Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  Was I handsome? I knew I was not, no more than she was beautiful. But she was cast in a different mold from the majority, and I found myself eager to hear her assessment, kind or cruel. But now she equivocated, worried no doubt that she had overstepped her bounds. We talked anyway, of other things.

  It quickly became evident that, though her mind was sprightly and deft, she held to a moral core that could not be swayed, and was outspoken in its defense, occasionally to the point of insolence. I did not mind—indeed, this only further lit the fires of my curiosity. I discovered that if I played the role of master too broadly, and pushed her too imperiously, she became stubborn and annoyed, so I took care to apologize where I could, to treat her not as an inferior but as a younger, inexperienced equal, for there was something in this Miss Eyre that I could not resist prying into. Then, of course, she began to challenge me, and I found myself engaged in a wide-ranging philosophical debate on my own sins and conscience and truth—strangely enough, one of the most satisfying, provocative, and engaging conversations I had had in many years. This little governess was a rare creature indeed, and I found it impossible to be conventional with her. We talked this way deep into the evening.

  Chapter 12

  For the first time since Bertha had taken up residence in Thornfield-Hall, I found myself no longer tormented by the idea of remaining within its walls for more than a handful of days. It is not that I forgot Bertha; indeed, I slipped upstairs every day or two to check on her and affirm to myself that Grace Poole had her care well in hand; on that point I was always satisfied, though occasionally Grace appeared somewhat distracted. Bertha continued on as she always had, alternately raving and sleeping. I thought of telling her that her son lived, that he seemed to be thriving and well, but I could not be sure she would have understood me, and the news, to be frank, now brought me little joy. So I said nothing.

  No, the change in the oppression I felt at Thornfield came not from Bertha, but from Jane Eyre, the peculiar young governess herself.

  The more time I spent with Jane—yes, I had already begun to think of her as Jane, although I knew better than to call her that openly—the more I valued her presence. I spent more time at Thornfield than I had previously, and I had taken to inviting Jane to come to me after tea on the evenings that I was not away with the Ingrams or the others. At those times we read to each other while Adèle played with her dolls nearby, or we chatted lightly, or more often seriously, for she was a serious person, and was well-read and could argue cogently. She seemed to delight in vexing and then pleasing me by turns—it was an unusual arrangement for a master and employee, perhaps, but I had no cause to complain.

  I enjoyed Jane’s company immensely, but the more comfortable I became in her presence, the more ominously I felt the weight of Bertha’s presence overhead. I could not imagine what Jane, with her strict moral vision, would think of me if she knew of the inmate on the third floor; I was sure she would not stay one more day in my employ if she were to find out. Yet I believe she sensed I was withholding something, and, further, that she was moved by my burden, despite having no idea what troubled me.

  One evening, however, she came dangerously close to finding out. That afternoon, during my usual visit to Bertha, my wife had been more disturbed than usual, begging me to bed her, and when I refused she became violently enraged, her eyes flashing with a dark fury. It made me wonder for a moment if she, too, could sense a change in me, a peace and happiness attributable to another. But, surely, jealousy was now too complex and rational an emotion for this creature in my house, was it not?

  I left her to Grace’s calming influence and fled to the lawn, where I found Adèle and Pilot playing, with Jane watchful nearby. Jane agreed to stroll with me and, driven perhaps by a need to confess—even if I could not speak the true weight on my mind—I unburdened myself to her about Adèle’s history and my relationship with Céline. It offered me an unfamiliar but refreshing feeling of relief.

  The whole time, Jane walked beside me in silence, her eyes on my face as I spoke, offering neither absolution nor censure. But at one point during our walk I made the mistake of looking up at the house, where, despite that the windows in Bertha’s room were far above her head, I swore I could feel my mad wife staring down at Jane and me.

  Guilt and worry tumbled through my head as I tried to sleep that night, tortured by a nagging regret over how despicable my life had often been, especially to imagine, now, how it appeared to Jane’s steady, righteous eyes. Finally, I took a small portion of the draught that Mr. Carter had left for me when I had sprained my ankle, and at last I fell into a heavy sleep.

  Hours later I was roused by the sensation of drowning in a deep well. I struggled to gain the surface, only to discover that I was in my own bed, entangled by the sodden bedcovers. “Is there a flood?” I cried out.

  “No, sir,” came Jane’s voice, sounding as ethereal as it had on the causeway; “but there has been a fire: get up.”

  Still half-asleep, I imagined elves, witches, even demons as I rose from the bed, and looking about, I finally grasped the truth: someone had set fire to my bedclothes, and it was Jane herself who had saved me, pouring water from my ewer and hers to stanch the flames. It did not take much more for me to understand who must have been the culprit.

  Leaving Jane safe and warm in my room, and entreating her to send no further alarm in the household, I took the candle she had provided me and rushed up the staircase to Bertha’s apartment. I had thought to confront her—give release to my fury and fears that she had endangered me and the rest of the household, including Jane—but as I flung open the door I found my wife struggling fiercely against Grace Poole. I managed to pry Bertha’s fingers from Grace’s throat and, with no other solution at hand, captured her in my own arms. I swallowed my anger and murmured soothing words until she quieted and could be put to bed. She demanded that I lie with her, that I “be a man,” but it was all I could do to remain calm, not to scream at her. As soon as I could I left her there, locking the door behind me.

  In the front chamber, Grace was holding a cloth to the sore flesh of her neck. “She has been disturbed all day, since you left,” she said. “She insists someone has invaded her house. But I thought she had calmed—”

  I interrupted her. “See that it does not happen again.”

  “Of course.” She nodded.

  “It cannot happen again.”

  She stepped back as if I had struck her. “I understand,” she said. I thought I smelled alcohol on her breath.

  “Were you drinking?”

  She paused. “Just my mug of porter.”

  I felt my anger spiking once again, but I tamped it down. Surely, Grace’s life here was difficult—shut into this apartment with a madwoman—but Grace had come into it with her eyes open, knowing the ways of the mad, understanding what it would be. And now this carelessness, her drinking, had moments ago nearly cost me my life. I could not allow it. And yet, I reminded myself, even as Bertha had worsened, Grace had never asked to be relieved. Her life had been a hard one, and this was most likely not the worst of it. I sighed. “Make sure it is never more than one,” I said, and left that wretched place.

  I paused on the stairs, wondering if I must bring Jane into my confidence—reveal Bertha to her. And if I did? She would leave my employ immediately. Her moral conscience would never allow her to work for a man who kept his wife secured upstairs like that. I would lose this ray of light that had so recently come to shine on my life at Thornfield. No, I could not risk that.

  When I returned to my chamber, Jane was still there, as I had ordered her, sitting in the dark, probably terrified, but safe. She confirmed, to my relief, that she had seen nothing; for some reason she seemed to think it had been Grace Poole’s doing. Well, I thought, there could be worse explanations.

  “Good night, then, sir,” she said, and started to leave.

  “What!” I said, for I was reluctant to let her go without some assurance that nothin
g between us had been jeopardized by Bertha’s evil act. “Are you quitting me already: and in that way?”

  “You said I might go, sir,” she responded.

  “But not without taking leave; not without a word or two of acknowledgment and goodwill: not, in short, in that brief, dry fashion. Why, you have saved my life!—snatched me from a horrible and excruciating death!—and you walk past me as if we were mutual strangers! At least shake hands.” Obediently, she put her small hand in mine and I covered it with my other hand. If we could have, I would have stood there the rest of the night, her hand in mine, her eyes on my face. I was barely able to speak to her then, though I know I said more of what I owed her, and, too soon, she fled when we heard Mrs. Fairfax stirring.

  She had saved my life in more ways than she knew. I would keep Bertha a secret from her, no matter what. I would do whatever I must to not lose Jane Eyre.

  Chapter 13

  I slept only fitfully for the remainder of the night, and rose from my couch before the servants began their work. Immediately I climbed to Bertha’s hidden apartment and let myself in. Grace was dozing in her chair, but I could hear Bertha pacing and mumbling in the adjoining chamber. Soon after dawn, I knew, she would fall into sleep and Grace would take her daily respite away from that terrible place. I shook Grace awake, and she startled in agitation, as if she expected to see Bertha bearing down on her at any moment.

  “A word, Grace,” I said.

  “Sir?”

  “Take this,” I said, handing her the rest of the sedative that Carter had given me. “Give this to my wife in her usual cup of tea if she seems to you unusually disturbed. It will not make an addict of her if you give her the correct amount. I will get more from Mr. Carter, and perhaps I shall have a stronger lock installed on the door.” I studied the two windows high on the wall—they were indeed too high to see out of…unless… “Have you ever seen her pull a chair over and look out those windows?”

  “No, sir, I have not, but it is not impossible. I sometimes must leave, for food or to empty chamber pots.”

  I stared up at the windows. I could not paint them over: that would leave the rooms forever dark and airless, more like a cell than I could bear to think. “You must be sure to lock her in her chamber whenever you must leave, even if she is sleeping. Always. Today you will be needed to help repair the damage done in the night: that will be a welcome change for you, I should think. And don’t speak to anyone of this. You know nothing of what happened in the night—whatever tales you hear, you yourself know nothing. And one more thing: I have brought you this length of rope. If there is ever a need, we will use it to bind her to keep her from doing real damage. You understand?”

  She tried to stammer an answer.

  “It was Mr. Carter who suggested it,” I added, for, indeed, he had.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “Thank you. I am in your debt; I am well aware of that.”

  She nodded. “And I in yours.” A curious response, I thought then and think still.

  “Good day, Grace,” I said.

  “Good day, sir,” she responded.

  * * *

  I wanted nothing more than to see Jane that morning, and I feared nothing more, as well. I wished, in those stolen moments in the night, she had given me more reassurance of our common feeling, had spoken to the companionship I had felt growing between us. But she did not, and I found myself increasingly disturbed by the horror of having both Bertha and Jane under the same roof, risking the chance of discovery, or something worse. I needed to solve the problem, and quickly, but was unable to clear my head.

  I confess that in my distress I succumbed to my old habits and fled Thornfield altogether. I told myself that this was for the best, that time away would allow me to avoid any questions regarding the fire and let the whole thing be finished and forgotten before my return.

  Fortunately, that very evening there was to be a gathering at the Leas, the home of Mr. Eshton, the local magistrate, and his wife. The major families in the neighborhood had been invited, including myself. I had sent my apologies a few days previous, preferring instead to spend my days in conversation with Jane, but now I sent a message ahead that I would be coming after all. I hurriedly packed my things, went down the back stairs to the kitchen, and had a quick breakfast and was off on Mesrour. My trunk would follow in the cart. It was cowardly, I knew then and admit still, but at the time it seemed the cautious thing to do. And, if I am being honest, a small part of me also wished to make Jane feel my absence, to show her how easily I could leave her, too, after her almost emotionless farewell in the night.

  As it happened, it might have been better had I remained at home.

  * * *

  Riding across the countryside, I purposely turned my mind to Miss Ingram and reminded myself that this was where my affections should lie. She was beautiful, charming, accomplished in every way, an established and admired member of the neighborhood society. Yet, I did not feel a sympathy with her in the way that I had come to feel with Jane. She did not have the power to intrigue me, as this young girl had, did not bring me the same pleasure—or pain. Still, is it ever wise to let one’s emotions rule one’s life? Did I not do that for all those regrettable years in Europe?

  I told myself—sternly—that Blanche Ingram was my fate. That I should value her for her social charms and beauty as I was valued for my name and land and income. With her as its mistress, Thornfield-Hall could once again be bright with candles and elegant women and music. What more could a man want? What more, indeed.

  When I arrived at the Leas, the group was just finishing a lazy breakfast. They had all arrived the night before and had stayed up late gossiping, I suppose, and had slept nearly till midmorning. Miss Ingram’s eyes caught on me as I entered the room, and she smiled broadly and patted the back of the empty chair beside her. “I knew you would change your mind,” she called out. “You could not possibly miss the fun!”

  Eshton rose and indicated the same empty chair. “Sit, Rochester! So good you could join us after all.”

  I gazed around the room: Lord and Lady Ingram and their son, Theodore, and their other daughter, Mary; Lord and Lady Lynn and their sons; Colonel and Mrs. Dent; Mrs. Eshton and the two Eshton daughters. They all greeted me warmly in one way or another, and immediately folded me into their conversation.

  This is where I belong, I told myself. These are the people whom I was bred to join. I filled a plate at the buffet and sat down beside Miss Ingram. She was telling a story of the vicar of the local parish, a meek man of limited talents, and imitating his lisp with remarkable accuracy.

  “Why, Blanche, do you not indeed find his sermons stimulating?” her brother asked in a mocking tone.

  Miss Ingram laughed. “Stimulating to sleep, I would say!” She turned to me, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “What would you say, Rochester?”

  “I have only heard the man once or twice,” I responded. Indeed, he had seemed a fool, but a harmless one.

  “That is enough for an opinion, surely,” she pressed.

  “Well, I suppose he is good for an hour or so of sleep,” I admitted, reluctantly.

  Ted Ingram let out a loud guffaw. “At least. At least! Would he not be good for a nightly sleeping draught?” I did not care for Ted; he was tall and slim and elegant, and he had a way of dismissing anyone he did not think worth his time. I could not see him without thinking of Rowland.

  “And his wife,” Miss Ingram pressed. “Have you ever seen anyone so mousey? Brown hair, brown clothes, and she never speaks a word without his permission first.”

  “That last part is not so bad, actually,” Colonel Dent observed.

  “Oh, really?” Miss Ingram parried, leaning forward across the table. “Do you think all women should be silent unless spoken to?”

  “Present company excepted,” he responded. “But a woman like that, what possible ideas could be floating around in her head?”

  “No doubt she is worrying
herself over what woman might steal her husband away from her, such a marvelous catch he would be!” Miss Ingram said with her eyes fully on me. I nodded uncomfortably and the whole company laughed.

  Lady Lynn, who was seated nearby, leaned over just then to ask: did I not have a ward under my care?

  “Yes, I do,” I responded mildly. “A French child, but she is learning English.”

  “Learning?” said Lady Lynn. “So she must have a tutor or a…a governess?”

  “A governess, yes.”

  “And is she pretty?” Miss Ingram interjected.

  “She’s only seven, but yes, I suppose—”

  Miss Ingram laughed. “The governess, I meant. Is she pretty?”

  “Ah.” I hesitated, unsure how best to halt this line of inquiry. “In a way, I suppose.”

  She laughed again. “Not such high praise, I think.” She leaned closer to me, in confidence. “My father had an eye for every governess we ever had. He seemed to think it his prerogative. My mother ignored it, but we all three hated every one of them.”

  “Adèle seems to like this one well enough,” I said, and I left it at that.

  * * *

  My father had an eye for every governess we ever had. I could not shake the comment. As my time at the Leas lengthened, my opinion of Miss Ingram soured and my respect for Jane grew. But how true were my feelings? Did I find her appealing only for her dependence? No, decidedly not—she was hardly of a dependent spirit, whether or not she accepted a salary. But I could see how it would look if I seemed to favor Jane—to Jane first of all, but also to Miss Ingram and all the rest as well. Even to Mrs. Fairfax, no doubt. I, the master of the house, exacting pleasure from an underling—that’s how it would appear, and how many times had that happened? I thought back to Jamaica, where many men owned girls and they so often took advantage of the fact. Had not I myself, at the age of fifteen, tried to claim the affections of a girl in the mill’s employ? No. If there were to be anything between me and Jane Eyre, I would have to convince her to come to me. I must reveal to her my affections without expressing them directly; show her how she suited me far better than any other; then extend my hand and wait for her to take it. For this now seemed immutable: she must make the movement—I could not.