All Hallows at Eyre Hall: The Breathtaking Sequel to Jane Eyre (The Eyre Hall Trilogy Book 1)

by Luccia Gray

  “To the point, if you please, Mr. Mason.”

  She looked away from me, absently caressing the folds on her pale blue day dress.

  “There is someone Mr. Rochester must see before he dies.”

  “No more games. You are to leave. My husband will not be molested by anyone in his final moments.”

  “Not even by his daughter?”

  “What!”

  She jumped out of her chair and ran to the window, breathing heavily. I could not see her face, but her shoulders were hunched, and she seemed to be trembling. I wondered if she might be crying and waited a few minutes before continuing.

  “She would like to meet her father before he dies.” I said the words I had come to say slowly and softly. I wanted to make sure she heard them clearly.

  We both heard the instants pass, as the small steel second hand ticked around the inner circle of the long clock standing majestically between the bay windows. Her eyes were fixed on the watery pane. Abruptly she straightened her back and lifted her head, as if she were looking for something in the sky. It was a damp dismal morning, and the cloud-burdened sky loured heavily above the laurel orchard. Her palms repeated the ritual. She straightened her dress and swirled around towards me, surprisingly composed after her initial shock. She spoke slowly and resolutely.

  “What trick is this, Mr. Mason?”

  I walked towards her, putting on my most earnest voice.

  “The infant was born in Thornfield Hall twenty-three years ago, in March, 1843, and taken to the Convent of Saint Mary in Spanish Town, Jamaica a few months later.”

  “Impossible!”

  “I took her myself. That was the object of my visit, when we first met at Thornfield Hall. Surely you remember the extraordinary events you yourself witnessed?”

  ***

  I had listened to his version of the truth, which had to be a lie. Edward had once told me Mason came from a long line of liars and slave traders. Yet, of course I remembered the night I had walked up the chill gallery and the dark, low corridor of the haunted third storey on my way to the tapestried room, where I nursed Mason at Thornfield Hall. His shoulder and arm were soaked in blood. He had been attacked with a knife and bitten by the murderous monster. I heard the unearthly cries, which seemed to belong to more than one person or fiend lurking behind the wall. I remember looking up to the dying Christ on an ebon crucifix above the panelled cabinet doors and praying for protection and the strength to fulfil my gruesome task. Mason’s eyes were dull with pain and horror while I dipped my hand again and again in the basin of blood and water and wiped away the trickling gore. He said she had sucked his blood. What kind of a monster or monsters inhabited therein? Edward had left me alone to look after Mason while he fetched the doctor. As the hours passed and the candle waned, I thought he was dying. At last the master of the house returned with Dr. Carter, who dressed the wounds and took Mason to his house to be fully cured, so the rest of the guests would not see what had happened.

  “I saw no child.”

  “You did not see my sister and she was there, too. Both of them were with Grace Poole in the concealed chamber, a few feet away from us while we waited for Dr. Carter to arrive. Did you not hear the cries of the madwoman and the child?”

  “I heard the cries, but I saw neither.”

  “Precisely.”

  “But Edward never mentioned a child, nobody has…”

  “Can you be surprised, madam? Edward Rochester’s honesty on such matters is easy to doubt. On the other hand, his ability to buy anyone, and cover up his wrongdoings, is notorious.”

  “How dare you?”

  “What do you know about Adele’s mother or about his relationship with Blanche Ingram?”

  “That was before we were married.”

  “Come, come, madam. Were you not aware that he continued to visit Miss Blanche Ingram after your marriage, even when she became Lady Carrington? Or that he rented rooms in Sloane Square for his friends in London, such as Mrs. Annabel Beresford, Louisa, Lady Edgeworth? And Miss Daisy Pickering?”

  How could he know? If he knew, it had to be common knowledge, in London, in Millcote, in Hay, at Eyre Hall. Nobody had ever told me! I had never suspected anything until I took over the supervision of our finances. I must have seemed so innocent, and so easy to deceive for so many years.

  As soon as Edward recovered his eyesight, he started visiting London on his own. During the London season he would stay there for months, returning occasionally for a brief family interlude, when he recounted his trips to the theatre or the opera. Very occasionally I would accompany him to visit my editor or attend dinner parties with his friends or distant relatives. I never objected to his frequent trips, not being much taken by fashionable London life, finding it too superficial and oppressive.

  During the hunting season he would stay at Ferndean on his own. Even though he could not hunt, his left arm having been mutilated into a mere stump by the fire, he enjoyed accompanying his friends who engaged in the sport. I knew the Ingrams and the Carringtons visited, but his visits had never concerned me, because I disliked hunting, and in any case, I was busy with our son.

  We would have liked to have more children, but I had had a miscarriage and a still-born daughter in the following years, and I gave up hope. I moved to another bedroom to put an end to his sleepless nights with young John. I never allowed any of the maids to sleep with my son, or any of the governesses to instruct him. I wanted him to be brought up with the mother’s love I had so longed for myself. Only Adele was allowed to take part in his education. His father did not agree, considering it inappropriate for landed gentry, and I had reminded him that he had married the governess, Jane Eyre, not a wallflower.

  I educated my son until he left home to study at Rugby when he was twelve, then moved to Oxford five years later. We were expecting that, in the next elections, when Mr. Crowley retired, that he would be elected Member of Parliament for our constituency. There was much to do to improve our country. There was too much poverty and misery to be christianly tolerated. I knew he had it in his heart to improve our world.

  The ten o’clock chime startled me back to my present predicament.

  “That was a long time ago,” I replied feebly.

  “Well, he is hardly in a position to go gallivanting at present.”

  I pressed my palm against the casement in the hope that a refreshed hand would somehow energize my mind. It did not. Mason was waiting for an answer. There was no point in lying to this man. He knew everything about Edward and me; he knew even more than I did about my husband. I acknowledged hopelessly that there would be no use in setting up a farce. No more lies; they were too exhausting.

  “I see you are well informed, sir. May I ask you how it is you know so much about my husband’s affairs?”

  “Lord Ingram, Blanche’s father, and mine were acquainted, madam.”

  “He knew of your sister’s existence?”

  “Naturally he did.”

  “And you did not disapprove of their marriage?”

  I remembered how Blanche Ingram had visited Thornfield Hall, while I was governess, humiliating me, and trying her best to persuade Edward to marry her.

  “Miss Ingram was a rich and noble heiress; she would have added to our fortune and position.”

  “Of course she is very noble. Is her husband of the same opinion, I wonder?”

  “Marriages are very… personal contracts, madam.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “I never lied to you, madam. I merely exposed the truth. Mr. Rochester had received a plentiful dowry for marrying my sister, and instead of honouring her, he locked her away in his cold, damp attic with a drunken idiot as a keeper.”

  “Your sister was a lunatic.”

  “It is not difficult to become a lunatic, if one is confined and tortured for ten years. Let us imagine the contrary had happened. Let us imagine you were taken by force to Jamaica and locked away in a hot, damp basement,
with no one to speak to, not even a mirror to look at yourself and comb your hair. Would you not have gone mad, madam?”

  Those were his only true words. Of course I had thought about that poor woman, who became a beastly monster. I knew that before her transformation she had been a beautiful and happy girl, living a life of gaiety in the warmth of her colonial plantation. Thornfield had destroyed her as much as it had transformed me.

  I heard her cries at night, listened to her footsteps in the corridor, once I even saw her reflection in my chamber mirror, and her ghostly contour approached me with a candle. I had thought I was dreaming and she was my nightmare, but I was wrong. We met that night for the first time. She was deranged, in agony, and nobody helped her, not her husband, her brother, or her servants. They were all in connivance to destroy her. And now he was telling me that they stole her daughter!

  “Why didn’t you come and rescue her, if you were so concerned about her welfare?”

  “I was in Jamaica. I received letters regularly from Mr. Rochester with news about Bertha. I understood matters were normal. Until one day I received a letter advising me that Mr. Rochester was to marry a certain Jane Eyre, at the local parish church. Naturally, it was my duty to come and speak up for my sister, that is, my stepsister and her daughter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The day after you left I discussed the matter with Mr. Rochester. He agreed to continue sending maintenance for the child, if I promised to keep his secret.”

  “What?”

  “You must remember how you left in the middle of the night the day after the wedding farce. Edward was distraught, quite out of his mind. He said he’d kill Bertha with his own bare hands, but fortunately we were able to hold him down. He made me promise to keep the child a secret. The child was still in Millcote with a wet nurse at the time. After the incident, I took her with me back to Spanish Town.”

  ***

  It was a pleasure to watch Mrs. Rochester’s tormented expression wrench her previously demure countenance.

  “Yes, madam, your husband has been sending his daughter money every month. She has been brought up as fits her status, and our family. She is a well-bred, well-educated, well-mannered and beautiful young lady.”

  “It’s not possible!”

  “May I ask you to speak to Dr. Carter, or his agent in London, Mr. Cooper? They will both confirm the nature of the regular financial transfers to Spanish Town, Jamaica, and the reason.”

  “Your business, then, is financial, sir.”

  “I wish a guarantee that my niece will continue to receive a lifelong allowance when her father has died, and that she will be procured a suitable husband, dowry, and a place in English society.”

  “How can you prove it? Who will believe you?”

  “You are quite right, madam. I cannot prove it with documents, but I can sow the seeds of doubt, which would be very unfortunate for your son. I understand you have a son? A fortunate young man, as I have heard, who is studying Law at Oxford and wishes to make an honest living at Parliament; no doubt he will be a peer one day. You must be very proud of him. He has such a promising future. I also understand he is engaged to Lady Elizabeth Harwood, Judge Harwood’s daughter.”

  “You are well informed, sir. He is an honest man. Would you ruin his life by disseminating this scandal?”

  “Of course not.” I paused before adding coolly, “What would I gain by doing so?”

  “What is your proposal then, sir?”

  “She will be introduced to everyone as Mr. Rochester’s niece and mine, which is her official status. She will become your ward. She will be given a fitting dowry for a suitable husband, and the Convent of Saint Mary will continue to receive funding regularly.”

  “What does she know?”

  “Originally I contrived imaginary parents for her. She was informed that her mother, Sybil, had died in childbirth, and her father, Henry Mason, a fictional brother I created for myself and Bertha, had died shortly after. However, she has recently been informed she is Bertha’s and Rochester’s daughter. Nevertheless...” I paused and almost heard her muscles as they wrenched, before I continued gravely, “she is prepared to continue to play the role of niece to Mr. Rochester, her wealthy uncle and benefactor. It is her wish to see him and thank him before he passes away.”

  ***

  I looked out to the dismal day and wondered why the man I had loved so much had brought me so much pain. How could I look after another clandestine daughter, once more, as my own ward after his death?

  When I had first arrived at Thornfield twenty four years ago, I had been governess to Adele, born as a result of his affair with the French opera singer, Céline Varens. Adele could not be held responsible for her mother’s faults, and she was my reason for arriving at Thornfield, so I would always be grateful for her existence. We took to each other from our first meeting, and over the years I grew to love Adele, who became a pleasing and obliging companion. However, Bertha’s daughter was an unexpected and unbearable burden.

  “Well, Mrs. Rochester, will you agree to Annette’s humble request?”

  My head was spinning. Annette’s request! She had a name! She existed! She was a girl! She was his flesh and blood! But could it be a trick? What could I do? Who could I turn to for consolation and advice?

  ***

  “Madam?” She was quiet for a few minutes. I approached her, but she held up her hand like a shield, and, small and delicate as it was, I kept my distance.

  “I will speak to Mr. Rochester about this matter,” she started feebly, “and if he agrees, there will be a meeting.”

  “We are staying at the Rochester Arms, in Hay. It would be more appropriate if we were to visit Mr. Rochester as soon as possible and receive an invitation to stay here at Eyre Hall, while we find appropriate accommodations for Miss Annette Mason.”

  She shot a daggered look and dismissed me curtly.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Mason. I will discuss the matter with my husband, and I will send you a message forthwith.”

  I had learned from experience that, in a hunt, wounded animals could be unpredictably dangerous. I would make sure not to lower my guard in future negotiations.

  “Good day, madam.” I bowed, as dainty fingers gently shook a bone china bell. At the sound, a tall, sour-looking young valet entered far too soon, and bowed to the shattered mistress of the house. I felt proud I had been the inflictor of such pain. It was a just repayment for my sister’s degradation and death.

  “Simon? Where is Michael?”

  “He is with Mrs. Leah, in her office, madam.”

  “Please show Mr. Mason out, and tell Michael to bring me some tea and see to the fireplace; it’s very cold in here.”

  Lanky, awkward legs led the way out into the chilly sombre hall. I looked around and up the dark oak staircase. She had managed to rebuild the house to its previous shadiness. English houses; so heartless and frozen, like their dwellers.

  The boy’s sluggish, wiry arms pulled open the heavy front door. “Good day, Mr. Mason.”

  “Damn it! It’s raining again! Where the devil is my driver?”

  “Dunno, sir.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Go and get him you idle idiot! I want my carriage at the door! Now!”

  ***

  I was only the footman! How did I know where his driver was? He was probably in the stables with Joseph, or at the back chatting up the maids. I looked down at me only pair of shoes. If I’d stepped on the muddy walk, I wouldn’t have been able to go back into the house through the front door. I’d have to walk all the way to the back and in through the kitchen. Me clothes would be soaked, too, so I’d have to polish me shoes and change me uniform, which meant I wouldn’t be able to serve lunch for the Master on time. I’d get scolded again by Leah, the housekeeper, or rather Mrs. Leah as she liked to be called, although it wasn’t her surname and she wasn’t married. Who would have had her with her scrawny face and glum temper?

  �
��Move man! Get my driver!” shouted the chafed toff before he walloped me with his stick.

  When I came back with his driver, soaking wet as I was, the mad rake was whipping poor little Flossy, who was coiled up in a corner whimpering. I never thought I’d ever hear a visitor at Eyre Hall curse like he did. When I bent down to pick her up, he told me she bit him. Flossy! The gentlest of dogs! I was about to tell him she ain’t never bit no one, when I felt his mucky boot smack me face. I rolled over down the steps and onto the gravel while Flossy jumped up and scampered towards the stables for cover.

  “That bitch deserved to have her head torn off!” he shouted before getting into his carriage and banging the door, like he wanted it to fall apart. I hoped I’d never see him again. We weren’t used to people like him here.

  Back in the kitchen they was all waiting for me to tell them what I’d seened and what I’d heard, except Mrs. Leah, who was in her office, milady’s pet, Michael, who was delivering her tea, and his sister Susan, who was teaching at Sunday school that morning. I bribed Christy and Beth to polish me shoes and brush me uniform while I acted the conversation I’d overheard behind the curtains that divided the drawing room from the dining room. Margaret, the cook, called her husband, Joseph, and they all listened, gasped, laughed, and clapped, while I exaggerated some of the details and dramatized the conversation, taking the mickey out of the mistress and her vicious, foul-mouthed visitor.

  They all screamed as I took Cook’s tea towel and put it up to me nose, as if it were a dainty handkerchief, and knocked me head, as I pretended to faint, as I played her part on hearing she’d have to look after his mad wife’s daughter. I was only rehearsing; my big act would come at the Rochester Arms and then the George Inn at Millcote, where me mates’d pass round the box while I acted the scene a few more times.

  I was practically born in a ditch. My mother was the wickedest hedge-whore nobody ever seened in the world. Said I was her curse, but more like it she was mine. She was goosed all day. Drank four glasses of liquor before breakfast she did, and bashed me every time I came near her hand. I run away and became a vagabond, labourer, errand-boy, sweep... I did anything and everything to get by, and nobody threwed me out a rope, except Miss Pickering. She took pity on me, after I had an accident and broke a leg, that’s why I still limped a bit when it was cold. She said I should get a proper job, so she sent me to work with the master in this gloomy house.