“Then I shall have to be your eyes. Such deficiency matters little. I am here for you. All my heart is yours, sir. Always and forever.”
I relived this poignant moment as Hester entered the nursery and executed a sloppy partial curtsy. Keeping her protruding eyes downcast, she took her accustomed place on a chair near Ned’s crib. I gave my son one last kiss and started toward what we euphemistically called “our garden.”
I passed by Mrs. Fairfax, who struggled mightily to keep a slight expression of disapproval on her face. She aims to make me a more conventional lady of the manor and endeavors to mold me into her ideal of a country squire’s wife. It is a challenge—because I care little for outward appearances—but one she approaches with tact and persistence.
Alice Fairfax had known my husband since he was a lad. She worked as Mr. Rochester’s housekeeper for many years, but after the fire, he settled an annuity on her. How fortunate we were that when she heard of our marriage and Ned’s impending arrival, she had written inquiring if we might have need of her!
At first, however, our new roles caused friction.
Mrs. Fairfax was accustomed to running the master’s household. But now I—who had once been hired by her to serve as a governess for Mr. Rochester’s ward, Adèle—was her mistress. She would tell Cook to make lamb chops, and I would ask for veal. Cook would take advantage of our confusion and serve up leftover pigeon pie. Mrs. Fairfax demanded that we eat on good china and drink from crystal glasses. I would have been content with an old chipped plate and a tin mug. She would suggest that we inventory all the bed linens to determine what needed mending, and I would think that could wait until the bluebells finished blooming. What did I know of fine living? I was, after all, little more than a grown-up orphan girl. The shift from governess to mistress was still fresh with me, and my new role proved an awkward fit. Mrs. Fairfax frequently reminded me, “One can’t converse with servants on terms of equality. One must keep them at due distance, for fear of losing one’s authority.”
Over my more than twenty years on this earth, I have found that most of the kindness I have enjoyed was delivered from the hands of servants, not masters! I think I can be excused if I parted company with our servants reluctantly.
But I knew the good widow was right. I looked to her for guidance in a multitude of matters, including the art of entertaining, although currently our situation was complicated by our cramped quarters here at Ferndean.
This house was built as a hunting lodge for the Rochester men. Gradually, nature had encroached upon the property, seeking to reclaim that which was rightfully hers. The location was both out-of-the-way and unhealthy. In addition, it had been long ignored, thus rendering the main building almost uninhabitable, with the exception of a few rooms that had been done up to accommodate my husband’s late father when he used to visit during hunting season. Therefore, we made do with limited space, living a cramped existence, especially considering our growing family.
So far, we had not had any visitors who wished to come and stay, but that might change. I have a handful of cousins. On my father’s side are my cousins Diana, Mary, and St. John Rivers, delightful people whose companionship I enjoy. On the Reed side, I have been less fortunate. No doubt they feel the same about me.
I am no great beauty, nor even passing pretty; indeed, I am possessed of a pale coloring and a small stature that renders me quite ordinary. I have heard myself compared, not inaccurately, to a house sparrow. Certainly, like that ubiquitous bird, I tend to blend into my surroundings. Although my features are irregular, I compensate for that by keeping my person neat.
In addition, I have two talents I might reasonably claim. First, given a pencil and paper, I can reproduce anything I’ve seen with reasonable accuracy. Second, if people were to look beyond my unassuming façade and their own prejudices, they would notice my curious and analytical mind, a faculty that gives me a talent for quiet observation.
I also have another dependable virtue: my compassion for those in reduced circumstances. After all, I know what it feels like to be alone and without resources.
As I walked down the hallway, my heart caught in my throat. A tingle ran up my arm. Someone or something begged my attention.
I whirled around, expecting to face an intruder or the source of my unease.
I was alone, but I thought I had heard a voice, calling out to me.
I entered the parlor and found it empty, except for the lingering scent of pipe tobacco. I moved to the window, disturbing Pilot, my husband’s Newfoundland.
No one was there.
Sensing my alarm, Pilot rose from his bed and nudged me with his cold, wet nose.
“Do you see someone or something, old friend?” I traced the gray in his muzzle. “No, I imagine not.”
It could only be my imagination. Lately an unsettled feeling had gathered strength within me. At present, it was vague, but insistent. I shook my head to clear it. There had been no reason for alarm. None. Ned was in his crib. Hester was there with him. Leah, our maid of all work, and Cook clattered about in the kitchen. I could see Edward and Mr. Carter through the window from where I stood. Turning the other way, I watched Mrs. Fairfax struggle with the front door, which was heavy to open and harder yet to close. The recent wet weather had warped its frame.
I went to her, and by adding my weight to that of hers, we managed closure. She stepped aside. “Mr. Carter gave me these as he got out of his carriage. Bless him for remembering our mail.”
“Yes, he always does,” I said with a smile.
Our housekeeper waved a rather large bundle of letters at me, which the good doctor had fetched from the Millcote shop designated as a dropping-off point for the post. My name—“Jane Eyre Rochester”—had been scrawled across a few of the pieces.
“These will take up much of your day. I could handle them for you. Or help you decide how to answer.” The scent of lily-of-the-valley toilet water enveloped me as Mrs. Fairfax put a gentle hand on my arm.
“Thank you, but you have other work to do. I shall tend to these. I’ll go over them with Mr. Rochester. It will give us a task to complete.” I tucked the mail firmly under my arm. “And now to face the doctor.”
Mrs. Fairfax gave me her kindly smile. “Whatever the good doctor’s prognosis, I am certain that you and Master will face it together. His burden is halved because he shares it with you.”
“Yes.” But my feet refused to move. As much as I knew I had to go and greet Mr. Carter, I found my courage waning. Still, I had to hear his prognosis. I had to know the status of my husband’s health.
“Shall I instruct Leah to bring tea so you can pour?” Mrs. Fairfax’s suggestion softly reminded me of my responsibilities. All of our visitors traveled far to find us. As a consequence, good manners dictated that we serve them refreshments.
“Yes, of course. Tea. That will help if…if there’s bad news.” I did not worry for myself. I worried for my husband, who keenly felt the restrictions of his infirmity.
“Jane.” Mrs. Fairfax interrupted my thoughts. “Listen to me. You love Mr. Rochester, and he loves you. Nothing the doctor says can alter that. You will bring the world to him if you must, dear girl.”
Seeing that I seemed unconvinced, she took me by the shoulders. “You are stronger than I guessed when I first met you. Then you were a mere girl, untouched by love, unsure of her place in the world. Since then you have both won and opened the Master’s heart. Edward Fairfax Rochester is no longer the brooding, unhappy man I once knew. No matter what the doctor predicts, you have accomplished a miracle. Why would you doubt yourself now?”
I hugged the older woman, and she responded by patting my shoulder. “Go to your husband. I shall be along directly.”
She was right. He, who was once my master, now loved me as my husband. Should I not take joy in that? Is it not the expressed desire of every living soul to be loved?
I loved Edward, deeply. As part of our wedding vows, I pledged that we would face an
y obstacles together. This was but one more challenge. I paused to gather my thoughts. Whatever happened, I would make the road ahead more bearable for Edward. I would manage. No. We would manage, together.
I was not alone in my desire to help him. I could count on Mrs. Fairfax to assist us. Though I could not always count on her to hold her tongue. Recently, over our evening meal, Edward had announced plans to rebuild Thornfield Hall, on Ned’s behalf.
“Rebuild Thornfield?” Mrs. Fairfax had thrown her hands up in alarm. “The place is in ruins. It is nothing but a charred wreckage. The rooks and owls inhabit the carcass.”
True, but cruelly said. I swallowed a sigh. Sometimes Mrs. Fairfax went too far. When we lived at Thornfield, she took her meals in her own small dining room. But at Ferndean we invited her to sup at our table. This offered both benefits and deficits. On occasions like this, her opinion was both unwarranted and unnecessary.
“You will have to run off the vermin, clear the wreckage, and start from the ground up.”
“I intend to.” Edward kept eating his cold pigeon pie.
“It will take you years.” She wouldn’t leave it alone.
“I believe you are right.”
Later she took me aside. “He will waste his fortune on that house.”
“Perhaps. But it is his to waste.”
Now it was her turn to sigh. “You support him in this?”
“I support him in whatever makes him happy. Did you notice how animated his face grew? How excited his voice was? If rebuilding Thornfield restores a sense of mastery to him, I personally will drive carts to transport stones from the quarry.”
At that image, she laughed. “You are his other half. I swear that I’ve never known two people with such harmonious desires. Bless you both with many, many happy years together.”
Ours was a marriage of true equals. We valued each other’s opinion, even when we disagreed. Our discourse gave us many hours of pleasure. In fact, it was our intellectual equality, in part, that had convinced Edward we should marry. He had grown tired of vapid women who parroted his views, or who suggested none of their own. As for my own opinion of Thornfield Hall, I missed it as a landmark, and I owed it a bit of sentimentality since it was there that I met Edward. More importantly, my husband wanted a project to ignite his passions and give him purpose. Rebuilding the family manor could do both, and assure my husband that he would leave to his son a tangible legacy.
Although I support my husband’s rebuilding plans, I must admit: I am happy here at Ferndean. The isolation suits me, and my mood is decidedly more lighthearted than ever. Both Mrs. Fairfax and Edward have remarked upon how cheerful I am. Marriage and motherhood have changed me, for the better. Certainly, I am more confident. That boldness that was always within me now finds expression almost daily.
Despite my new sense of self-possession, I have had no wish to leave this secluded, half-hidden spot. Our distance from Millcote sets us apart from our neighbors. That is fine by me. Edward has vowed that our honeymoon will shine our whole lives long. “As long as we have each other, we have little need for company,” he proclaimed.
But Ned’s arrival changed everything.
While I’d never been appreciative of society, I began to see its value. Ned would want the fellowship of other children as he grew older. On occasion, I realized I could benefit from conversing with other mothers. And although he claimed his interactions with me were quite enough, I sensed that Edward missed the society of others, particularly other men who were active in the county and its politics.
“Being closer to Millcote offers several advantages, Jane,” Edward had said. “For one thing, there’s a larger pool from which to hire servants.”
Presently, Leah juggles the duties of my personal maid, parlor maid, and kitchen help. Mary and her husband, John, have been with Edward since he was young, but time has caught up with the old couple, and they have slowed down noticeably since the harsh winter. On Mondays, a woman from two farms away comes to do our laundry. The nursemaid, Hester Muttoone, grew up on these lands, and her family has farmed the Rochester acreage for three generations. One of her brothers, Nehemiah, works part-time as our stable hand. Another brother, Josiah, whom I have seen only in passing, is said to be one of the finest judges of horseflesh in the parish. On occasion, he, too, helps with the horses.
Even though neither of us admitted it, there was a larger, more ominous reason for us to live closer to town: Our location made it difficult for Mr. Carter, the doctor, to examine Edward without making a special visit.
Due to his injuries, Edward needed examination regularly.
Outside the window, my husband sat stiffly on a wooden bench while Mr. Carter ran knowing fingers along his patient’s temple and brow, tracing and probing the angry scar. The doctor held up a series of cards and asked questions. Each of Edward’s responses struck the physician a visible blow of disappointment. The light bent around them, hopeful patient and frustrated healer, freezing the two old friends in a painful tableau.
I blinked back tears and struggled to compose myself. It would never do to let Edward know how worried I was on his behalf. To me, the loss of his sight was an inconvenience, nothing more. To him, it was a prison sentence. No jail cell in Newgate could be more confining. Increasingly, Edward’s poor vision curtailed his activities in ways that rendered him dependent.
How different my husband was from the man I first met! The troubles we have weathered have worn down his rough edges, the way nature works to soften the sharp features of a rocky outgrowth.
The Edward Fairfax Rochester who first welcomed me as his ward’s governess may have been physically intact, but he bore the unhappy imprint of a man who had suffered many injustices.
His own father had not borne the thought of dividing his estate and leaving a fair portion to Edward, the younger of his two sons. Neither, however, could old Mr. Rochester endure the thought of an impoverished heir, so he and his elder son, Rowland, had tricked Edward into marrying a Jamaican heiress, a woman whose family bore a strain of madness. As her character ripened, Bertha Mason Rochester exhibited all the grossest aspects of lunacy. Her violent outbreaks drove the then twenty-one-year-old Edward to the brink of despair. He even considered ending his own misery, but hope stayed his hand and revived his will to live. Instead of death, he escaped to Europe, where for ten long years he traipsed from one capital to another, seeking a soul mate, but never finding her.
One of his many mistresses, a French opera dancer known as Céline Varens, affirmed him as the father of her child. Although simple math disproved Adèle’s patronage, the little girl’s plight sufficiently moved Edward that when her mother abandoned her, he brought Adèle home with him to England. Both old Mr. Rochester and Rowland had since died, leaving Thornfield Hall to Edward, so it was there he installed little Adèle and Mrs. Fairfax, as well as his faithful manservant John and John’s wife, Mary. He also locked Bertha Mason in the attic, as much for her safety as his, and hired a nurse to watch over the madwoman. This, of course, was Thornfield’s secret—none except he and the nurse knew Bertha was there. It was also Edward’s cross to bear, a pain he felt every day of his life.
Wanting to do right by Adèle, he instructed Mrs. Fairfax to hire a governess for the girl.
Thus I came to Thornfield Hall, and into the life of the man who was once my master and is now my mate. He swears that my affection has changed his soul from a charnel house to a sanctuary. With me by his side, he is free to show the world a more kindly nature.
My love has helped him.
We have arrived at a happy ending to our journey, but we paid heavy tolls along the roadway here. I do not believe that most people, even as they envy us our good fortune—our healthy son, our loving marriage, our monetary wealth—would choose to endure all that we have. Nor would they survive such deprivations as I did in the harsh environment of my boarding school, or as Edward did when trapped in a first marriage to a madwoman. Perhaps they might even lo
ok upon our current situation—our isolation, the scandal that tainted us, and Edward’s injuries, including his near-blindness and the loss of one hand—and see only a future devoid of light or hope.
But I saw glorious possibilities. I saw a brilliant beginning that rendered me both thankful and joyful when I contemplated our future, a future we shall traverse together.
“This child is God’s blessing upon our union,” Edward said when he first held our son in his arms. “You, my wife, are the instrument of my redemption. Where once I questioned, now I believe. The Universe is governed by a benevolent spirit, call it what you may. What a miracle it has manifested from the wreckage that was my life!”
Yes, my son and husband were the sun and the earth, and I the happy moon suspended between.
“Jane? Is that you?” asked Edward now as I walked down the hallway. Although his vision was uncertain, there had been compensations. His sense of hearing had become exceedingly sharp.
“Yes, sir.”
I stepped out of the gloomy manor into the sunlit garden. The sun-warm fragrance of fading wild roses floated over the garden wall. A playful breeze ruffled Edward’s dark, unruly hair. He was never a handsome man, but still my heart melted at the sight of him.
“Come join us, Jane. Carter, am I not a lucky man? How wonderful she is! Is that sunshine I feel on my face or the glow of my well-loved wife?” Edward’s hand reached out and grabbed mine tightly. Edward does not care who sees his affection for me. In fact, I rather think he revels in showing to all and sundry that at last we are wed.
I was, I admit, a well-loved wife. Edward took seriously his duties as my tutor in the art of lovemaking. His tender ministrations could not help but inflame my passions. “You must turn me loose, dear husband. Free me so I can pour you another cup of tea. Good day, Mr. Carter. Tea for you, too? Thank you for bringing along our mail.” I held up the packet Mrs. Fairfax had given me.
Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles Page 2
