the two pins I put there last night, a scrap of paper clinging forlornly to one. Hopefully whatever happened last night will have put my little poster stunt to the back of Howard’s mind.

I float down the stairs and wait at the entrance to the sitting room, checking my appearance in the mirror just by the door. Now or never. I push the door open firmly, and step inside.

I’ve never actually seen someone’s jaw drop before. I’ve heard about it, sure, read about it in those penny dreadfuls they sell at the station, ‘He took her in his arms and kissed her tender’, like, never actually stating where her ‘tender’ might be… but this could be a scene from one of those books. Howard’s slumped on the sofa when I come in, and he looks up. When he sees me his eyes widen, his mouth falls open, slack, uncontrolled, and I can see his tongue.

No sign of Mrs Gideon, which is a shame.

“Miss Noiyre?” Howard says, like I might turn around and say, “Whoops, wrong house… I’m Chesty LaRue, actually…”

Cool and casual is the way to go, I think. I cross the room and sit down in one of the armchairs, crossing my legs. A chill against my right thigh means the slit in my skirt is revealing a slice of skin just above my stocking, and I twist so Howard can see it.

“I’m sorry I slept in, sir,” I say to him, keeping my head ducked for now so he can take everything in.

“Th… that’s quite alright, Miss Noiyre. You… you look…” He trails off, blinking at me like an owl. I think I might prefer him speechless, actually.

“Is Mrs Gideon not with you, sir?” It takes an effort not to spit the name out, but I manage it, asking a perfectly innocent question.

“She… unfortunately had to leave us early this morning. She remembered some urgent business elsewhere.”

I’ll bet.

He gets to his feet suddenly. “Stand up,” he says. “Please.”

I get a low tingling feeling in my stomach, that feeling of delicious anticipation that comes when something’s about to happen. I get up, smoothing down my skirts, and clasp my hands behind my back, looking up at him. “Sir?”

He looks me up and down, intently, studying me, taking in the alterations I’ve made. He holds his hands either side of my shoulders, not touching, maybe an inch above skin. It’s ridiculous, but in my mind I can feel the heat radiating off them, and I burn.

“You were going to wear this in front of Mrs Gideon?” he asks quietly, and there’s a hint of a smile there, but all I hear is Gideon Gideon Gideon. It’s like a physical blow, I stumble.

She’s gone, but she’s still here – the problem she was a symptom of is still here. Howard Moonchester is master of Thornfield Hall, and requires a mistress, not a governess. Whatever I might want to happen between us, looks and reputation are all. The best I might get is a quick tumble in the hayloft, and I’ve had my fill of them already.

I would have shown him up in front of his heterosexual life-mate, that’s all that matters, not that I look like a stone cold fox in this outfit, or that he and I have a real spark together. A connection that should cut through all this everyday bullshit, but doesn’t.

I don’t think he knows what he’s said, because he just looks confused as I take a step back, towards the door. “I’ll just go see to your ward, sir,” I say, eyes looking down at the ground because he’s too good to look at, and I’ll stumble again.

“Miss Noiyre?” I hear as I leave the room, door banging behind me, but he doesn’t follow me, and that tells you everything you need to know, really. For a splitsecond I wish I was a woman, I wish I was Mrs Gideon, but then I pinch my arm harshly and come back to reality.

He’s just a bloke. And it’s his loss. He turned me down, and that’s fine, but there’s hundreds who won’t.

There’s a little pile of letters on a table next to the front door, and I catch sight of “Miss V. Noiyre”. I walk on over, and there’s two or three for me. I remember the job applications.

One rejection. One acceptance, although at two-thirds my usual rate. Fine, I’ll go, anything to be out of here.

There’s one more letter, and I slice it open hastily, leaning against the wall by the front door. It’s stupid, really, I should go somewhere else. Howard could come out at any moment.

Mr Leroy? But I didn’t write to him. I worked for him four or so years ago, up in Manchester. If it wasn’t for the fact that his youngest was twenty-one and married off, I would have stayed there, they were a nice family. Let’s see… he’s heard that I’m looking for a new post. And his sister-in-law’s just lost her governess to typhoid, and needs a replacement. She’s got two little girls, three and five. They need someone fast, and better yet, I won’t need any references because he already knows what I’m capable of.

It’s perfect, and it makes me want to cry, because it’s what I wanted, but it’s not. I can be out of here by tonight, if I send a telegram and pack fast, get that Farmer Guy back here early enough. It should take a couple of days to get up to Manchester, but I’d leave all this behind, the intrigue, the secrecy, the fear. Howard.

I look up from the letter and he’s standing at the door to the sitting room, one hand on the doorframe, the skin pale against his pitch-black sleeve.

No references, I think. Nothing to lose.

“Is everything alright, Miss Noiyre?” he asks, but stays where he is.

I stand up straight, pushing away from the wall. “I applied for another job. And I’ve been accepted. I can be out of here by tonight.”

He stares at me, a flash of anger in his eyes. “What?”

“I’m leaving,” I say calmly.

His response is immediate, instinctive. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I won’t let you.”

I nod grimly, smirking. It all comes down to property and ownership with guys like him. “You can’t stop me. I don’t need a reference, it’s someone I used to work for. There’s nothing you can do.”

And that’s it. My legs unsteady, my stupid bloody dress that he made me wear tangling around my knees, making me trip a little, I get to the foot of the stairs before he speaks.

“Don’t go, Vince.”

I turn. He’s still standing at the door to the sitting room. He doesn’t trust himself to come closer?

“Give me a reason, Howard.” The name is like syrup on my tongue, thick and awkward. I haven’t used it before, not to him. I’ve thought it, I’ve dreamed it, but this is the first time I’ve felt like I can use it to his face, and it sticks in my throat.

He walks towards me. He’s got that riding crop in his boot again, the one that still fascinates me, and it swivels like a metronome as he crosses the hall, ticking back and forth with every step, marking time. And then he’s in front of me, tall and forbidding and moody and completely the opposite to me and yet so perfect, so very much what I want.

He grabs me by the back of the head with one hand, the other slides round my waist, and he tilts so he’s holding me horizontal, leaning over me, like a dance move, like a bad film. He leans in and kisses me, firm, tongue teasing at my lips, but I don’t react, I put both hands on his chest and push, much as I want to stay.

“Is that…” I’m breathless, stupid goddamn reactions, I’m all faint. I concentrate. I’m not playing the hapless maid to his heartless master. “Is that your idea of a reason?”

“I want you.” His voice is low, and it sends a shiver to my groin, pure desire. I sigh, I can’t help it, but I can control what I say.

“You want a quick fuck, go get yourself a whore. They must have ‘em even out here.”

He blinks at me. He’s not used to having people disobey him, it’s clear, and I can tell why – every part of me wants to just go with this and let him do whatever he wants. One part in particular.

“If you’re serious, if you really want me to stay… marry me.” It’s a stupid and pointless thing to say, of course, but there’s a message behind it. About what he’s looking for, about how it isn’t me.

“Vince?”

“I mean it. And put me down.”

He does. The fabric of my dress clings to my skin where he’s touched me, sticky with sweat. Got to be firm, got to see this through, I turn away and head up the stairs, lifting my skirt as I go, knowing that if I look at him again I’ll give in. I make a list in my head: All’s Well That Ends Well. Antony and Cleopatra. As You Like It.

“Alright.”

I feel him speak before he does, that low growl of a voice that reaches from my spine through to my gut. I half-turn, looking down at him over my shoulder. “What?”

He grins. “Fuck it. Why shouldn’t I have a normal life? Why shouldn’t I get a chance at happiness? I’ll do it. I’ll marry you.”

I stand there, speechless, and all I can say is, “What?”

He ascends the stairs, slowly. He’s really mastered that cocky walk, hips rolling and boots thudding on the carpet softly. I watch him, dumbfounded.

He takes hold of my hands in his, and squeezes them gently. “Vince Noiyre. Will you do the me the honour of becoming my wife?”

“What?”

He laughs, swinging my hands. “Look, we fooled Gideon, we can fool anyone. You’re a stranger here, no one knows you’re not a woman. And the parish priest is a myopic drunkard who knows very little about androgynous London style.”

I pull my hands away. “This is a trick. To get me into bed.”

He spreads his fingers and nods. “You want to wait until after the wedding, that’s fine. I can respect that.” His eyes dip to my neck and back up. “Although waiting might be… difficult.”

“You’re serious?”

“If you are.”

I… “Yes.”

He grins again. “Then give me a couple of days to sort everything.” He runs a hand down my side, fingers brushing lightly against the slit in my skirt, stroking the top of my stocking. “You better go take this off, it can be your wedding dress.” He leans in, breath warm against my ear, and whispers. “Besides, I prefer you in trousers.”