“I hope you will not misjudge me,” said Mr. Carter with a nod at his phaeton. “I bought this secondhand from a young man in London, who lost his allowance playing cards. It is both light and fast, which makes it perfect for traveling from one needy patient to another.”
While I admit the bright yellow wheels had rather surprised me, I found no reason to complain. The phaeton took the bumps better than most carriages I had ridden in. Since rain threatened, the doctor lifted the roof and secured it over us. Luckily the bad weather held off. Our progress was steady, but by no means fast.
Mr. Carter proved an interesting conversationalist, quite knowledgeable about the area tenants. He pointed out this farm and that, telling me about the inhabitants. “The past few years have been hard on them, Mrs. Rochester. The charity baskets from the church keep most of them going. But that is not enough for the families with young ones. Their children present with hollow eyes, thin limbs, and enormous bellies. Their eyes stare out into an uncertain future.”
I remembered the incessant pang of hunger, how a lack of food could bring lethargy to one’s limbs and render clear thinking difficult, if not impossible. Thinking of the children and their needs, their helplessness in the face of such misery, caused tears to prickle my eyes. I knew full well how hard it could be to sustain hope, much less to believe in a brighter future. Poverty for me was synonymous with degradation. In the pursuit of survival, dignity was the first virtue to be cast aside.
My own wealth was of such a recent vintage that I did not dare take it for granted. Since God above had blessed me so richly, I could not ignore the urge to give back.
I resolved then and there that I would assist the church with its good works, and I would endeavor to sponsor a small school in the nearby hamlet, as my cousin St. John Rivers had done for peasant girls in his parish outside of Morton. Such efforts were easily within my reach. They would make me more useful to Edward and to our tenants.
When we arrived at the Farrow house, Mr. Carter saw to not one but two Farrow children with the croup. Mrs. Farrow proved a good hostess, if an overly curious one, feeding us and asking nonstop questions. I sidestepped most of them as best I could without being rude. Her husband had his own queries. They both wanted to know more about Edward Rochester’s girl bride, but I feared their interest was unwholesome, especially when they asked our wedding date and the date of Ned’s birth in an obvious attempt to calculate his legitimacy.
As I crawled under the down coverlet that night, I worried about Adèle before moving on to missing little Ned and Edward. I wondered if I would get along with Lucy Brayton. I hoped I would not embarrass myself with my lack of social polish. Again and again, I wondered about Adèle. What would I find? How was she? Why hadn’t she written to us, a real letter, an honest communication, in so long?
A dream awakened me rudely. No, not a dream. A nightmare. A pillow was pressed against my face, suffocating me. My lungs struggled for air. When at last I came to my senses, I sat up fighting to take a breath, and my throat hurt. The bedclothes lay strewn around me and half on the floor.
Unable to return to sleep, I dressed at the first hint of dawn. Bypassing Mrs. Farrow’s generous offer of fresh eggs, rashers, and blood sausages, Mr. Carter and I made do quickly with tea and bread before setting out again.
We stopped at several households before arriving in Millcote. At each, I did my best to assist Mr. Carter in small ways, handing him items from his walrus-hide doctor’s bag and so forth. At the Biddles’, he helped a grandfather with arthritis. At the Morris home, he dispensed medicine for a lingering cough. The Hobson child needed a splinter removed. In each case, there were the telltale signs of hunger: hollow eyes, bulging bellies, and listless demeanor. The womenfolk bustled about and offered us thin tea at every stop. Knowing the sacrifice it represented, I had trouble choking the brew down.
With each mile, an urgency within me grew more demanding, like an itch I could not reach to scratch. I needed to get to London, to visit Alderton House, and to see Adèle with my own eyes. Then I could be at ease.
At long last, we stopped at Mr. Carter’s home. My arrival surprised his wife, and she did not hide her dismay well. The atmosphere grew distinctly icy. The couple excused themselves to discuss my visit.
I waited in their vestibule, trying not to overhear their conversation but unable to help myself. I had thought I overheard the name “Blanche Ingram” as Mrs. Carter spoke. I moved closer to the parlor door. Yes, there was “Blanche Ingram” and “upstart” and “indecent” and…my name. Now I knew for certain what had happened.
Miss Ingram, a member of the local gentry, was a lovely and accomplished—if also vapid and cruel—young woman who had hoped to become Mrs. Rochester, not for any love of Edward but out of a vigorous affection for his purse. Edward had tested her by setting forth a rumor that his fortune was only one-third of what was supposed. Once that falsehood took root, he visited her, only to be received coldly by both Blanche and her mother, the Dowager Lady. By now they would have learned that his fortune was indeed vast, and that he had married another. As to the improbability of Edward Rochester, a member of the landed gentry, marrying a governess—well, Dowager Lady Ingram spoke for herself and her daughter both when she said of my former profession: “I have just one word to say of the whole tribe; they are a nuisance,” as if we were a subhuman, monstrous breed of insect that spoiled their Sunday picnic.
So, Blanche Ingram had been talking about me—and worse, she had cast me as a conniving, grasping fortune hunter. A cold anger nipped at me, but I am no shrinking flower. Let her talk! I had done nothing wrong! Gritting my teeth, I vowed again to leave my seclusion and become an active presence in this community, if for no other reason than to irk my detractors!
I bethought myself to leave this place, especially since Mrs. Carter had shown the sort of irrational prejudice I could not abide. I spent the first ten years of my life as an intruder; I had no desire to spend another night under anyone’s roof as an unwanted guest.
When Mr. Carter returned, twin spots of red on his cheeks betrayed that the conversation had not gone well. “Seems my youngest daughter has a touch of the croup. I regret to say this, but it appears you will have to travel to London alone after all. I can deliver you to the coaching inn right after church tomorrow.”
“I do not wish to further inconvenience you, but perhaps you could take me to the coaching inn directly? That would free you to spend your Sunday with your family in prayer.”
“Of course,” he said, rather too quickly. (And of course, his daughter’s croup was already remedied!)
At the inn, we surveyed the waybill. According to the posted timetable, I could wait until the next day and take a stagecoach for five pence, but the rate of travel would be exceedingly slow. The mail coach, on the other hand, would leave at eight P.M., one hour away, and although the cost to ride inside was twice that of the stagecoach, the trip to London would take only eighteen hours.
“The mail coaches travel at night when the roads are clearer,” Mr. Carter explained. “The guard sounds his horn at the tollgates, signaling the keeper to open them in advance, and because the mail does not pay tolls, they fairly fly through. However, the stops at posting inns are less frequent, and much abbreviated. For a lady, that might be troublesome.”
Regardless, I chose the mail coach. After directing the transference of my portmanteau, Mr. Carter shook my gloved hand solemnly.
“I wish you well, Mrs. Rochester. Let me say I have found your company most stimulating. I think Mr. Rochester quite a fortunate man. Perhaps I am being forward, but I hope you will make yourself better known to the inhabitants of the parish. You have good sense and a good heart. They would benefit from knowing you.”
His approbation cheered me immensely.
I purchased a cup of tea and a light meal of cold sliced mutton, bread, and hard cheese from the innkeeper. The blare of the coach’s tin horn at 250 yards sent the hostler into a flurry of actio
n, readying fresh horses, while the innkeeper and his wife scurried about preparing food for hungry travelers disembarking. The changing of the horses took less than five minutes. The guard opened the door to the maroon and black coach with the royal coat of arms on the door. But before I could climb in, one of the four seated passengers started to complain most violently. “We are full up. No room. You must tell her to wait!” spat out a florid-faced man with a balding pate.
“There is no room here,” said the woman sitting across from him, her knitting in her lap and her yarn covering the rest of the seat.
The guard swung the door open farther and gestured down at me. “She’s nowt but a mite of a thing. Won’t take up any room at all.”
The passengers stared down at me. “Confound it!” said a man, dressed like a dandy in ruffles, lace, and velvet with a brocade vest straining over his bloated belly.
I stepped forward, presenting myself. The guard pushed me toward the seat. “Go on, miss.”
“Is she a child?” said an old woman who held up her quizzing glass to get a better view of me.
Another passenger, a well-dressed young woman, glanced at me, her fashionable bonnet framing a smug face. “We are too crowded here already.”
I said nothing, deciding to let them make of me what they wished, and mounted the wooden step the guard had set out. On closer inspection of me, the older woman’s face softened as she pulled her fur-trimmed cape close. “Going to London, dearie?”
“I have a young friend who needs me.” A partial disclosure can be useful when employed judiciously.
“If you must, you can sit by me,” she said, sliding her yarn over. I climbed in. Before I had finished adjusting my shawl, we set off for London.
After a while, I closed my eyes, expecting only to doze lightly, but I must have fallen fast asleep, for the crack of thunder awakened me. Soon rain pounded against the carriage in a percussive rhythm. The horses slowed, struggling a little as the roadway turned slick and treacherous. We had traveled for another hour when the blare of the yard-long tin horn warned we were coming upon the Hardwicke Arms along the Great North Road.
The other passengers stirred. The old woman searched for her ball of yarn, which had rolled under my feet. The “gentleman”—at least that was how he styled himself—sneezed repeatedly and wiped his nose on his sleeve. We rolled to a stop, and I heard the passengers on the top of the carriage scramble down, hitting the ground hard and running through the rain, heading toward the inn where food and a fire waited.
The guard opened our door and the men pushed past us ladies. I was the last one out, and the full impact of the rain surprised me. My feet tingled from inaction, causing me to move tentatively, unbalanced by the unfamiliar muddy terrain, and with the fog of sleep still clouding my thoughts. The guard warned that we had but fifteen minutes to refresh ourselves. Ignoring the drops beating hard against my face, I followed along a winding walkway of half-broken, half-erupted paving stones.
Finding a seat in the inn’s crowded parlor, I requested from the innkeeper’s wife a strong cup of tea and any foodstuffs that might travel well. She brought a steaming mug, but no milk, and a hot pasty tucked in a muslin bag.
“Grew up in Cornwall. Pa worked the mines there,” she said, her voice rising over the din of the men in the adjoining taproom.
I paid the good woman and took one quick bite, savoring the flaky crust, the peppery blend of minced beef, onions, swedes, and carrots. That was all I had time to eat before the tin horn sounded a warning blast. Time to get back to the carriage. I tucked my pasty back into its muslin bag, grabbed my reticule, pulled my shawl over my head, and walked out into the night and the wet.
The uneven pathway demanded concentration, as exhaustion claimed me and the downpour made each step tricky. Since my departure from Ferndean, I had been traveling for the better portion of two days, and had rested only fitfully the night before at the Farrows. The wet had soaked through my shawl and invaded my dress, chilling me to the bones. Alone, cold, wet, and hungry, my brave talk back at home seemed to mock me. My fellow travelers rushed past, their shapes flickering in the unsteady light of the inn’s lanterns.
Out of the darkness, a figure hurtled along, coming parallel with me. A man. Young, slight.
I ducked my head down, trying to keep my face dry.
Without warning, he changed course and slammed into me. My body absorbed the blow. I landed hard on my left side.
The wind was knocked out of me. I clambered to my knees, but the mud gave no traction. Using my unbalance to his advantage, my assailant shoved me to the ground, and I slammed into the stones hard. A rough hand clapped over my mouth, bursting the skin inside my lip.
He tugged on the ribbons of my reticule.
The diamonds! I cannot let them go!
The ribbons bit deeply into the flesh above my gloves, burning and stinging. I shrank back, and he kept coming, filling my nose with the scent of hay and horses. Instinctively, I yanked my hand in the opposite direction he was pulling. Back and forth, we fought for possession. The man set to cursing under his breath.
The thief pushed my head down, banging me into the uneven stones once more. I still grasped the reticule. He struggled against me. I would not let go of my reticule. He pulled and I resisted, both of us writhing in the mud. His grip loosened. I gave a mighty wrench, trying to get free, and he twisted the other way.
Our heads knocked together. His crown slammed into the right side of my face. My eye stung with tears. The pain stunned me nearly into submission.
I must protect the diamonds!
More than my own safety, I feared losing them, for Edward’s sake. So few of the Rochester heirlooms remained after the fire. I wrestled free and staggered to my feet. The thief jumped to his as well. One of his hands flew out and grasped me by the collar, using this grip to shake me hard. I smelled fear and exertion and the wet richness of mud—and something more. Horseflesh, and the stink of a saddle leather.
A crescent of silver flashed above my head.
He had a knife!
I thought of Edward and Ned. And Adèle! How foolish I’d been to travel alone!
Ah, I thought. He plans to kill me!
The blade swooped down—and cut my purse strings!
I lost my balance, tumbling backward and landing flat in the mud. But as I fell, I grabbed at the thief’s cap, which had been pulled low. In the half light from the lanterns, I caught a glimpse of him, but only a quick glance, and made note of his face, in particular his large, globe-shaped eyes.
“Hey!” the guard yelled from a distance. “What?”
“I’ve been robbed!” I cried.
With a grunt of victory, the assailant ran off with my reticule.
“Stop, thief!” yelled a voice behind me, as a horse galloped off into the night.
“You all right, miss?” The guard squatted down to look at me. “My name is Glebe. Are you hurt?”
“He…he took my reticule.” With great effort, I clambered to my knees and tried to stand. The pain astounded me. I staggered to one side and Glebe grabbed my arm to steady me.
“Will you be needing a surgeon?” asked Glebe.
“No, no. I am all right.”
“You sure? The coach is leaving. You must get on board. We have to keep on schedule!”
“But my reticule! It is gone.”
“Aye,” said Glebe. “You can’t be missing that much. Maybe a few shillings. Might have seemed like a king’s ransom to you, but that ain’t so much. Not really.”
“If only that were true. If only! In my purse I carried a diamond necklace, earrings, and matching circlet! They were worth a fortune!”
Chapter 5
The guard’s lantern shed light on my appearance as he helped me climb the stair into the carriage. My fellow passengers expressed shock at my appearance.
“I was knocked down and robbed,” I said.
“Oh my!” The old lady offered me her handkerchief. “A thief, y
ou say?”
I tried to nod, but the pain in my head shrieked in protest and a moan escaped my lips.
“That mud on you?” asked the self-styled gentleman. “Keep it to yourself.”
The other passengers edged away from me.
The rest of the ride passed slowly. Without my reticule, I could not read, or buy tea or food. The thief had even taken my Cornish pasty, although the fragrance of it lingered just to spite me. Twice more when we stopped, I tried to talk to Glebe about my losses. His indifferent attitude left me feeling furious and impotent. But there was nothing to be done at the moment. I amused myself by parting the curtains and watching the scenery. As we neared London, the roads grew more crowded, and the verdant hills gave way to clusters of houses. A low cloud hung over the rooftops, its dark belly dragging along the tiles and chimney pots. Slowly, the air changed, thickened, and became too dense to breathe. Several of the passengers started to cough. I picked out the twin scents of burning coal and horse droppings.
By the time we arrived at our destination, my injuries had blossomed fully, swelling around my eye and covering my legs over with scabs. Getting out of the carriage proved painful. The guard handed me down and walked me to where my trunk sat on the pavement under the dripping eaves of the porte cochere.
“Will you lodge a report with the constable about my loss?” I asked him. We stood in a puddle. My mud-laden dress clung to my legs. Hunger assailed me, and my poor shawl was sodden to the point of being a burden.
Glebe’s watery eyes squinted as he looked me up and down. “Been thinking about that. How can it be that the thief targeted you, miss? You ain’t dressed like quality. Why did he bother you and not them that was dressed fine?”
“Sir?”
“You claim you was carrying precious jewels. That don’t seem sensible, does it? You’re dressed like a lady’s maid. Mayhap those diamonds didn’t rightly belong to you. I been wondering, what if she stole them? And now she hopes to blame it on a robber. But what if they was working together?”
Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles Page 5
