I found accommodations in a nearby inn, telling the landlord I was distantly related to the Reed family and asking for news of them. He was a loquacious man and warmed up easily to conversation, telling me that the Reeds had experienced no end of trouble since the death of Mr. Reed. The son had been a bully as a youngster and had grown into gaming and alcohol and other dissolute substances, had played too much with women he shouldn’t have, and had recently died, though, he assured me, he hated to speak poorly of the dead.
And his mother? I asked. Ah, yes, that woman was as blind as a bat as far as her son was concerned, wasting her money on him until, rumor went, it was mostly gone, though the one daughter still dressed and acted as if she were a princess. And now the mother had apoplexy and was not well, maybe even dying for all he knew, and there was another daughter, as thin as a stick and with a sour face to go with it. Was there a cousin who used to stay with them? I asked cautiously. Name of Jane Eyre? It was she, I added, who was my relative.
“You may be in luck,” he told me: “I heard a young woman, a distant relative perhaps, is doing the work of a servant in old Mrs. Reed’s last days. If you have any sense”—he leaned closer—“you’ll get her out of there before they make a maid of her.”
I left him, determined to see for myself, but they must have been keeping Jane busy, for it was three days before I saw any sign of her. The “princess”—whom I assumed to be Georgiana—was walking along the street finely attired, carrying a parasol, with Jane in her usual sober gray a half step behind, loaded with bundles. It was a pitiful sight, and immediately I decided that when I had Jane home, I would dress her in the most beautiful silks and satins and shower her with jewels. I left, then, for if I had stayed, I would not have been able to resist interrupting this charade, no doubt fully humiliating Jane.
At Thornfield, returning with my new carriage and bearing gifts for Adèle, I was surrounded by the idyllic sight of the hay harvest: laborers swinging their scythes and others with rakes drawing the hay, and haystacks in meadows all around under the warm, early summer sun.
When I set foot in the Hall, however, I was greeted with unwelcome news. “That same gentleman has been here to see you, sir,” Mrs. Fairfax said as she took my hat and cloak. “Mr. Rochester, he calls himself; he says he is your nephew.”
I was just removing my gloves, and I looked up sharply. Mrs. Fairfax, as any good servant would, had no expression at all on her face. “He is here now?” I asked.
“He has been here, sir. He is staying in Millcote, I believe. He said to send for him when you return.”
“Thank you,” I replied, retaking my things from her arms. I made directly for the stable, where Mesrour had just been unburdened of his saddle, and I ordered the hand to saddle him up again. I should have left the poor horse to rest from our journey, should have taken another mount, but Mesrour was in my heart and I needed him beneath me, and Pilot beside me. If Jane had been present, I might have wanted to take her with me as well.
* * *
Everson was just tidying his office when I arrived. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said.
“Have you?”
“Mr. Gerald Rochester, he calls himself,” he said.
“You have met him?”
“He came here. He says he is your nephew.”
“How did he know you were my solicitor?”
Everson shrugged. “It is known in Millcote. It would not be hard for him to discover who represents you. But once he told me his business, I refused to speak further with him.”
“And…what is his business?”
“He says he is wanting to see his mother, that he understands you are responsible for her care. That’s what he says, although I have no idea how he has learned of her whereabouts. Rochester, I expect he intends to lay claim to what he would call his inheritance.”
“Thornfield.”
Everson nodded, and sat back down at his desk, indicating a chair for me as well. But I could not sit; I could not even stand still.
“He intends to take it from me.”
“He did not say so specifically; that is only my inference.”
“What’s to be done?” I asked, collapsing then into the chair.
“Have you known all this time that there was another possible heir? Can he be discredited?”
“I don’t know. Bertha often cried out for a lost baby, but I always assumed it was merely the ranting of a madwoman. But when Molly, her Jamaican servant, left, she told me there had indeed been a baby that was taken away. Bertha was only thirteen, poor child. And, recently, I asked her brother, Richard, and he confirmed it.”
“And her brother said…,” he prompted.
“That, yes, there was a male child, who was sent with friends to be raised in America. And the father was my brother. Richard does not believe there had been a marriage.”
Everson nodded. “Would he testify to that?”
“I have no idea what he would testify to.”
“A child born out of wedlock, or even born of a marriage that is not considered a proper one—that is, outside of a church or without the proper banns—is considered filius nullius: the child of no one. If he cannot provide proof of a proper marriage, that is what he is in the eyes of Chancery: the child of no one.”
I sat for some time in silence. “And we do not know if he has proof,” I mused.
“In the meantime,” he said sternly, “I advise you not to speak with him except in my presence.”
I nodded. “Have you had an opportunity to look for a suitable house for my wife?”
“I have begun, but as you know, a house as you’ve described is not easily come by. But my inquiries continue.”
“Very well,” I said. “And as for Gerald Rochester, or whatever his name is, let it be understood that he is not to come to Thornfield again as long as I am master there.”
“Indeed,” he said.
* * *
As I waited for news from Everson, and waited as well for news from Jane, I confess a sour mood overtook me. It felt as if she had been gone for years. She will not return, I thought. She is gone. And worse: I do not deserve her. I wanted to banish those thoughts from my mind, but they would not leave. I loved her—I knew that—and I wanted her; I could not see how I could live without her at my side. But for me to insist that she, unknowing, ally herself with me, a man married already to a madwoman, was beyond all bounds. She was young, innocent, pure. I myself had been that once, but I had crumbled to an ugliness that could lay no claim on one such as Jane; and, now, if I lost Thornfield, I would have nothing left to offer her.
But Adèle would not let me wallow in such dreary thoughts; once I returned from London and Gateshead, the lonely child had insistently become my daily companion. One morning I ordered Sophie to dress Adèle in her oldest clothes, for I had something in mind. I had been watching the haymakers, the rhythm of their work, as steady and insistent as a heartbeat, and although my help was not needed, an unexpected urge came upon me to become a part of that tableau.
Searching for old clothes for Adèle was like hoping to locate an oak tree growing in the drawing room, for the child carelessly discarded clothing long before it was outgrown. But finally something suitable was found, and, with Adèle’s hand in mine, I led her down the lane and into the fields. There I took a spare rake and set myself to work with the laborers. I could see the stifled smiles at my ineptness, but never mind, it was good for me to be out in the sun and the open air. The work cleared my mind, and the sun on my back, the unfamiliar aches, blotted out nearly every other care.
Adèle, meanwhile, scampered here and there, gathering hay in her arms and ferrying it to stacks we laborers were forming. She delighted in the activity for a time but soon grew bored and begged me for a ride in the pony cart, not relenting until I gave up and walked with her back to the Hall, where we harnessed up the pony cart and took ourselves to the village and back.
But that was only one day out of so many. I miss
ed Jane more than I could have imagined—that staunch little friend, as pert as a wren, as steady as a rock: how had I let her go so easily? Why had I not accompanied her? I would have made sure she was not treated badly, not insulted as she once had been at that house. And I would have ensured she did not find another position elsewhere. I would have brought her home to Thornfield-Hall, where she belonged.
On some afternoons, while the sunlight lingered, I took a book and sat on the narrow steps of a stile on a small knoll. It afforded me a view at once vast and pleasant, and, more important, an opportunity to see the road, to see if a coach came, to watch Jane alight with her small box, home at last. I tried to write but could not focus my thoughts, imagining my dear one patiently suffering through her time with her cousin Reeds, insulted and demeaned beyond all reason.
But in the end, Jane fooled me. She did not come by coach as I had expected, but walked the way from Millcote on her own, across the fields and meadows. I saw her at a distance, and she seemed to me again like the woodland sprite she had appeared at our first meeting. I did not at first quite believe the vision, watching her coming toward me as evening fell. Here she was, my familiar Jane, sound in body and, I hoped, in spirit—not gone forever, but returning home to me, and I would never let her leave again.
I thought she did not see me until she was nearly upon me, and then she seemed a bit confused when I called out to her: “There you are! Come on, if you please.”
And she did come on, nearly as if in a trance, so astonished, I supposed, to find me there. “And this is Jane Eyre?” I said to her, nearly giddy simply to be in her presence. “Coming from Millcote, and on foot? Yes—just one of your tricks: not to send for a carriage, and come clattering over street and road like a common mortal, but to steal into the vicinage of your home”—yes, Jane, yes, I thought, this shall be your home forever—“along with twilight, just as if you were a dream or a shade. What the deuce have you done with yourself this last month?” She looked pale in the evening light, and I feared for her well-being.
“I have been with my aunt, sir, who is dead.”
“A true Janian reply! Good angels be my guard! She comes from the other world—from the abode of people who are dead; and tells me so when she meets me alone here in the gloaming! If I dared, I’d touch you, to see if you are substance or shadow, you elf!” As I longed to do, to gather her to me and never let her go. Instead, I continued my playful banter. “Truant! Absent from me a whole month: and forgetting me quite, I’ll be sworn!”
She did not contest this last, as I had wished, but instead she gazed about her, as if quite overcome, and I supposed she was. I had greeted her more effusively than I had ever done, but I could not help it: I, too, was overcome in the moment. She seemed so pure, so perfect and separate from all mortal flaws as to be inhuman—better than human—not susceptible to sin or worry. As I had those thoughts, she turned the conversation to my London trip; I was relieved that she knew—from Mrs. Fairfax—only of the carriage purchase, nothing more.
“You must see the carriage, Jane, and tell me if you don’t think it will suit Mrs. Rochester exactly; and whether she won’t look like Queen Boadicea, leaning back against those purple cushions. I wish, Jane, I were a trifle better adapted to match with her externally. Tell me now, fairy as you are,—can’t you give me a charm, or a philter, or something of that sort, to make me a handsome man?” I could not help but grin at her, for of course the Mrs. Rochester I was hoping for was Jane herself. She did not believe herself beautiful, I knew, and she did not seem to understand that a loving eye is all the charm needed for beauty.
“It would be past the power of magic, sir,” was all she said, and despite the insult I found my heart soaring at my little friend’s familiar serious honesty, her refusal to flatter. Now that Jane was back to me, I had only to try to convince her that she was my destiny, and I hers.
I sent her on her way and she began to obey, but she turned back, suddenly, and I saw emotion storm across her face as she uttered the words that would change my life: “Wherever you are is my home,” she said, “my only home.” Before I could speak, she was gone.
There it was. She knew she belonged to me as completely as I to her. I could not contain my heart: now I felt sure she would choose to be with me, as soon as I was free to make her the offer.
* * *
As soon as I could after Jane’s return, I sent a message to Everson, asking him to meet me at Carter’s home one evening a few days hence, and I sent another to Carter, requesting him to host a gathering of the three of us. Now that I believed Jane loved me, that I was her “home,” I was determined to free myself of Bertha, not just physically, but legally. I could not dream of dragging Jane into the disgusting situation in which I found myself. I had been tricked into a marriage without knowing my betrothed’s full story, and to bring Jane into an alliance with me would commit the same offense to her.
Since I could not bring myself to tell Jane of Bertha, I would simply rid myself of Bertha before the need arose. There was only one recourse that I could imagine, one that I had once discarded as extremely difficult and unlikely. But I had been young then, and hopeful that life would work out well for me. Now I was more experienced, and more cynical.
Both men were seated before Carter’s fire when I arrived, and they stood to greet me. Carter called for more brandy, and I sat with them.
“You know my wife’s condition,” I began with hesitation, and both men nodded solemnly and leaned forward as I spoke. Carter had more than once urged me to find a more acceptable accommodation for Bertha; he might even know already of Everson’s as-yet-fruitless search for such a place.
“And I am wondering…” I looked expressly at Everson, for he would know the law. “What are the possibilities for divorce?”
Carter sucked in his breath, likely remembering the vehemence with which I had rejected his earlier mention of the same idea.
Everson contemplated my suggestion for a few moments. “It might be done,” he said cautiously. I could feel the weight of years of worry and care begin to shift on my shoulders.
“Might,” he repeated, turning to Carter. “What is her condition?” he asked.
“She is like an animal,” Carter said. “She is healthy and as strong as an ox, but it is not possible to think of her as anything but an insentient creature.”
Everson shook his head at that. “It has been done,” he admitted. “But with difficulty, and I cannot imagine your doing it successfully in this case. One must go before Parliament and swear that she has been caught in flagrante delicto. There must be witnesses, of course. And you cannot have had congress with her since.”
Certainly the last was not a problem, but the former would be, for I did not know if she had ever had congress with any other man after our marriage. I refused to let my hopes fall yet, though I could see how this would end.
“It’s not possible,” Carter said. “No man would have congress with her, for any amount of money. Nor would she allow it; she would tear him apart.”
Everson nodded agreement. “Parliament has gotten quite sticky on the matter. You would not be the first man to try to rid himself of an inconvenient wife.”
“Inconvenient?” Was that the way the law saw it? A mad wife, with whom one could not reason, upon whom a man could not safely turn his back. A woman who must be locked up to keep her from harming herself or others? Inconvenient? I rose, anger flushing my face.
“Sit down, please, Mr. Rochester,” Carter said.
I turned to him.
“Sir, I beg you to be seated. Let us speak rationally.”
But I could not.
“It is complicated—divorce,” Everson said, staring meaningfully at me. “On the other hand, if there existed—”
But I had caught his meaning. “If there are actually documents—proof—that there was a previous marriage…” From the corner of my eye, I saw Carter start at my words: he had no idea what I meant, but for certain Everso
n did. “Then my marriage to Bertha is null and void.”
“If,” Everson said.
“If,” I repeated. I still did not believe a prior marriage had happened—but what if it had? And if so, Gerald would be the rightful heir. Was this truly something I could even be wishing for?
“You understand what that means?” Everson asked me.
“I do,” I said. “I would lose Thornfield.” But I would gain Jane.
Carter’s face showed genuine surprise, but Everson’s did not; he was too good a solicitor for that.
“I will see what I can discover,” Everson said. “If that is not a possibility, I have little hope for you, for there are only two grounds for a divorce: one is a prior, undissolved marriage, and the other is if a man cannot be assured that his wife’s progeny are his own. As I said, Parliament is well aware of men—and women—manufacturing assignations for the sole purpose of getting a divorce. They would send out their spies, and it is known in the neighborhood that you have been courting Miss Ingram. Your names would be dragged through the mud, and after all that the divorce would not be granted.”
They were thinking of Miss Ingram, but that was not who would suffer. I could not allow Jane’s name to be sullied that way. “There is no hope, then,” I said. None, unless I gave up Thornfield. The idea was still forming in my mind: could I trade one love, one security, for another?
* * *
I could barely sleep that night, my thoughts roiling, and when I did fall into a fitful slumber, my dreams offered no respite: I was a child, wandering through Thornfield-Hall, crying out for my mother, rushing from room to room but finding her nowhere—neither her nor anyone else—Thornfield itself cold, empty, barren.
And when at last I woke, shaken and stunned from my dreams, I rose and washed and dressed numbly. I made my way to the drawing room, where I sat down on the sofa, facing my mother’s portrait. There she stood, staring down at me. What would she have me do? I tried to order my thoughts, but I could not. Caroline Fairfax Rochester. She had been known for her kindness, Mrs. Fairfax had said—how I wished for her kind hand on my shoulder now, to guide me down the right path.
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