by Luccia Gray
Michael fell to his knees by my side. “Jane, what’s wrong? Are you in pain, my love?”
I leant forward, rested my head on his forehead for a few moments, and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m all right, Michael. It was just a sad memory.”
“Would you like to leave?” he whispered back. I shook my head and smiled. “I’m fine now. It’s over.”
Michael sat back in his chair, holding my hand in both of his, as our host watched curiously.
“Will you be staying here very long?”
I looked at Michael, who replied, “We’d like to stay until the summer, at least.”
“We are fortunate to have such a talented lady teaching our children French and music. I’m afraid our local teacher, Miss Burns, barely grasps the three R’s herself, so her teaching is very basic. Of course, those who can afford it have a governess or send their children away to boarding school. Most of the children at the local school will end up being miners or fishermen, or housewives. It does seem like a waste to teach them to read and write.”
“I believe everyone has the right to education and access to the arts, whatever their job or station in life. Every person should be allowed to grow intellectually and morally through education.”
“I see you are a champion of the growing working classes, Mrs. Stewart.”
“I believe we are all the ‘working classes’. Everyone should work for a living. It is our duty to make this country a better place for all of us, and we should start by making it a better place for children, especially orphans.”
“So you are favourable to our reforming Lord Shaftsbury’s efforts.”
“He has done much to reduce child labour, set up ragged schools, and improve the lives of children.”
“Indeed. The Poor Man’s Earl.” He looked at me for a long time, as if he were thinking of an answer. I thought he was about to speak, but he said “Indeed” again, and nothing more, so I continued.
“The children at the parish school are lovely, Mr. de Winter. The folk here are very friendly and grateful. The children are keen to learn, and I am often rewarded with sponge cakes and scones baked by the children’s mothers. We could use some more books and pencils.”
His face lit up with a smile for the first time. “What an excellent negotiator and champion you are for the townspeople.” He shook his head and laughed. “Make a list of anything you need and I’ll see to it that the school receives it. I’m afraid my mother used to deal with the parish and the school. I have no idea what is required. I fear I may have neglected my duties, and I should like to make amends, with your help.”
The school was indeed in a sorry state. It needed whitewashing, new chairs and desks, notebooks, pencils, and a blackboard. I was glad that he was willing to contribute to its upkeep.
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you. How old is your son?” I asked, trying to turn the topic of conversation back to Mr. de Winter.
“Max is sixteen. When my mother, Mrs. de Winter, died two years ago, I thought it was best for him to study at Eton. He’s a shy boy. He needs to meet other young boys. He will be home shortly for the Easter holidays.”
“Mrs de Winter, Max’s mother, also passed away?” asked Michael.
“Not exactly, but she no longer lives here or has any contact with either of us. It’s a long and painful story, and, to cut it short, she left us. My mother was against a divorce, so officially, we’re still married. I have no idea where she is.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. de Winter, for both of you, especially for your son,” I said. “I was an orphan, and I know how hard it is to grow up without a mother’s presence.”
Mr. de Winter was silent for a moment and then suggested we take a walk towards the rose gardens in the east wing. The light wind had dropped and the afternoon was peaceful. The rippling of the sea could no longer be heard and the air was heavy with the scent of crimson roses. I saw a wooden swing held by two long ropes. A light breeze shot through and the swing swayed as if someone were sitting on it. I walked towards it and saw Helen smiling at me. “Mummy, when are you coming to bring me back?” she asked.
Seconds later, Michael rushed to my side, embracing me as my tears flooded down his coat. He asked me what was the matter and I told him.
“Michael, I miss Helen. Please bring her back.”
“Of course, my love. I’ll leave tomorrow morning. She’ll be with you again before Easter.”
Mr. de Winter listened curiously. “May I ask who Helen is?”
“Helen is my daughter, by a previous marriage. She’s almost twelve. We left her with her older brother while I recovered.”
“Excellent. She will be in time to see the daffodils bloom and the bluebells cover the meadows. I’m sure she will love Cornwall as much as her mother does. Easter is exceptionally late this year, almost the end of April. You must bring her to Manderley to meet Max. He’ll be home for the holidays.”
I wondered if we had said too much. I was sure he suspected that our reasons for being there held more mystery and that we had withheld part of the truth. It pained me to live under false pretences, but there seemed to be no other way for the moment.
Fortunately, the conversation came back to the weather, the plants, and other mundane matters. Mr. de Winter showed us some ancient family tombs and proudly told us the de Winter family were originally from France, and had settled in Cornwall shortly after the Conquest. If that were true, it meant they weren’t as deep-rooted as the Rochesters. Years later, I would tell Helen how her father’s family had modified their Anglo-Saxon surname to ‘de Rochester’ after the Conquest, although they had lived in Yorkshire long before then. Edward’s first famous ancestor had been Damer de Rochester, who had been struck by a cannon ball on Marston Moor, fighting for the Parliamentarians against the Royalists. Edward always said that was why King George, whom he considered a vengeful man, had denied his grandfather a peerage.
It was almost sunset when we left Manderley. “You must come back in summer. There will be fresh strawberries and raspberries, and Mrs. Benson makes a delicious summer pudding.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. de Winter.”
On the way back, Michael told me he didn’t like him or trust him. “I think he has more secrets than we do,” he said. “And I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
“Michael. He’s just curious and lonely.”
I knew Michael was right. I had no doubt in my mind that Mr. de Winter had a special interest in me. I knew it was not a love interest, because I had already made it clear to him that I was in love with Michael. Nevertheless, I was certain that there was something else he wanted. I would no doubt find out in due time. In any case, we had more pressing problems to solve.
The following morning, I received a letter from Mr. Dickens. I started reading and called Michael at once.
“Listen Michael, Mr. Dickens writes, ‘Lord Shaftsbury considers it is the duty of the House of Commons to prescribe the conditions under which a man should be deprived of his liberty. Those who require restraint should be provided kind and competent keepers, and that the patient should receive no injury. He is aware of the abominations, which prevail in many asylums, and recurrence of frightful cruelties to the unfortunate residents. He is also concerned with the provision of security against the improper detention of patients, whose property shall be protected from the unscrupulous grasp of their relatives or superintendents.’
Lord Shaftsbury is a Commissioner in Lunacy; he has the power and the duty to ensure that people are not improperly detained. I have asked him to read the first instalments of your novel and told him that I am personally acquainted with the author, and know the events narrated to be accurate. I have taken the liberty to tell him about your situation, and he has assured me that he will take a personal interest in your case. If he believes your son has taken unjust or immoral actions for financial or personal reasons, and that you have been the victim of a conspiracy, your son, and all those who assisted him, will be ac
cused of making a false statement and perjury.’”
“Jane, that’s wonderful news. It means we’re almost free.”
“I know you don’t want to see him Michael, but you must speak to John and tell him that if he doesn’t revoke the warrant for our arrest, we will speak to Lord Shaftsbury personally. John will also have to allow you to take Helen away from Lowood and bring her back home with us.”
My spirits were high when Michael left the following morning. I don’t know if it was the prospect of seeing Helen again or Mr. Dickens’ letter, or both, but for the ten days Michael was away, I was voraciously hungry and immensely happy. I spent most mornings in the kitchen with Shirley, who showed me how to bake cakes. I walked down to the school every afternoon after an early lunch, and found great pleasure in teaching the pupils the rudiments of French and reading Oliver Twist, which was always a favourite with children. Blains was kind enough to pick me up every day at five and take me home. Shirley had prepared a delicious dinner, which we often ate together, and then they left. I wrote into the early hours of the morning, and sent Mr. Dickens two more chapters of The Asylum.
***
Chapter XVIII – In Search of Helen
The heavy clouds and sharp west wind whistling through the leafless trees reminded me that I had left behind a warmer part of England, which I was fast coming to think of as our home. I decided it was best to call on Harry at Ferndean, before visiting Eyre Hall.
I told Harry about our escape to Cornwall, John and Poole’s visit, and Lord Shaftsbury’s interest in Jane’s case. He was glad that our need to hide would soon be over.
I realised uneasily that he wasn’t surprised to hear about the tattoo. “Why didn’t you tell me what had happened to Jane at the Retreat?”
“She asked me not to.”
“You should have told me, Harry. I would have understood why she rejected my affections. She shouldn’t have had to bear the weight of the memory on her own.”
“It takes a long time to pull through such an ordeal, but Jane’s a strong woman. I’m sure she’ll recover.”
“She has.” I closed my eyes and remembered her soft moans and supple limbs, as she moulded into my desire, as she used to before she was taken to the retreat.
I was saddened to discover that Harry’s mother had passed away recently and surprised to hear that he was planning to leave the area to work in London. I wondered why he hadn’t mentioned Annette.
“How is Annette coping at Eyre Hall?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen much of her lately. I have proposed to her, more than once, but she has always turned me down. She says we should wait. Since the archbishop has taken over the running of the estate, because John follows his instructions to the letter, they have refused to let her see me. She can no longer work at the hospital in Hay. She was not even allowed to attend my mother in her final days as she had been doing. John wants her at Eyre Hall. He’s selfish and headstrong.” He paused to sip his brandy, looking into the warm liquid as he spoke. “I think he loves her, and what is worse, I suspect she loves him, too.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Harry. I also fear that’s been the case for a long time. Jane tried to keep them apart by letting them believe they might be brother and sister.”
“Do you think they are related?”
“Nobody seems to know for sure. The only thing we know is that Annette was born in the attic at Thornfield Hall, where her mother was confined. Mr. Rochester, John’s father, always said he wasn’t her father, but he never told anyone who her real father was.”
“So they could really be brother and sister, you say? That’s repulsive.”
“Jane is sure Bertha Mason was violated in the attic by another man.”
“So that’s what was keeping them apart, then.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“When she told me she had loved another man but their relationship was impossible, I thought he might be married. I never guessed it could have been John. He was always engaged, or gallivanting with eligible young girls. I never saw them together.”
I had no words of consolation for poor Harry. He would have been a good husband to Annette, but if John had her heart, there was little Harry could do.
“Annette never loved me. She let me kiss her, court her, and propose to her, while she was in love with another man, with that bastard. I suspected it, but I was a fool and ignored the evidence.”
“I believe she tried to love you, Harry, but love is unpredictable and often unwise. It cannot be governed by reason, but you already know that.”
“He’ll never make her happy.”
“She is making the wrong decision. I believe Annette loves John, but John only loves himself.”
“She knows that. She’s seen what he’s done to his own mother. He’s a treacherous rogue, just like his father.”
“Harry, love is blind.” I wondered how Jane could ever have loved her first husband.
“And deaf and dumb and foolish in Annette’s case. He’ll bring her so much pain and suffering.”
“That’s her choice, Harry. I think she’s fond of you, but John is…under her skin, and that’s a wonderful place to be if it’s reciprocal, and it’s hell when it’s not.”
We were silent, watching the flames dancing on the brandy swirling in our glasses. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how tormented I would feel if Jane loved another man.
We were still drinking and brooding on the injustice of love when there was a violent knock on the door. It was Fred. He asked Harry to come to Eyre Hall at once because the archbishop had been taken ill. The beast in me roared once again, and I was blinded with the need to break every bone in Fred’s body and then the archbishop’s, but Harry pulled me back and asked Fred what his symptoms were.
“Dr. Carter, the archbishop can hardly breathe or speak. His right eye is swollen and his left eye is closed. He cannot move his arms or legs. Earlier, when he could speak, he complained of a pain in his head and chest.”
“It sounds like a heart attack or apoplexy. Loosen his clothes, don’t give him anything to eat or drink, and keep him in a seated position until I arrive.”
Fred nodded. “You are to come with me at once. Mr. Rochester said I…”
“Fred, please return to Eyre Hall. Tell Mr. Rochester that I will be arriving shortly with Mr. Kirkpatrick, who needs to discuss an urgent matter with him and Miss Mason.”
When Fred left, Harry turned to me. “It’s as good a time as any to confront John. Don’t fight with him. Just tell him you’ve come for Helen, and that if he doesn’t release his mother, he’ll have problems with the law himself. He’s not a brave man. I know him well. He’ll do anything to avoid facing a public trial. And after everything you’ve told me, even someone like John should be feeling at least a little guilty about what the archbishop and Poole did to his mother.”
“I suppose you’re right. I hope he doesn’t try to have me arrested, or I’ll have to kill him.”
“Once the archbishop is dead, and it looks like he’s not going to last, John won’t know what to do. He certainly won’t want to face any more problems. Your ordeal is almost over, Michael,” said the good doctor, and I hoped he was right.
When we arrived at Eyre Hall, the doctor was rushed upstairs and I was shown into the library, where John was sitting at Jane’s desk. I scowled. He had no right to sit there, with Jane’s books, papers, letters, and quills. He had usurped her place, greedily and deceitfully.
“I’ll never forgive you for what you did to my mother.”
“That’s a fine thing to say, John Rochester. But remember this, I’ll never forgive you either. They’re all dead. Every person who hurt Jane has been killed or died, except you.”
“Why am I so privileged?”
“For some reason your mother loves you more than you deserve, and much more than you will ever love anyone. If I ever find a way of killing you without her knowing, it’ll be your last day on Eart
h.”
“How dare you come to my house and threaten me?”
“This house? This house you stole from your mother? Was it worth it? This house that you can’t even run. This estate that you have no idea how to manage because you’ve spent all your life carelessly spending every last penny. Keep it all. Jane doesn’t want it, and neither do I.”
“There’s someone else who’ll have to die according to your twisted logic. Someone else who hates Jane enough to betray her trust. Someone who puts out her hand to be fed and bites it to be fed by another.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You mean, who am I talking about?”
“You and the archbishop alone are responsible. The others who signed the testimonies against Jane were forced against their will. We will not hold it against any of them.”
“How do you think we found you?”
I had wondered how it had happened at the time, but after John left, Jane was upset, and we had to deal with Poole. When she recovered, I forgot about the fact that there must be a traitor amongst us, someone whom we considered a friend.
“No idea?” He laughed. “Your sister, Susan. Mrs. Greenwood, the pregnant servant whom my foolish mother helped on her way to an honourable marriage, even paying her dowry, and sending her a generous monthly allowance, not to mention spoiling her little bastard.”
I grabbed his shirt and pushed him against the desk. “You liar. My sister didn’t know where we were.”
He smiled triumphantly and pushed me away. “That’s where you’re wrong. It seems certain people in London knew that James Elliot was, in fact, Mrs. Stewart. She went to Mr. Dickens’ office and found out your address, which she sent to me in a charming letter.” He pointed his index finger and thumb at me as if it were a gun. “I’d say Susan hates my mother even more than I hate you, and believe me, that’s a great deal of hate.” He pulled the imaginary trigger and popped his lips to emulate the sound of gunfire.
