by Nina Mason
“I don’t know…”
“I will brook no refusals, for I’m sure he loves you. As I’ve told you before, I have an uncanny sense about these things. And, even if I didn’t, there is something rather significant you seem to have forgotten.”
“Oh?” Jane sniffed back her tears. “And what might that be?”
Cécile’s eyes brightened noticeably. “He gave up his fortune so he could have you, you silly creature! He would never have done anything so extreme if he wasn’t hopelessly in love with you.” Taking a breath, she added, “In the morning, we will set off for Paris.”
When Jane opened her mouth to raise an objection, Cécile held up her hand to silence her. “My mind is made up, so save your breath, dear Jane. We will go, you will reconcile with your painter, and I will have made my restitution for past wrongs.”
“The morning is too soon,” Jane equivocated. “I need more time to consider the idea.”
“Very well,” said Cécile with a sigh. “Just don’t think too long, for every moment you delay is a moment lost with your handsome Mr. Brontë. Do not let your pride deprive you of happiness.”
Her reasoning gave Jane food for thought. When her father left, her mother didn’t go after him. She had too much pride, even to demand support for herself and her daughters. That same misplaced vanity deprived her of her inheritance, which would have made their lives so much easier.
Jane studied her former pupil, still unable to believe the transformation in her appearance and deportment. She seemed a different person, through and through.
“Cécile, I must know what has brought about this alteration in you? It must be something quite astonishing, given how impervious you were to my efforts at correction.”
“You want to know what has changed me?” Cécile’s countenance visibly sobered. “Well, though it shames me to admit the truth, I will tell you. I only realized how wicked I’d been to you and Mr. Brontë when I found myself on the receiving end of the same sort of meanness.”
“From Lord L’Hiver?”
“Who else?” The marquise poured herself another glass of wine, sat back on the sofa, and looked around at her surroundings. “How I wish now I had listened to your cautions about his character; but I had no idea at the time that a castle as grand as this one could seem so small when occupied by two people who detest one another. The realization has not only changed me, it also has afforded me a whole new appreciation for your Mr. Brontë’s predicament. The countess knew he didn’t love her, and so, in my opinion, had no cause to punish him for the bad bargain she’d made with her eyes wide open. And he, at least, remained faithful to her, which is more than I can say for…well, never mind. I didn’t invite you here to unburden myself.”
Jane gave her a kindly smile. “You can if you wish to. I flatter myself I’m a very good listener.”
Cécile took another sip of wine. “I might take you up on your kind offer at another time. For now, however, I will simply show you to your quarters, so you can recover from your travels and freshen your appearance before dinner.”
Without further ado, Cécile conducted Jane to her room, which was comfortable and beautifully furnished, and made sure she had everything she needed before leaving her in peace.
Halfway out the door, the marquise turned back. “Dinner will be served in an hour. Will that give you ample time to prepare?”
“More than ample…and thank you for asking.”
Jane still couldn’t get over Cécile’s incredible alteration. She was acting every bit the gracious hostess and genuine friend. Wryly, Jane thought: Did she perhaps get around to reading her etiquette lessons at last?
Chapter Twenty-One
Matthew slammed his fist down on the desk when he saw his most recent letter to Jane had come back unopened. Like all the others he’d sent over the past two weeks, the cover was marked “return to sender” in a feminine hand he could only presume was hers. What he couldn’t fathom were her motives for so coldly cutting him out of her life.
If she continued rebuffing him in this callous manner, he might never know—which would surely drive him mad with conjecturing. Were he at liberty to go to England, he would make the next crossing, go to her house, and demand she speak to him!
Sadly, he wasn’t free to travel abroad. He had commissions to complete, a major show to prepare for, collectors to cultivate, and critics to wine and dine. His time was not his own, his life was not his own, and his heart was most assuredly not his own.
The latter belonged wholly to Jane, who was plaguing it out for reasons he’d rather not consider. Because there could really only be one explanation, and that was that she no longer loved him or wanted to be his wife.
And if Jane no longer cared for him, there was nothing he could say or do to win her back. For he knew from his experience with Mathilde, may God rest her soul, that hearts felt what they would and could not be convinced to feel otherwise.
Even if he could somehow persuade Jane to marry him, he’d be saddled with a wife who didn’t love him—and that he would find a far greater torture than going on without her.
Scrubbing a hand down his face, he flopped back his desk chair. His success as a painter had enabled him to move from his garret to a spacious flat in Montmartre, but he wasn’t any happier here than he’d been there.
The cruel irony of it was, he’d finally achieved the recognition he’d coveted so desperately for so long and, rather than enjoying his success, he was drowning in despair. If he could give it all up and still have Jane, he would do so in a heartbeat. For, without her and her love, his life was empty and meaningless, a pointless struggle to chase a dream he now knew wouldn’t bring him contentment. Because, as he’d always believed, even when his heart was cold, the only happiness in life was to love and be loved.
George Sand was right. So was Charlotte. And Lord Tennyson was dead wrong. It was not better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. To have known love and then lost it was a living hell.
He looked at the half-finished painting on his easel. He no longer had the passion to finish it. He no longer had the passion for anything. He was a husk, a shell, an empty vessel. For reasons that mystified him, his beloved Jane had thrown him over. Had she given her heart to another? Had she been put off by his agnosticism? Did her mother disapprove of their engagement? God help him, he might never know.
Never, never, never, never.
“Oh, Jane, Jane. My angel, my love. Whatever made you harden your heart toward me?”
At length, after the overwhelming grief had subsided enough for Matthew to carry on, he picked up the rest of the letters that had come in the morning post and began to sift through them. Most were invitations to evening parties and salons from friends here in Paris, old and new. Some were requests for interviews from journalists for leading magazines. One, addressed in a hand unknown to him, had an English postmark.
His first thought was that it contained news of Jane. Had some harm befallen her? He’d never considered that her silence might be due to some terrible illness or accident. With trepidation pounding in his chest, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
Relief blew through him as he skimmed the words on the page. It wasn’t a report about Jane—good or bad—it was a personal invitation from Dante Gabriel Rossetti to join the Brotherhood.
Sorely tempted to reply in the affirmative, Matthew set the letter aside and picked up the last one, which had been forwarded from Cœur Brisé. His heart nearly stopped when he saw the familiar slant of his father’s hand. He’d been too busy of late to inform his mother of his change of circumstances, though he’d written to her of Mathilde’s passing before leaving Tours for Paris.
Dread pulsed in his chest as he tore off the cover and unfurled the vellum within. Biting his lip, he read the cryptic message his father had sent to him after more than a decade of silence.
Dear Matthew,
Your mother tells me you have long regretted your unfortun
ate arrangement with your Catholic mistress and, if you will only admit this to me, and confess you were wrong to forge the alliance against my advice and your religion, and that you have justly suffered for it, I will consider acknowledging you once more as my son.
Yours, etc.
Cyrus Brontë
Before his umbrage got the better of him, Matthew took a deep breath and dropped the letter on the desk. Clearly, his father was still as self-righteousness and cold-hearted as ever. He’d spared not one word to offer his condolences or ask how Matthew was getting on. As ever, all that mattered was what he thought and what he wanted. Well, to the devil with him. The sanctimonious sod couldn’t even sign the bloody letter “Your Father” because, undoubtedly, that would be too much of a concession to make before he’d obtained the besought capitulation.
Fuming, Matthew rose from his chair and strode to the table that served as his bar. Gripping the whisky bottle by the neck, he took a long pull before crossing to the window. He lived on the third floor of an old building with a view overlooking the café where he and some of his fellow artists gathered in the evenings to discuss art, poetry, and politics.
It was as dreary out as he felt within. Gray, gloomy, and drizzling. The cobblestones below were no doubt fresher for the rain, as was the air, but he still found the bleakness depressing. As he stood there looking out at the passing carriage and foot traffic, his pride and his better sense waged battle within him. His first thought was to respond to his father’s request with silence. Then, he saw that by refusing to appease his father, he was hurting only himself and his mother. Would it not be better to swallow his indignation to gain the larger prize of reconciliation?”
His thoughts leapt back to the conversation he’d had with Jane about her mother refusing to reconcile with her father, putting her pride before her daughters’ welfare. Was she right to do so? Jane didn’t seem to think so, and neither did he.
Shame on your mother for putting her vanity ahead of your welfare—and shame on your father for abandoning you.
Was that not what he’d said?
Yes, it was. And shame on him now for letting his pride get the better of him where his father was concerned. For, hard as it was to admit, the old todger was right. He had long regretted his choice to move in with Mathilde and had justly suffered for it. So, why not yield and patch things up? Until he did, he would never be easy.
Matthew took another long drink from the bottle and licked the harsh flavor from his lips. He missed his mother only slightly less than he missed Jane. He also longed to return to England more than he cared to admit. Paris was all well and good, but it wasn’t where he belonged. He was an emigre, an alien, an English ship uneasily docked in a French port. He wanted to go home, to make peace with his father, and to join the Brotherhood. He also wanted to see Jane and hear from her own lips her reason for turning her back on him. If he could do nothing to win her back, so be it. At least he’d know the truth and could begin to pick up the pieces and move on.
Now with a plan, he returned to his desk, withdrew several sheets of paper from the center drawer, and took up his pen. After dipping the nib in the inkwell, he began the first of several letters he intended to write—to Mr. Rossetti, his father, and everyone in Paris who’d be affected by his sudden departure.
He would leave as soon as he could pack his things and arrange their transport. Fortunately, he’d completed enough new canvases for the upcoming exhibition and could finish the commissions in England. He would call on his parents and his brother Luke, who owned a farm nearby. Then, he would buy a little house or cottage on the outskirts of London; somewhere that gave him easy access to the city but still offered tranquility—somewhere he could see himself living with Jane. Because, by God, he would get her back if there was any way to do it.
* * *
That night, Jane spent restless hours laboring over her decision to seek out Matthew in Paris. As dearly as she longed to bridge the yawning divide that now stretched between them, she still greatly feared that doing so would only bring her more pain and disappointment. At the same time, she burned to know the truth. What if Cécile was right and he’d written letters she’d not received for whatever reason? What if he did still love her and she never knew because she’d let fear stop her from calling on him?
She would never have peace; would never be able to smother the smoldering embers of her hopes enough to ensure they would never rekindle. Never, never, never. Even if she met another man someday she liked enough to marry, she still would wonder what might have happened if she hadn’t been such a coward.
Still torn, she finally drifted off, but her dreams were as distressing as her indecision. In one, Matthew gave her a bouquet of dead roses while they were walking in his love garden. In another, they were in the fabrique and, after making love, she saw that he’d painted her out of his painting of Mariana. In still another, she was walking down the carriage road toward Cœur Brisé to call on him only to find he’d locked the gates to keep her out.
On the other side of the iron bars he stood, his arms folded across his chest. With a sardonic smile, he said, “I can’t let you in, Miss Grey, because my heart is now as closed to you as these gates.” Profoundly wounded by his words, she looked away and, when she looked back with tears in her eyes, her father had taken his place.
Before Jane could ask him all the questions that had plagued her heart for so long, she awoke in a state of extreme distress. All were so bleak. So bleak! How could she go to Paris and seek him out with such disturbing images plaguing her mind?
She only said, ‘My life is dreary,
He cometh not,’ she said;
She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!’
Eyes tearing, she dropped back onto the pillow. Her heart beat so violently she could feel the mattress under her throbbing. As she lay there absorbing the pulse, she thought about Jane Eyre.
The book’s heroine didn’t have to wonder what to do when faced with the choice between going with St. John to Africa or returning to Thornfield Hall and Mr. Rochester, because she’d heard Edward’s voice calling to her across the misty moors.
“Jane! Jane! Jane!”
If only she could hear Matthew’s voice calling to her across the miles. But alas, such miracles only occurred in storybooks and novels.
Come what may, I shall not forsake you. On that, you have my solemn pledge.
The well-timed echo of his vow activated a flood of guilt. Why did she have no faith in his promise? Was it because she deemed herself unworthy of his love?—or was it because she doubted his constancy? It was both, she decided, though why she should doubt him so greatly she couldn’t say. True, he hadn’t written to reassure her of his pledge, but neither had he sent a letter to break off their engagement.
She thought back on the dreams. Yes, they were only dreams—unconscious manifestations of her fears, more or less—but there was also a hint of an answer in the last one.
Was that why she didn’t trust his vow to never forsake her? Because she feared he was like her father, who’d made similar promises before abandoning his family? Yes, it may well be and, furthermore, her father’s desertion was very likely the reason she felt so undeserving of Matthew’s love. Because somewhere deep down, she believed her father would have stayed—or at least would have stayed in touch—if only she had been a better daughter.
That was, of course, a ridiculous assumption. She was only a child when he left—and an exceptionally well-behaved one at that (especially when compared to the little monsters she’d been put in charge of as a governess).
His leaving hadn’t been about her—or even her mother’s failures as a wife. He left to please himself, careless of who he hurt in the bargain. There was a void inside him he couldn’t fill himself and, when his family failed to do so (because no one could), he left them to seek fulfillment elsewhere.
She could see it all so clearly now. It was as if a window inside
her had opened—a window she’d boarded over with self-blame.
Her father hadn’t run away because she wasn’t good enough; he’d run away to chase the happiness he couldn’t find within himself. What he didn’t understand then and probably never would was that happiness wasn’t out there waiting to be found; it was inside us, waiting to be discovered.
Before one could find it within, however, one had to stop looking elsewhere.
The same was true of her relationship with Matthew. She had pinned all her hopes on him—and all her fears. If she could be happy within herself, happy with who she was in her own right, whether or not he still loved her wouldn’t affect her as much. Losing his love would hurt, of course, but it wouldn’t destroy her any more than losing her father had.
And if Cécile was right? Well, she would never forgive herself if she didn’t at least make some effort to learn the truth. He had, after all, given up his fortune for her. Did that noble sacrifice not earn him the benefit of the doubt?
Yes, it did. Absolutely.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The jostling carriage ride to Paris seemed to stretch for an eternity while Jane remained for the whole of the journey a fidgeting, fearful, self- reproaching bundle of anxieties. Why had she agreed to take part in this impolitic scheme? Proper ladies didn’t pursue gentleman. Proper ladies waited passively for the gentleman to take the initiative. She might not own the title, but she still fancied herself a lady in the mannerly sense of the word.
Dread crushed her chest and barraged her mind with questions. Would he be there? Would he be happy to see her? Did he still love her? Had his letters been returned, as Cécile suggested, or had he not written any? Would he spurn her as unfeelingly as Cathy had spurned Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights?
