by Luccia Gray
Jane returned to the couch and sat down looking exhausted. “Quite! I need Michael at Eyre Hall. We’ll see about his future, once we provide for Susan. When she returns from Italy, I may be able to find her a permanent position as a teacher at a charity school. She may like that more than being a governess, which is often such an ungrateful task. Times are changing, and teachers are more necessary than governesses.”
“So, she can come with me to Italy?”
“She can, if she wants to.”
“I’m sure she will. Can I tell her this evening?”
“Perhaps we should tell Michael first. They are very close.”
“I’m so glad you took them in, Jane. You do such good work. I wish I could be like you. I can’t speak to those dirty children at the parish school, or the girls at the institution for governesses. I don’t understand them. I don’t understand Simon most of the time, or the new girl, Christy. They look unclean and sick. I’m disgusted and afraid of them. Am I unchristian for feeling that way?”
“No, you are not. You help them by helping me. Thanks to your assistance looking after Edward and John, I have had the time to pursue my charity work. I could not have done it without your generous support. You cannot help your nature; we are not all called for the same type of sacrifice in life.”
“You make us all feel so good, Jane.” I hugged her, like I used to when I was a child. She made me feel so safe. “Nothing can happen to us while you are with us. Monsieur is right, you are like an angel.”
***
Chapter III Michael
When I entered the drawing room with Dr. Carter, Mrs. Rochester and Adele were entwined in a tearful embrace. These were hard times for my mistress. The master lay on his deathbed. Adele had become infatuated with a London poet, and she was determined to travel to Italy in search of her mother, whom she had believed dead. Furthermore, last night, the carriage driver from the inn had delivered an urgent message after supper. I handed it to her myself and saw the tortured expression that crossed her face as she read it. I should have resisted temptation, but when she retired, I returned to the drawing room with the excuse of putting out the fire. I removed the message from the drawer where she had left it, and read the contents:
Mr. Mason, from Spanish Town, Jamaica, respectfully requests an interview with Mr. Edward Rochester tomorrow morning, to discuss a matter of utmost urgency.
This morning, shortly after his visit, when I saw her lying on the floor, I could hardly hold my thumping heart in my chest. I had to save her life, so I rushed for the doctor. On my return I feared the worst, but when both women broke their embrace and started laughing, I felt relieved. My mistress’ damp face tilted up towards us. She still looked paler than usual, but she was no longer concerned. Her eyes sparkled as they smiled, and wisps of freed hair tickled her smooth forehead and plump cheeks.
First she spoke to the surgeon. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Carter.” Then she turned to me. “How kind of you to bring him so quickly, Michael.”
“I was worried...we all were. Are you recovered, madam?”
“Yes, thank you. I am much recovered; in fact, I have worked up an appetite after this eventful morning. Could you bring us some tea and scones please, Michael?” Her radiant eyes rested on mine, and her lips spread and rose at the corners, giving shape to a silky smile. I was thankful that she esteemed I was useful.
Mrs. Rochester, mistress, as I called her in my dreams, was the most beautiful and most delicate woman I had ever seen in my life. I fell in love with her the first time I saw her five years ago at Mr. and Mrs. Fitzjames’ house. My father had served under Colonel Fitzjames before he died in battle on a foreign shore, when I was only eight. My mother, my sister Susan and I moved to Morton from London and rented a room in a modest household, thanks to a small annuity the Navy supplied, and my mother’s work laundering and sewing for Mrs. Fitzjames, Mrs. Rochester’s cousin.
When my poor mother died of exhaustion, sadness, and consumption six years later, having no relatives, we were sent to a poor house near London. We were lodged there for nearly two years. Mrs. Fitzjames kindly invited us to spend two weeks at Christmas, a week at Easter, and a week in summer with her every year, because she had been very fond of our mother.
Fortunately for us, the Boxing Day Mrs. Rochester visited her cousin, we had washed and were wearing clean clothes, or she would have been too disgusted to even look at us. We were in the study reading the tenth stage at the end of Book One of Pilgrim’s Progress, when Ignorance appears before the gates of the Celestial City without the required certificate and is thrown out, while Christian and Hopeful pass through the dangerous Enchanted Ground into the Land of Beulah, where they cross the River of Death on foot to Mount Zion and the Celestial City: Christian then saw that there was a way to hell, even from the gate of Heaven, as well as from the City of Destruction. So he awoke and behold it was a dream. I was contemplating the dream when Mrs. Fitzjames called us into the drawing room.
We entered shyly. Experience had taught us to be wary of strangers, especially adults. She was standing at the other end of the room, looking out of the window. The sun was shining directly on her profile and I caught a glimpse of her grey satin dress and russet hair. She looked like a saint with a halo. I was curious to look up at her face, but we lowered our heads instinctively as we were introduced. She walked towards us and said cheerfully, “Would you like to come and work at my house, Eyre Hall? I need a valet and a maid.” I couldn’t help turning my head towards her face. I was not yet fully grown, so we were equal in height and our faces met evenly. I looked into her soft, watery eyes and saw that she too was missing someone.
I would have done anything not to go back to the poor house and not be parted from my sister, but if she had asked me to, I would have crossed the ten circles of Dante’s Inferno. She had saved my life and my sister’s. I decided there and then that I would never leave her side. Susan and I read the Bible every night, as our mother had taught us, and I used to cry myself to sleep praying for her to return, until that moment. That very instant, I stopped mourning my mother or feeling sorry for myself, because I understood that my mother had put Mrs. Rochester in our path, or perhaps she had even had to die so that I would meet and serve my mistress.
“Have you ever worked?” she asked us, and Susan told her we had done the workhouse chores, such as oakam breaking, which made our fingers bleed. She had not heard of it before, so Susan told her how we had to tease out fibres from old ropes to produce lots of thin loose fibres. “Whatever for?” she asked, quite aghast, and Susan told her the strings were later sold to shipbuilders, where they were mixed with tar and used to seal the lining of wooden vessels.
Susan told her I was a strong boy and used to hard work, because I often cracked granite rocks with a heavy hammer ten hours a day. Again she asked, horror-struck, for the reasons, Susan told her the chippings were carted away by older men, who were not strong enough to crack them, and were then probably used in construction works. Susan proudly explained that with the pennies earned, usually not a shilling a day between us, we were able to buy food, some clothes, and borrow books and magazines to read by candlelight.
When she asked how long we had been there, Mrs. Rochester was again appalled to hear we had been there for two years, since our mother had died. She asked her about our life prior to our mother’s death, and Susan explained we had lived in a rented room in Morton.
She looked at me sadly and asked if I did not speak, and I could only gaze at her face and think how very kind and beautiful she was. Susan told her I was shy, but that I spoke, read, and wrote very well, because our mother had taught both of us to do so. My mistress put her hand up to my face, lightly touching my cheek, and sighed, looking straight into my eyes, as if she were searching for something. It was the moment I fell under her spell. No one had ever touched me like that before, with such concern and affection, not even my mother, who had been too sad and overworked to bestow such warmth. Then M
rs. Rochester spoke to Susan and said someone would teach us our new jobs at her house.
I don’t remember ever being happier than at Eyre Hall, not even when my mother was alive. Mrs. Rochester was very kind to me from the first day we arrived. She allowed me to use the library and borrow any books I wanted to read. I loved the library. It was my favourite place in the house. The walls were panelled with countless leather-bound books, and there was a mahogany ladder to climb up to the top shelves where the oldest books were kept. There was a large desk situated in front of the window, with drawers where the household records and accounts were kept. The fireplace stood on the wall to the right of the desk, with two tapestry upholstered chairs and a small oak table with the books or literary magazines Mrs. Rochester read. Since my arrival, Mr. Rochester had not used the rooms downstairs, because he was confined to his bed. I knew my mistress used the room as a retreat on occasions, because nobody else ever entered.
I served Mrs. Rochester every day since then. I was grateful that I was in her company most of the day. I lit her fire, brought her tea, her lunch, her dinner, and did her errands. We hardly ever talked, except about daily household matters, because it would not be considered appropriate, but I longed to converse with her, as I did with Miss Adele, about poetry and literature. Miss Adele confided in me as if I were a friend. She said she didn’t trust the maids because she thought they were too fond of gossip, and she was right. I enjoyed our conversations, although she was of a capricious and moody nature, sometimes kind and sometimes quite spiteful. My mistress smiled at me frequently, even when I knew she was upset due to her ailing husband’s health, or even today with such an accumulation of bad news, she found the kindness to smile, and that was more than enough to make my day.
When we started working at Eyre Hall, it pained me to learn that my mistress was an unloved wife. I was apprenticed to Simon, who was only a year older than me, but he had already been employed for some years. He informed me he had been recommended by a friend of Mr. Rochester’s, an actress by the name of Miss Daisy Pickering. As a child, Simon was employed by the Royal Theatre, in London, to sweep the stage after the performances. He also used to deliver flowers and notes from admirers to the actresses’ dressing rooms, including Mr. Rochester’s to the fickle and much desired actress. Simon said she had saved his life after a pub brawl, in which he had been seriously injured, by convincing Mr. Rochester to employ him at Eyre Hall.
The master, who was attended by Simon, was mostly unwell in bed, except for occasional walks around the orchard, always accompanied by Mrs. Rochester. She would read to him for almost an hour twice a day; apart from that they led separate lives. Mrs. Rochester slept in the top tower room on the third floor. When I asked about the master’s illness, Simon told me it was to do with the dire women he had frequented. I was shocked that any man who had my mistress as a wife, would ever even look at another woman, but Simon seemed to think it was quite normal.
I soon learned my trade, and as Simon served the master, I was allocated the care of Mrs. Rochester and Miss Adele whenever they were downstairs. Neither of them employed a maid; they were very close and helped each other dress, in spite of Miss Adele being the master’s illegitimate child by a French opera singer, so Mrs. Leah had told us.
When we first arrived, Susan was undermaid and spent most of the time at Eyre Hall scrubbing the floors, polishing the silver, and washing the clothes in the damp scullery. One day Mrs. Rochester heard us reading together on our Sunday afternoon off and was most impressed. She asked Susan some questions about the Bible and Pilgrim’s Progress, and was so delighted with her replies that she told her she would find her a better occupation than cleaning. She asked Susan if she would like to be an apprentice to a parish school teacher, and Susan agreed on the condition that she could stay at Eyre Hall, because we did not want to be parted. It was agreed, and Susan was very contented with her occupation. She taught mostly poor orphans and the farmers’ children to read and write at Millcote Parish School.
About a year ago Susan met Jenny Rosset, a widow with two young children, Nell and Thomas. They couldn’t attend the parish school, because they needed to help their mother to earn a living cooking and cleaning at the only hotel and largest tavern in the town, the George Inn. Jenny went to the parish school and asked Susan if she could teach her children to read and write on Sunday evenings, as she could not do so herself, and they could not go to school. Susan asked the mistress for permission to do so and Mrs. Rochester agreed. I often accompanied her, so she would not have to travel alone.
Jenny was roughly my mistress’s age. She was tall and well-built with a wholesome complexion and a pleasant, round face with fleshy smiling lips. Most of the time, she earned enough to pay the bills and feed her family. However, in the winter, when she required more coal and warm clothes, and there were fewer clients at the hotel, I had heard that she might take on a gentleman friend to implement her meagre income. I had never noticed any such happenings while we were there. She always showed herself to be very polite and very keen that her children should be apprentices to an honest job.
While Susan was teaching the children, I would take a walk or visit the library. Sometimes I would accompany Jenny to the George Inn, where she worked. I once asked her if she could write, and she answered only her name and a few more words, so I offered to teach her. We would sit in empty rooms at the inn where there was quiet, and we should not be interrupted. She offered to darn our clothes and baked us tasty cakes on occasions, but we expected nothing, knowing that she had nothing to offer. When I passed my twenty-first birthday, I plucked up enough courage to tell her about an overbearing problem I had, in the hope that she might give me a solution.
I told her I was in love and needed to court the lady, but due to my lack of experience I dared not approach her.
“Do you love her?” she asked me, and I nodded. “Does she love you?” I answered that I didn’t know yet.
“Does she like you?” I told her once more that I did not know, and she embarrassed me by saying she was sure she did, because she knew women found me attractive.
“The important thing is you love her, because you will have to make the first move. You will soon learn if she likes you or not.”
“She is the most beautiful face I see all day.”
“Then it will be easy. Ask the young girl out for a walk and when you are alone together, tell her you love her and ask for permission to kiss her. The rest will come naturally. Follow your instincts. There is nothing to teach.”
“She’s not a young girl, Jenny.”
“If she’s married, put her out of your mind. You will end up in a duel or in bigger trouble.” She sighed and added, “There are plenty of single girls out there.”
“She’s a widow. She has had experience and I have none. I need to know how to please her. She is not an innocent young country girl.”
“What kind of a woman is she?”
“What do you mean?”
“There are two kinds of women to my knowledge, those that like it rough and don’t mind a little knocking about, and those that need patience and a tender hand. Which do you think she is?”
I had seen and heard disgusting and unnatural acts nightly at the workhouse; men and women who behaved like stray dogs or bitches in heat. Sometimes gangs tried to force unaccompanied women or young girls. Sometimes they were solitary drunks or simply dehumanised scoundrels. Their cries and insults filled my head with awe as I trembled with disgust and shame. Mandrakes pursued young boys, and I was thankful that I was fourteen, almost fully grown, and strong when I arrived, or I could have been prey to the unscrupulous and degraded savages.
I had to kill one of them one night with my own bare hands. He was an animal who stalked Susan. I was only fifteen, but I mustered all my courage and imagined he was a granite block I had to destroy, and I did. I crushed his skull until I felt it sag and crumble. I heard the snap of the bone crack, and I felt the softness underneath as crim
son blood trickled out of his ears. His eyes swirled up, revealing only whiteness, and I heard his last gasp of wickedness leave his wretched body. I would have killed him a hundred times over to protect my sister. I had promised my father I would look after my mother and my sister while he was away. Before he left for battle he reminded me that I was the man of the house. He told me never to shy away from another man in defence of honour and righteousness. He also told me I should treat women kindly as our Lord had wished.
“Tender, definitely,” I finally answered. “I could only treat her gently.”
“Are you sure that’s what she wants? What she’s used to?” I thought about her choleric, moody husband and decided perhaps he had not been a tender and considerate lover, but I was adamant I did not want to replicate him. I was the man who would give her the happiness she deserved and had been denied of late.
“Perhaps it is not what she is used to, but I’m afraid it’s all I can offer. I adore her. I want her to feel worshipped, like a goddess.”
“She’s a very lucky lady.”
“I am the fortunate one to be near her and court her.”
“Are you sure she is the right person for you?”
“I will have to find out for myself. Will you help me?”
Jenny instructed me on practical matters first, such as hygiene and diet. She reminded me that nobody likes to be too close to someone whose breath reeks of gin or stale food, or whose body odours are salty or muddy. She made sure I understood the importance of wearing clean clothes and having a clean body from hair to toes. She told me to use baking soda and my finger to clean my teeth, and to use a pinch of the same powder in my socks and another in my shoes to prevent bad odours. She gave me some homemade, softly perfumed soap for my daily wash, instructing me how to use a cloth to wipe up twice every day, morning and night, so dirt and smells should not accumulate.
She showed me how to caress visible areas such as hands, face and hair with low whispers and soft fingertips along my face, my throat, my palms, my knuckles, and my wrists. Then she told me to do the same to her, and I imagined my mistress’ soft skin responding to my touch and found myself uncontrollably aroused, but she told me to stop. She told me that if I wanted to be gentle, I had to learn to control my impulses, otherwise I would only be searching for my own selfish release, not her pleasure. She reminded me to always touch her softly, and be mindful of her mood and her needs.
