by Luccia Gray
“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” I shook my head. “Your hand is stone cold.” How could I tell him that my whole body had rippled as his fingers covered my hand?
He smiled sympathetically. “Can you try and stand up? Take my hand, I will pull you up.”
I put my gloveless hand into his. “Now rest on my shoulder, and I will take you to the stile, where you can sit down.” I laid my weight on his shoulder, limped, and screeched with pain.
“May I carry you?” I nodded and fell limply in his arms, feeling spoilt like a queen.
The moon was brighter now, and I could see my interlocutor’s face clearly. He was a young man, not older than me, wearing an elegant fur-collared riding cloak and riding boots. He was tall and strong, because he had easily lifted me onto the stile. I couldn’t make out his features, but I noticed he had a perplexed look in his large dark eyes, a decisive aquiline nose and a firm chin. He was the first Englishman I had met, except for the host at the inn, and I found him disturbingly handsome and heroic. He was like a gallant knight in shining armour, and I was the damsel in distress, lost and wounded in a foreign land.
After his initial irritation, he was now most gentle and considerate to my injuries, apologising and cursing the lack of daylight for almost killing me. After setting me down on the stile, he wanted to satisfy his curiosity.
“Tell me, why were you running onto the pathway? You almost fell under my horse!”
“I was trying to get back to the inn. I thought you and your horse were a monster.” He laughed loudly, and I felt quite silly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I was running onto the path.”
He seemed amused. “You should have stayed on the stile. I would have galloped by and nothing would have happened.” I felt a fool. He was right. I had practically run under his horse.
“May I ask you what you are doing in this solitary lane, on your own at so late an hour?” His eyes were running over my clothes, and I was glad I had worn my best crimson cloak and bonnet.
“I am staying at the Rochester Arms with my uncle.”
“Indeed. Do you live in the area?”
“No. We have come to visit some relatives. And you, do you live here?”
“Yes, I do. I live just behind the hill yonder.”
“Beyond that hill over there? By a church?”
“Precisely. I live at Eyre Hall.”
“You do?”
“I do. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Where are you from?’
“I have been living in Spanish Town, Jamaica.”
“Jamaica? That’s a long way to travel to visit relatives. May I ask who your relatives are?”
“Mr. Rochester is my uncle.”
“Mr. Rochester is your uncle? Mr. Rochester who lives at Eyre Hall?”
“Yes, sir.”
‘Have you ever met him, or been to the Hall?”
“Never. That is why we have come. I believe he is unwell, and I would like to meet him before it is…too late. He has been very kind to me.”
He looked puzzled and then asked, “Have you met Mrs. Rochester, his wife?”
“I have not, but strictly speaking, she is not my aunt.”
“How is that possible?”
“It is a long story, but I will be brief. My father was his first wife’s brother, but he died when I was born; both my parents died when I was born.” He looked quite surprised at my explanation.
“Do you know Mrs. Rochester?” I asked him warily.
He must have noticed the apprehension in my voice, because he answered very quickly and cheerfully. “I do, and I wouldn’t worry about meeting her. She is one of the most wonderful people you will meet in England. She is devoted to Mr. Rochester. If you are his niece, you will be well received at Eyre Hall.”
I shuddered. If only he knew.
“May I ask your name and your uncle’s name?”
“My name is Annette Mason, and my uncle is Mr. Richard Mason.”
“Do you live with your uncle, Miss Annette Mason?” I shivered as he mentioned my name and looked into my eyes probingly. I noticed his eyes were not blue, but they were not dark. I guessed they were green or hazel, but there was not enough light to distinguish the exact colour. In any case, I could easily gaze at them all day long.
“No, my uncle is unmarried. I live in a convent school, where I was brought up. I am a teacher there. I mean I was, before I came to England.” He smiled and looked at me intently, but who was I conversing with? “May I ask you your name?”
“My name is John Rochester.” I gasped incredulously. I had met my brother! He stretched out his hand to shake mine. “Mr. Edward Rochester is my father and Mrs. Jane Rochester is my mother. Pleased to meet you, Annette.” He grinned proudly as he held my hand firmly. “I have no brothers or sisters, and you?”
“Pleased to meet you, John Rochester.” I said, as I tore my bewildered hand away. “I am an only child, too,” I lied.
“When are you going to meet my father?”
“Soon, I believe. My uncle has been to visit Mrs. Rochester this morning, and we are waiting for an invitation.”
“I will be staying for a week. I live in Oxford, where I am reading law. I hope you shall be invited to visit soon.”
“So do I, the inn is not so pleasant a place to stay.”
“Eyre Hall is a most comfortable house. You will enjoy staying. I will tell my mother I have met you.” Even the mention of her name made my blood curdle.
“Don’t worry!” How could he notice my apprehension? Was my face so easy to read? “She will like you, especially when she learns you are a teacher. She is of the opinion that it is the most important occupation in the world. My advice is to talk to her about your teaching and you will win her over.”
“Do you think perhaps you could help me return to the inn? My uncle may be looking for me.”
“It is not too far to walk. Lean on me. I will return for my horse.”
John carried me most of the way, because my sprain was still painful. When we arrived at the inn, the landlord and my uncle were worried and shocked to see me limping and dishevelled. John explained what had happened, and the landlord’s daughter helped me wash and undress. I was given some hot soup and tucked into bed. When my uncle came to see how I was, he told me he was very pleased with my evening adventure. I told him how terrified I was of going to Eyre Hall, but he told me everything was progressing according to his plans, and I would soon be a very rich and respected English lady.
I was not so sure if I wanted to live in England, or be rich, or be an English lady, or marry a wealthy man. I had met the man I wanted to marry, but the marriage was impossible. Before leaving, my uncle told me John would be having dinner with us tomorrow night at the inn, but he did not yet know when we would be going to Eyre Hall. I was in turmoil, feeling a mixture of nervous expectation at the thought of seeing him again, and embarrassment due to my indecent feelings towards my brother. I had a different dream that night; I was being pursued by a giant unicorn, and John carried me away to safety on his winged horse.
***
Part Two. The Germs of Love
I had not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously arrived, green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me.
Jane Eyre. Chapter 17.
Chapter IX A Letter from the Past
Monday 30th October, 1865.
Mornings at Eyre Hall were always hectic. After a hearty breakfast of bread, eggs, cake, and plenty of tea, we were rushed off our feet until lunchtime. Beth and Daisy would take hot water up to the bedrooms and bring down the chamber pots and the laundry. They would then sweep and dust all the halls and galleries, as well as the dining room, while Cook prepared breakfast for the mistresses and baked bread and cakes for lunch and tea. Simon would take breakfast upstairs to the master, h
elp him wash and dress, and light the fires upstairs, and I would prepare the fires downstairs and serve breakfast in the dining room for Mrs. Rochester and Miss Adele while the girls swept the drawing room, where my mistress would sit after breakfast, writing letters or looking through the accounts books.
After serving breakfast, I sometimes helped Miss Leah with her bookkeeping. Later, I would take Mrs. Rochester’s letters and messages to and from the schools, the church, and the hospice at Millcote. When I was in the house, I attended the front door and provided anything my mistress required. If no more was needed of me, I was sometimes lucky enough to have a few minutes rest before twelve thirty, when I served lunch for the ladies and made sure the hearths were still going strong.
On those scarce moments of quiet, I often retired to my room to read some passages from the Bible, or poetry, especially In Memoriam by the Queen’s favourite poet, Mr. Tennyson. I would also read the novels I overheard Mrs. Rochester discussing with visitors, or the ones she wrote about in her letters, which I am ashamed to admit, I often read. She wrote very loving and gregarious letters to her cousins, Mary and Diana. She also wrote to Miss Richards, the parish school benefactor, regarding the running of the school in Millcote. Once a month she received a letter from Miss Brookwell, the parish Sunday school teacher, at Hay, and Mrs. O’Shea, the schoolteacher at Millcote, informing her of the children’s attendance and progress. Occasionally, she received correspondence from authors or other educated gentry regarding her novel, mostly in praise, and sometimes suggesting further instalments. She always replied politely that she was too occupied to write novels at present.
On rare occasions, she received very formal letters from her editor in London, in which he encouraged her to write another novel, and she replied, equally formally, that she had no time. I knew that was not true, she was writing a novel. I had seen The Orphan written on the first page of a leather bound journal, kept under lock and key in her desk in the library. Within its covers she had started to write the story of a young orphan girl, who was in a workhouse, accused of stealing bread. A new inmate recognised a chain she was wearing and informed her that her mother, who had abandoned her due to tragic circumstances, had the same chain and was looking for her daughter. It was a pleasant book, so far, but the experiences narrated were not fully accurate. It was easy to see that my mistress had never experienced a workhouse. I was glad for that, but it made her retelling too glossy. She was more precise portraying the upper classes, as she had done in Daphne.
I much enjoyed the last book I had read called Oliver Twist, which portrayed the crude reality far more realistically. Today I was going to make a start on David Copperfield, also by Mr. Charles Dickens, of whom Jane spoke highly on a personal level as well as on his literary capacity. She recommended his novels to her cousins, but warned them that there was some exaggeration and melodrama in his work. I disagreed with my mistress on this matter. I had lived in the workhouse and seen events and characters such as those recounted in Oliver Twist. I had met pick-pockets like Dodger, seen scared, battered women like Nancy, and felt abandoned and hopeless like Oliver. I had smelt the raff and refuse of the Thames and watched the young mudlarks, wading thigh‐deep in the putrid, muddy river, retrieving anything that could be sold on the streets. I had heard the rumbling stomachs of the hungry children, who cried themselves to sleep. I was glad that she thought it an exaggeration, because it meant she had fortunately not experienced nor seen such debasement and degradation.
I had just rested my head on my pillow and was about to start reading my copy of David Copperfield, which I had borrowed from the library, when Simon approached me sheepishly and sat by my side whispering mysteriously, “Michael, would you help me with a letter I have and needs to read?” He chewed his lower lip, winked his bulging pale eyes, and made me promise I would never reveal how he had acquired the dispatch.
“Is it not addressed to you, Simon?”
“It’s not my letter. I come by it quite by chance, but it’s mine. It was given to me as a payment.”
“You were given a letter you can’t read as a payment? For what?”
“When old Mr. Raven, landlord at the Rochester Arms, died, I helped smarten him up ‘cos I worked in an undertakers when I was in London. Then I helped Martin pack up his father’s things. Lord, did he have humbug in his rooms! The bed was full of lice! I’d forgotten the dirt there is outside of Eyre Hall. This is the fanciest, cleanest place I’ve ever lived in. The master’s a bad tempered old faggot, but the missus has such a sympathetic look. She’s like an angel walking on earth, ain’t she Michael? I’d serve her in Hell, if needs be. Bet you would, too!”
“I’m sure Mrs. Rochester will never be anywhere near Hell, Simon.”
“True. Can’t see what she ever saw in that monster of a husband, except the chink of course. What else?”
“That comment is offensive and unfair. She is our mistress and she treats us kindly, Simon. You just said so yourself. Please refrain from making any impolite reference to Mrs. Rochester.”
“Michael, you’s a good man, but you still ain’t realised it’s them and us. No matter how well you speak and read, or how hard you works, or how polite they pretends to be, you’ll never be anything to them. They’ll never stick up for you either. We servants, we clean their scum and say yes, sir, no sir, and that’s it.”
I really didn’t think it would be wise to argue with Simon, who was an infant intellectually. He was decent in a basic sort of way, but he always seemed to get himself into trouble by being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and speaking more than he should. He had arrived home on his monthly free afternoon, more than once, beaten up after a binge-drinking night. Once he had been robbed of his coat, gloves and boots, which meant he arrived in a deplorable state, dragging his bleeding feet into the kitchen. He was constantly making fun of everyone who crossed his path, including our masters, so it was a question of time before his lack of common sense and big mouth got him into big trouble. I wondered what he had meddled in this time. “You were telling me about a letter, Simon.”
“Well, as I says, I was helping him with the rubbish and I seened a box, a little wooden box with encased shiny stones. Thought it might be worth a guinea at least, so I says, ‘can I have this little box?’ And he says ‘yes’.”
I looked at him incredulously. His shifty eyes and uneasy fingers persuaded me the events had not happened exactly as he was recounting them.
“Truth is the box was pretty, I thought it would make a nice present for a lass, might get me a favour, so I says ‘ta’ and takes it without telling Martin, ‘cos he says ‘take anything you likes’, but I thought he might not like me taking such a pretty box, so I says naught and puts it in me pocket. When I got home, I was mighty pleased. I cleaned it on the outside with the oil Beth uses for the furniture and it looks real new. Sure any girl will be tickled when I gives it to her.
“On the inside it was blue and smooth as silk. It was empty but dusty, so I takes a kitchen cloth and wipes it. The bottom was loose, so I lifts it up, and underneath there was a letter. A very long letter. Ain’t no good at reading. Ain’t never been to school. I can count and I can read and write me name, and some big letters I can read them too, like I can read The Rochester Arms, that’s why I know it’s from the master. It’s signed by Mr. Rochester, and it’s got one of those fancy seals they use for letters, but I can’t read a single word of what it says. Might be important, mightn’t it? I know you read well, better than all the rest of us. I seened you with all those fancy books. Well, will you read it for me?”
I scanned the letter his trembling hands had thrust into mine. The date was written in Roman numerals. It was addressed to “My Dearest Uncle” and signed by Edward Rochester. The spidery handwriting was indeed hard to read, but I was able to discern that it was a document of the utmost importance, and a very dangerous document to possess, especially by the likes of feather-brained Simon.
As I read the last lin
es, I slumped down on the bed “Could you bring a candle, so I can read it more easily Simon? There’s not much light in here.”
It was an overcast grey day, but the letter was not difficult to read. I needed time to think. It would have been most unwise to inform Simon of the contents.
“Well? What is it?” he insisted minutes later, nudging me with his bony elbow.
“It is a love letter to Mrs. Rochester. He is asking her to marry him,” I lied.
“It’s old then?”
“Yes, it must be over twenty years old.”
“Go on! Read it to me, Michael.”
I noticed my cheeks redden and my heart race violently. I had to think quickly and improvise. The letter was long, taking up almost a whole page, so I needed to ensure my rendering was not too short to lead to suspicion, even in someone as simple as Simon.
“Just a minute…I’m trying to decipher the words…the writing is very uneven,” I said, in an effort to buy some time for my invention. What did I know about my mistress? I gathered all the scattered information in my mind, as quickly as I could. I knew that the only family she had in the world were her two cousins, Diana, Mrs. Fitzjames, the Colonel’s wife, and her sister, Mary, Mrs. Wharton, the clergyman’s wife. They had a brother who lived in India. I knew nothing about him. I knew she had no father or any other male relatives. Her uncle and benefactor had died, too. I also knew, from Mrs. Leah, that she had met Mr. Rochester when she had been employed as Miss Adele’s governess, and, of course, I knew that her maiden name was Eyre. That would have to be enough. I started reading slowly, giving myself more opportunity to elaborate a proposal.
My Dearest Jane Eyre,
This letter should be addressed to your father, but unfortunately he is deceased. It could also be addressed to your uncle, but he is likewise deceased. You possess no living relative in the world, except your cousins, Mrs. Wharton and Mrs. Fitzjames. Your personal situation makes it impossible for me to address any third party. You are now your own mistress, working for a living in my household. I therefore address this letter directly to you, in the hope that you will do me the honour of reading what I have to offer you, which is all my love and all my possessions. I sincerely hope you will forgive my forthright approach, in which I most humbly ask your permission to express my most sincere affection. With God’s help, I am committed to make you the happiest woman on earth. My whole life will be devoted to this purpose, if you kindly accept this offer of marriage to your most humble servant,
