Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  I could tell by Grace’s expression that she had not known. “Does the porter make you sleepy?” I asked.

  She rose in umbrage at that. “I keep my promises. I do my duties.”

  “She nearly attacked Miss Eyre,” I hissed at her.

  She shrugged. “In another day you will be shut of us, off on your honeymoon.”

  Indeed. I held her eyes, torn between rage at her impertinence and the knowledge that I could not risk losing her service the way I had lost Molly’s.

  “Thousands of people better off than her are kept in asylums,” she added, and I think I saw pity in her eyes.

  “You have served me well all these years, Grace, and I appreciate that.”

  She nodded.

  “And have you saved enough by now?”

  She smiled her gap-toothed smile. “It is never enough.”

  I left her with that. Nothing is ever enough. One thinks one has done enough, and it turns out not to be so; one thinks nothing else could go wrong but is mistaken in the end. And yet, as I left the chamber, the big clock downstairs chimed and I told myself that in a few hours, my new life would begin.

  Chapter 22

  All night, half-awake, half-asleep, I dreamed of our future. Our travels in Europe, a happier place now that we were together; our return to Thornfield, which would remain my own. I imagined, even, children exploring the woods as I had once done and dawdling their way through the orchard, picking cherries or plums; running recklessly through the rooms and up and down the stairs; dragging mud through the kitchens; laughing and squealing in delight; Mrs. Fairfax, perhaps frowning in disapproval but silent, because Jane and I were delighted simply in the life we were afforded. Bertha would remain my secret, and I would guard Jane well and secure our happiness, no matter what man’s law might think of me. Had I not earned this? Had I not acquitted myself as well as or better than any man in my position would have done? Jane and I loved each other as equals: I had been willing to give up Thornfield for Jane and had convinced myself her love for me was surely stronger than her moral stubbornness. If she knew, she would forgive me. But she need never know.

  I rose that morning with the sun, watching the deep shades of the orchard lighten, the shadows shorten. I made my ablutions and dressed, slowly and carefully, letting the import of the morning enter fully into my mind. In less than three hours, and then less than two, Jane would be at my side in the little church. She would be mine—all else be damned. She would want this; she loved me. I could not believe my fortune.

  I fairly skipped down the broad oak staircase and peered into the dining room. The buffet was laid, but Jane had not yet made an appearance. I felt too agitated to sit and eat. I strode into the library and immediately back out, then to the drawing room. I nodded at my mother’s portrait above the mantelpiece, suddenly flooded with emotion. Then, patient no more, I went to the bottom of the stairs and called out for Jane.

  She was there in a few moments, and was a vision: even in her modest silks and the simple lace square on her head, she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I could not even mourn the loss of the other veil. I took her elbow and hurried her to breakfast, but it seemed, as I, she was too overwhelmed to eat and sat only with a cup of tea before her.

  Finally the footman informed me that all was in readiness, and at those words I nearly dragged Jane from the table and across the entrance hall, where Mrs. Fairfax stood, as still as a stone carving. She nodded a curtsy as we passed, and I returned the nod, and Jane would have paused, but I was all in a rush. It seemed that time could not fly fast enough. I wanted only for the wedding to be behind us, and Jane safely mine and I hers.

  Her small hand in mine in the morning sunlight, we raced down the long drive to the wicket gate of the church, where I discovered she was out of breath. Poor wren! “Am I cruel in my love?” I asked her. “Delay an instant: lean on me, Jane.”

  After a moment, I gave her a little caress on her shoulder and we walked forward. As we took our place at the communion rail, the clergyman, Mr. Wood, opened his book and began to read. In this place, where generations of Rochesters had worshipped, my heart filled with gratitude to God and to Jane for giving me this chance at happiness. I felt secure that Providence had seen my good intentions for Bertha, and my pure, true love for Jane, and was smiling on our union.

  I watched my little Jane, her face on Mr. Wood’s as his voice echoed within those stone walls: “…any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful.”

  He paused, as I suppose was required of him. The words did not arrest me, so sure was I that God himself had brought Jane to me.

  But just when Mr. Wood moved to continue, a voice from behind me said: “The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment.”

  No, I thought. No. Not with my prize seconds from my grasp. I almost turned to confront the unknown voice, but I stopped. I would will it gone.

  Mr. Wood must have been as shocked as we: for how often could there have been a response to those old, familiar words? Yet he stood by his duty. “I cannot proceed without some investigation,” he said.

  “The ceremony is quite broken off,” came the voice again. “I am in a condition to prove my allegation: an insuperable impediment to this marriage exists.”

  I would not, I could not, turn and allow for this to be happening. I glanced down at Jane beside me, and she was staring wordlessly in return. I took her hand in mine; if the speaker revealed my secret, Jane would be lost to me forever. We shall not be overcome by this, I told myself. I forbid it.

  “What is the nature of the impediment?” Mr. Wood asked, his voice hopeful. “Perhaps it may be got over—explained away?”

  “Hardly,” came the voice. “I have called it insuperable, and I speak advisedly.” The speaker came forward then, and I saw he was a stranger. From whom could he have heard my secret? Not Gerald. “It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage,” he said, slowly and clearly, so there could be no mistaking his words. “Mr. Rochester has a wife now living.”

  I gripped Jane tighter still, twined my arm around her waist as if fearing the man might make her vanish with his words. “Who are you?” I thundered.

  “My name is Briggs,” he said, “a solicitor of —— Street, London.”

  “And you would thrust on me a wife?” I was in a fever dream—I would stave this off by force of will if I must. After all those years with Bertha, surely God had given me what I deserve!

  “I would remind you of your lady’s existence, sir; which the law recognizes, if you do not.”

  No, by God. No. I would not retreat. Perhaps this was a bluff. “Favor me with an account of her—with her name, her parentage, her place of abode.”

  “I affirm and can prove that on the twentieth of October, A.D. 18——, Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield-Hall…” His words swirled through my head, the full account of it: my marriage to Bertha, and the place, etcetera, etcetera. “Signed, Richard Mason.”

  All was lost now if I could not remove this last impediment. I scrambled for any last footing. “That—if a genuine document—may prove I have been married,” I said, “but it does not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living.”

  “She was living three months ago,” the lawyer rejoined.

  “How do you know?”

  “I have a witness to the fact; whose testimony even you, sir, will scarcely controvert.”

  Richard. It could be none other, and damn him to eternity, after all that I had done for him. “Produce him—or go to hell.”

  I heard Mr. Wood suck in his breath—such language in the house of God.

  “Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step forward.”

  At the name, I felt a shudder as if an earthquake had erupted beneath my feet
. I clung to Jane still—I would not release her!—and I turned to face Richard. In a fit of passion I raised my arm as if to strike him, and he, seeing the movement, scuttled back away from me like a frightened spider. Pathetic, witless coward, how dare he stand in my way now? “What have you to say?” I demanded.

  He, who had abandoned his sister more completely than I ever had, who had depended on my efforts for his living, could only mumble inaudibly.

  “The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand, what have you to say?” Goddamn it, man! Make this right—after all these years, you would not do this to me now.

  “Sir—sir—” interrupted the clergyman, “do not forget you are in a sacred place.” Then he turned toward Richard and asked if he was certain that Bertha was still living.

  Richard still shrank back, for he knew he owed me much, but the lawyer urged him on. “She is now living at Thornfield-Hall,” he said in a stronger voice than I could have imagined possible. “I saw her there last April.”

  And she would have killed you, I thought, if I hadn’t saved your life.

  Mr. Wood, too late, seemed to take my side. “Impossible! I have never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield-Hall.”

  At that, I could not help a grim smile—to have succeeded all these years, to be mere seconds from happiness, only to be brought down by one who owed me his life. Indeed, this was not an act of man but one of God—Providence had checked me. I had never been anything but a sinner, and I was wrong to believe in forgiveness. Out with it, then!

  “Enough,” I said. “Wood,” I said to the clergyman, “close your book and take off your surplice.” I turned to his clerk: “John Green, leave the church; there will be no wedding today.” Or any day.

  Once started, the truth came bursting out of me, as if from a dam; if it had not been so painful I might have been relieved to be done with the secrecy after all these years. But in the moment my misery, my self-loathing, was too deep. As I spoke to those around me, my words were meant for Jane. I could not bear to look her in the face, she who had trusted me, and whom I had brought into shame. I confessed it all: I had a wife, and she lived, and knowing this I had still intended to marry another—yes, I was a devil. I felt like one, through and through. I tried, too, to have them know that she had been thrust upon me by my father and hers, without my knowledge of her family history of madness. I bitterly wanted to have them understand the nature of this “wife”—and in the end, with nothing left to lose, I dared to bring them back to the house to see her for themselves, in the flesh, for she was the greatest evidence of my desperation. And even as I clung to her with an iron grip, I absolved Jane of all knowledge or responsibility for my plan. “Come, all of you, follow!” I demanded, and I led the way back to Thornfield-Hall.

  The servants, knowing nothing of the drama in the church, crowded forward to congratulate us, but I shooed them away and stormed upstairs, with a trail of bewildered men behind me, until we burst into Bertha’s private chamber. Grace, surely as shocked as anyone, handled the intrusion with perfect aplomb.

  As soon as Bertha was aware of our presence, she rose from her crouch in a corner and uttered a ghastly scream that shattered the small group behind me. None of them had ever beheld such I sight, I’d wager.

  “Ah, sir, she sees you,” Grace warned. “You’d better not stay.”

  Bertha bellowed and advanced, and the men shrank back. Grace moved forward to distract her, but I wanted to face her myself. I was determined to give them what they’d asked for: proof of my marriage. “She has no knife now, I suppose?” I said.

  “One never knows what she has, sir,” Grace responded. “She is so cunning: it is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft.”

  “We had better leave,” a frightened Richard whispered behind me.

  “’Ware!” Grace cried suddenly, and Bertha lunged forward, scattering the men behind me.

  I shoved Jane behind me just as Bertha seized my throat and sank her teeth into my cheek. She was a goblin; a devil as large as I and almost evenly matched—she had lost none of her strength. We grappled—she trying to throttle me while I did my best to avoid hurting her: she growled wildly the whole time, until I was able to wrestle her to the floor, when Grace slipped me the cord, and I bound her hands together with it, and with another I tied her to a chair.

  Then I faced the small assemblage of onlookers. “That is my wife. Such is the sole conjugal embrace I am ever to know—such are the endearments which are to solace my leisure hours! And this”—I gently touched Jane’s shoulder, and to my lasting gratitude she did not shrink away—“this is what I wished to have: this young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon. Wood and Briggs, look at the difference! Compare these clear eyes with the red balls yonder—this face with that mask—this form with that bulk; then judge me, priest of the Gospel and man of the law, and remember, with what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged! Off with you now. I must shut up my prize.”

  Chapter 23

  The others hurried away, while I remained in that chamber of horrors, alone but for Grace Poole and her demonic charge. This, I supposed, would be my life from here on, trapped with this “wife,” unless Jane would forgive me. “Grace,” I said, “you and Bertha will not be moving to other quarters. The whole world is now aware that my mad wife lives here; there is no point in hiding the truth anymore.”

  “She will move out of this chamber now, sir?” Grace asked.

  “I suppose not,” I said. “This is as safe for her as anywhere, and safer than most.”

  Still, I tarried, afraid to step outside and face the destruction of all my hopes. We untied Bertha as soon as she calmed, and with Grace beside her caressing her arm, Bertha dozed off in bed a few minutes later.

  Numbly, I left that ghastly place and walked down the stairs, glad not to encounter Jane or Adèle. Mrs. Fairfax was in her sitting room, and I stopped there, for I owed her an explanation. “I am sorry to have deceived you,” I said.

  Her eyes rose to meet mine. “I was aware of some of it,” she said simply, and turned back to her sewing.

  We both remained silent for a time, and then I asked, “Is Miss Eyre in her room?”

  “I imagine she is, sir,” she said, still not looking at me.

  I rose and left her there. That is how things shall be now, I thought: the averted eyes, the stares behind my back. People will conjecture all kinds of scenes of mayhem—and worse—hidden behind these walls. Thornfield-Hall would now be a place haunted by my shame and sins, its great reputation forever tarnished. And how could I continue to live at Thornfield myself? Would that I had let Rowland’s accursed son take the place off my hands!

  I mounted the stairs slowly and turned toward Jane’s room. At the door, I paused: I cannot disturb her, I thought; it is not my right. I can do nothing but wait for her to enter the world again, and forgive me. Silently, I pressed my hand—and then my forehead—against the wood of the door panel. I don’t know how long I stood there, feeling a flood of remorse and exhaustion wash over me as the waters came into my soul. Eventually, I went to the nearest room and brought out a chair and quietly set it down in front of Jane’s door.

  I had betrayed her, just as my father had betrayed me, and I knew, better than anyone, that a trust once broken is never again the same. I sat there for hours—replaying times we had spent together, happier times; surely they had meant as much to her as they had to me. After a time I began to worry that something could have happened to her—that the recent events had made her ill—but just then I heard soft sounds of movement, and then the bolt was withdrawn, and a pale, rumpled Jane collapsed into my arms.

  I gathered her close and held her. “You come out at last!” I said. “I have been waiting for you long, and listening; yet not one movement have I heard, nor one sob: five minutes more of that deathlike hush, and I should have forced the lock like a burglar.” She moved slightly in my arms,
as if trying to escape, but I held her to me, waiting for her to scream at me and pound my chest, to release the anger that meant she still cared. But she was silent while I blundered on: “Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. Will you ever forgive me?”

  Still, she said nothing. Would she never speak to me again? “You know I am a scoundrel, Jane?” I said. Even rage would have been better than this stubborn, gruesome silence.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, her first words to me.

  “Then tell me so roundly and sharply—don’t spare me.”

  But she could not: she was too weak to do more than lie in my arms, and I realized she had had nothing to eat since the night before. I carried her down to the library and plied her with water and wine and sent for nourishment for the both of us, for I had not eaten, either. Slowly she revived, regaining color in her face and limbs, and regaining as well her willpower. I was sure she felt comfort in my arms, as I did in hers, yet she would not allow a kiss or even an endearing touch.

  “Why, Jane?—because I have a wife already? You think me a low rake?” I asked her, but I knew the answer before she could give it. And I could have repeated her other arguments before she gave them as well. Nothing I could say would move her. I challenged her to consider my dilemma: the husband of a mad wife, the necessity of keeping my secret in order to hire and keep servants, and even a governess!—but she chastised me, saying it was not Bertha’s fault she was mad.

  I tried reason; I challenged that she didn’t truly love me; I told her my entire story, from childhood to my ill-considered, disastrous marriage and my realization of what Bertha really was, and my decadent, wastrel life in Europe, all of it up until I met her that dark January evening, hoping that she would see me anew, sure that she would admit I had done the best that could be asked of any man in the same place. I brought her and myself near to tears more than once.