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

by Luccia Gray

  The following Sunday she taught me how to kiss her lips, teasing slowly, probing softly, then deepening and pulling rhythmically, until I was breathless with excitement. I was not sure if I would ever get this far with my mistress, but I had to be prepared in case my dream came true. When I was finally allowed to release the tension of the previous Sundays, she told me I had been too clumsy and quick, and I apologised for losing control. The following weeks she taught me to be in command of my force and rhythm in order to please her, instead of myself.

  “Which type of woman are you, Jenny?” I asked after my last lesson.

  “I always say I’m the rough type, because most men aren’t patient enough to cater for the tender types. They are in a hurry to please themselves and don’t care much for caressing. They just get on with the last stage right away, then they’re over quick as lightning, and get out with a grunt for a thank you.”

  “Is it not painful?”

  “Sometimes it is. Some are big, heavy, and brutish, but they’re usually over quick. They don’t mean no harm; they don’t think I’m a person with feelings, too. I’m just a doll to please them most of the time. Fortunately, I can pick and choose, and I don’t have to accept the favours very often. As soon as my children get a proper job and can fend for themselves, I won’t never have to do it again. I can pay for my own food and lodging with my honest earnings. I might even find a nice gentleman, who might want to make an honest woman of me and have me all for himself!”

  She asked me if I wanted to be rough with her too, to try it, but I declined. I had learned what I needed to know. There was only one lady I would ever lie with again, and that was my mistress. I gave Jenny a present the last Sunday I saw her. It was a bone china vase with a white rose. She cried, saying no one had ever given her a present before and put it on the dining table. I told her I would not visit again, because I did not want to hurt her. I feared she might become too attached. She had told me herself that once a woman surrenders voluntarily to a man, he remains in her heart forever, and she was surrendering far too willingly in our last meetings. I prayed for Jenny every night and hoped she would find a good man who loved her and treated her well, because she deserved to be happy.

  Once she told me she had been to Thornfield Hall, many years ago. Mrs. Leah had employed her for a special occasion. I asked her if she had ever met Mrs. Rochester and she replied that there was another Mrs. Rochester at that time, a monstrous lunatic. She said it had been a creepy place full of ghosts, devils, and secrets, and that I should be careful and not trust anyone there. When I told her Eyre Hall was not like Thornfield, she said she had heard of Eyre Hall and it sounded like a similar place, because Leah had called her again nine years ago due to another appalling secret. She told me she felt very sorry for both Mrs. Rochesters, and insisted I should be very careful with Mr. Rochester, who was a very powerful and unscrupulous man. I reminded her that he was currently an invalid on his deathbed.

  I stopped seeing Jenny some months ago. I lived every day in the hope that I would be able to show my mistress how much I loved her and compensate for her unhappy marriage

  ***

  Chapter IV Bertha’s Baby

  I examined Mrs. Rochester under Adele’s attentive scrutiny. First, I palpated her pulse at the radial artery in order to check for any signs of hysteria. I observed a regular rhythm and counted seventy beats, which was within the expected range. She seemed calm enough. I then proceeded to use my newly acquired binaural stethoscope, in order to listen to the internal sounds of her lungs, heart, and bowels. I applied the cylinder to the patient and connected the ivory earpieces at the end of the two flexible extremities to my ears. I heard no wheezing or abnormal sounds in the first two organs, only clear rhythmical reverberations, which clearly indicated that everything was in order. The third presented a noisier activity, which I also deemed normal for the time of day. I pronounced her quite recovered and recommended rest. When I had finished, Mrs. Rochester said she desired to speak to me privately and Adele left gracefully. I wondered what her mysterious business with me was. Surprisingly, she started asking me about my son.

  “How is Harold progressing at Oxford?”

  “Very well. Mrs. Carter and I are most pleased with his evolution. He is soon to finish his training as physician at Oxford and we hope he will go to Edinburgh or London to acquire some experience before setting up his own practice in this area. Perhaps in Hay or Millcote. He is our only son, and Mrs. Carter would not like to see him settle down too far from home.”

  “It must please you greatly. I am sure you are proud of his achievements.”

  “We both feel blessed on this account.”

  She scrutinised me curiously and asked a strange question.

  “Do you enjoy living at Ferndean, Dr. Carter?”

  “Indeed we do, Mrs. Rochester. It is a most comfortable lodging.”

  “How long have you lodged there?”

  “Mr. Rochester was kind enough to rent it to us nine years ago.”

  “I believe your present payment is very reasonable, is it not?”

  “I have no complaints, and I hope you have no complaints regarding my loyalty to the Rochester family.”

  She curled her lips into a taut smile and pierced my eyes with an intimidating look. I felt uneasy. I had had little direct contact with the mistress of the house. My allegiance had been with her husband since we were children. My father was one of his most prosperous tenant farmers, so I was able to attend the same Grammar School at Millcote as the two young Rochesters did. I remember the tragic and languid Rowland, who took after his mother, Rose Fairfax, and high-spirited Edward, who was the astute old master’s duplicate. I had served Edward loyally since our school days, convinced that he would inherit the estate and reward me accordingly, which he had always done. I followed Edward’s suggestion and trained with the local surgeon, who was childless and close to retirement.

  Mr. Rochester was a powerful ally. He possessed over a thousand acres of land from Eyre Hall to Millcote. Almost all the inhabitants were landless and had been so for centuries. Ingram Park, ten miles west of Millcote, was the nearest great estate, and there was another smaller estate, the Leas, held by the Eshtons some miles to the north. The rest of the land, including the greatest part of Millcote, was owned by the Rochesters, who rented out to tenant farmers, skilled labourers, and professionals. I myself had a three-generation leasehold on a modest two-room cottage in Hay, until Mr. Rochester kindly offered my family the possibility of taking up residence in his Manor House, Ferndean, which he had used mainly as a hunting lodge until his health and Mrs. Rochester’s dislike of the sport led him to relinquish its use.

  “The rent you pay for Ferndean is less than a maid’s salary.”

  She had obviously been looking into the accounts, as her husband lay agonising. Perhaps she was shrewder than I had thought.

  “Mr. Rochester has been most generous.”

  “At the moment, Mr. Briggs has informed me that you have a verbal agreement with Mr. Rochester.”

  “That is correct, madam.”

  “One could make a larger profit on it by increasing the rent, could one not, Mr. Carter?”

  “One could, madam.”

  “One could also offer leaseholds or sell to new investors. There are many prosperous local mill owners, wire manufacturers and wealthy town dwellers, not to mention Londoners, who would no doubt enjoy the prospect of a rural Manor House for the hunting season. Don’t you think?”

  “No doubt there would be interested candidates.”

  “Of course, I could also offer you a reasonably priced leasehold on Ferndean, for say, ninety nine years, which would safely look after your son’s and grandson’s future, would it not?”

  “It would, indeed.”

  “Dr. Carter, I will speak frankly to you. I need to know...” she paused to thrust a daggered look, “to be sure...” another fierce pause, “that you will be as loyal to me and my son as you are to Mr. R
ochester.”

  “I implore you most earnestly, madam, do not doubt my unconditional loyalty to you both.”

  “You will start proving your loyalty this minute, and, I warn you, no more secrets!”

  “You have my word.”

  “Tell me about Bertha’s daughter.”

  I had known this moment would come sooner or later, but even so, I was not prepared. Drops of sweat gathered on my forehead and slid down my temples, drenching my sideburns. I took out my crumpled kerchief and wiped my face, wondering in a desperate frenzy how much she knew. Could she know how often and in how many matters I had been useful to Mr. Rochester, and been ordered not to inform anyone, least of all his wife? What would she do if she discovered the full extent of my connivance with Edward? The greatest secret was still withheld, but for how long?

  “I promised Mr. Rochester the incident would never be mentioned.”

  “Well, the incident, as you call it, has grown into gigantic proportions, and she is here now.”

  “Here, madam?”

  “At the Rochester Arms. The infamous vulture Mr. Mason has brought the incident from Spanish Town, Jamaica, to meet her uncle and benefactor before he dies.”

  “I never trusted him.”

  “Did you assist the birth of the child?”

  “I did, I mean I did not. The child had already been born when I arrived.”

  “Tell me everything you remember about the event.”

  “Grace Poole said she had woken to find the lunatic writhing with pain, screaming and bleeding until a baby was produced. She cut the cord, knotted it, and informed Mrs. Fairfax, who called me forthwith.”

  “Did you not notice she was with child?”

  “I visited the patient regularly, but rarely examined her physically. Her malady was mental not physical. She was in good physical health. I had noticed she had grown heavier, but Mrs. Poole informed me that she ate voraciously, and the master ordered she be fed, if she so wished.”

  “Tell me about Bertha’s illness.”

  “When Mr. Rochester returned from Jamaica, he brought her with him as his legal wife, whom we both know he had been tricked into marrying. I was not qualified to deal with severe mental derangement, so I recommended an eminent London psychiatrist. She was diagnosed with hysteria due to nymphomania, which is a type of hysteria brought on by obscene sexual deviations. Another tragic case of moral weakness leading to moral insanity, I’m afraid. Only Mrs. Fairfax and I knew of her existence at first. Then Grace Poole was employed to look after her, and although there was gossip, her presence at Thornfield was a well-kept secret.

  “Her condition worsened, in spite of the medication. The hysterical and violent attacks did not cease, so she was removed to the attic to protect herself and those around her. I urged Mr. Rochester to have her transferred to an institution, but when we visited one such place called Stonehill Retreat, you may have heard of it, it is some twenty miles from Millcote, he was adamant that she should not be removed there on any account.

  “I must admit, I agreed with him. It was an infernal place at the time. They showed us a reclusion room; she would have been enclosed due to her destructive nature. There was a naked woman chained in manacles, sitting in her own excrement and howling like a werewolf for six days a week. On the seventh day, their cells were cleaned. They were washed down with cold water and returned for another six days, and so on, for the rest of their days.

  “He kept her at Thornfield out of humanity, madam. Although you saw yourself the harm she could do, you were in the house when she attacked her brother, Mr. Mason, with a knife, whilst the house was full of guests. You stayed with him while I was called and took him to my cottage, in order to cure his wounds discreetly.”

  She nodded in bewilderment, and I was relieved to watch her horrified expression, which meant she had believed my exaggerated narration. I had described a state asylum I had once visited in London in my youth. I knew Stonehill was a private and expensive institution, which was much more humane in the treatment of its inmates.

  If Mrs. Rochester ever even suspected that I had advised Mr. Rochester to have her secluded at Stonehill for a short spell just eight years ago, for postnatal depression, I would no doubt have to leave the county, and it would be our ruin. I had not a penny to my name. All my finances had been invested in my son’s education, the upkeep of Ferndean, which had obliged us to employ servants, and entertaining guests in order to secure our social position.

  Mrs. Rochester insisted with more questions.

  "When was the child born?”

  “Twenty-three years ago, madam, I remember you were at Thornfield at the time, working as governess to Adele. The night she attacked Mason, she must have been enraged because the infant had been taken away.”

  “Who is the father of the child?”

  “I do not know. I believe nobody knows. When I informed Mr. Rochester, I solemnly promise that I never saw a man so amazed and shocked at a piece of news. There is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Rochester is not the father. Mr. Rochester was often away for months. Men regularly entered the house; the postman, the butcher, and the servants. When Mr. Rochester was at home there were his guests and their valets. Grace Poole, as you may remember, was loyal but unreliable, no doubt due to her fondness for gin. I often warned Mr. Rochester, and he had on occasions asked Mrs. Fairfax to see to a replacement, unproductively.”

  “What happened after the child was born?”

  “Her brother, Mr. Mason, was informed forthwith. He was in London on business at the time, and he travelled to Thornfield instantly. Mr. Mason was unmarried, but surprisingly, he accorded to take the child with him to Jamaica and Mr. Rochester agreed. He hired a wet nurse from Millcote and took them both with him to Spanish Town shortly after. The child has never been mentioned to me since that day.”

  “Why did Mr. Rochester send money regularly for the child’s upbringing?”

  “I’m afraid I do not know the answer to that question, Mrs. Rochester. I presume he felt responsible for the situation. After all, the child had been under his care at the time of birth.”

  “Indeed she had.”

  “Mrs. Rochester, please find it in your heart to understand the compassionate reasons behind Mr. Rochester’s actions, and accept my sincere apologies if my loyalty in keeping this secret has given you cause for concern.”

  “No more secrets, Dr. Carter. I warn you.”

  “Rest assured, I will be your most humble ally from this moment on.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Carter. I am sure we will get along now that we understand each other. Shall we go upstairs to see how Mr. Rochester is today?”

  ***

  Chapter V Mr. Rochester

  When the doctor left, Jane asked me if I was tired, or if I would like her to read to me. She looked uneasy and unusually severe. I wondered if she were unwell. She told me she had had a ‘peculiar’ morning, unwilling to give me any further information. When I insisted, she said “later” without even attempting a smile and looked at me for some minutes with pursed lips. I knew not what to say, being weary and unwell myself, so I was silent.

  Lately, since my illness, Jane had changed. She had become more distant and less inclined to spend time with me. Although she visited me every day, several times, she never stayed long, finding excuses for being somewhere else and doing something more important. She had to dispatch with Leah regarding the running of the house, or she had to help Adele with her absurd suitors, childish tantrums or ridiculous poems and letters. On other occasions, she was discoursing with the curator or the teacher at the parish Sunday school, or, worst of all, spending time at that damned filthy charity hospice she was involved in, which was taking up far too much of her time.

  She would no longer allow me my marital rights, which I could understand and tolerate due to the nature of my malady. Although it had not been my fault; some unscrupulous London whore had seduced me and infected me maliciously. I noticed late this evening that s
he begrudged me her hand to hold and seemed moody and reproachful, which was so unlike her. I believed she was behaving most ungratefully towards an ailing husband, after all the love and lavishing I had given her in the last twenty-three years.

  She held my quizzical look for some more instants, hesitated, and finally spoke in a very business-like manner.

  “I should like to read you some psalms today, Edward.”

  I thought it would be best to humour her. What else could I do? I supposed they would hold a key to what she wanted to say. I was trapped. Where was I to go? What was I to say? Deprived of my strength, of my youth and of my body, I answered lamely.

  “Thank you, my dearest. I would like that. But come here and sit with me and hold my hand.”

  “The candle is too far. I cannot see well enough. I shall sit on the chair.”

  She was facing me with tight jaws. I fancied that the light shone more on my face than on her book. The charcoal candle shadows flickered between us against the orange light, like dancing demons. She started reading quietly. She read twenty psalms. When she finished, she closed the sacred book and scrutinised my visage.

  “I must speak to you on a delicate matter, Edward.”

  “Of course, my dearest.” I was in no mood to speak, but I had no choice but to humour her.

  “Someone called to visit you today. Is there anything you’d like to tell me about your first wife that I do not know yet?”

  Cruel wench! She knew I was unwell. She would never have spoken to me thus, if I had not been so feeble. In my final days, I was to be helplessly tied to that bed, and to her capricious whims.