by Luccia Gray
Miss Eyre, as we were to call her, had come to be governess to Miss Adele Varens, Mr. Rochester’s ‘ward’, whom we all knew to be his illegitimate French daughter. Adele had arrived with her French nurse, Sophie, just a month before, in September. The spoilt little brat, who shouted in French and ran around the house dancing and singing like a drunk parrot, was disturbing the peace at Thornfield. So Mrs. Fairfax, following the master’s orders, and out of her own desperation, had searched in the Northern Herald for young ladies who advertised as governesses. Unfortunately for my master, she found Miss Eyre, who spoke French and had good references.
We had been expecting the governess impatiently so that morning I had prepared her chamber, a small apartment on the first storey at the back of the house, next to Mrs. Fairfax’s room. She arrived late in the afternoon, ate a little, said she was fatigued after her long journey and asked to be shown to her room. Her soft, low voice and waif-like demeanour fooled us all. We thought she would not last till the Beaver Moon. Adele was taller and fuller-bodied than her new governess, and she was more vigorous and forceful. However, surprisingly, Miss Eyre made great progress with her pupil, who seemed quite tamed in conduct and refined in her manners by the time Mr. Rochester returned in January.
Miss Eyre was a strange creature, who spoke very little and spent many hours floating around the hall like a sleepwalker. She tiptoed about, peaking behind closed doors, and there were plenty of them (I had counted over forty), wandering around the rooms and peering out of the windows, as if she were a lost soul in a cemetery. More than once I saw her climb to the third storey, raise the trapdoor of the attic, and look out over the fields and hills with a strange longing in her eyes. Then, when the master came, I realised what it was she desired, what she had desired since the first day she set eyes on the estate. She wanted Thornfield and everything in it, but she hadn’t even imagined that one of its invisible occupants was far stronger willed than she was.
Thornfield was a dark vault-like house, with plenty of nooks in the sombre galleries. I was young and impressionable, and I often saw strange unearthly shadows in its shady corners, but we all knew that one of the ghosts was alive. She, too, must have heard the whispering and the laughing, or seen her shadow in the gallery, when she escaped from her room, which was far too often to remain unnoticed. Only Grace Poole had actually seen the monster face to face, but she told us enough stories to make our blood curdle. Grace was a big, strong woman, who looked after the lunatic and helped me with the sewing and ironing. Grace was usually loud and noisy due to her weakness for gin, which, being colourless, was easy to disguise as water, except for the stench in her glass and on her breath. She earned five times my wages; of course she was the only one who was strong and brave enough to look after the hideous wife Mr. Rochester had concealed in the third storey.
Miss Eyre, who would have liked to become Mrs. Rochester far sooner than discretion would have advised, always said she did not know about the madwoman in the attic. I did not dislike Miss Eyre, she was pleasant enough, but I came to the conclusion that she pretended not to know by ignoring any type of conversation or gossip on the matter. She very rarely conversed with any of the servants, except Mrs. Fairfax, who wasn’t really a servant, being as she was related to the master of the house. They both had the privilege of conversing directly with the master, and sitting with him after dinner. Jane Eyre was keen to improve her station in life. Her first attempt failed most shamefully at the altar, although she finally got her own way a year later.
Two months after the marriage farce, the lunatic nearly got us all killed by setting the house on fire. She escaped from her windowless chamber in the attic, and while Grace dozed in a drunken slumber, she took her keys and let herself out of her hole. She left the room with a candlestick and set fire to the drapery that covered the door of the tapestried room next to her own. Then she got down to the second floor, went into the room which had been her rival’s, and lit the curtains and the bed. Fortunately Mrs. Fairfax, who slept in the room next door, advised the master, who was fast asleep. We all heard the cries and smelt the thick smoke, a mixture of cloth, furniture, wood, and stone.
As we left the building and looked up, we saw the fiend on the top floor battlements waving her arms and shouting against the flames. Mr. Rochester stood behind her on the roof. We heard him call ‘Bertha!’ and we saw him approach her, and then she fell off and smashed on the footpath. We all said he had tried to save her, but the truth is that both were up on the battlements quite alone and out of reach on a dark night. Nobody else knew what really happened up there, and only one survived. Strange that Mr. Rochester should risk his life to save her and lock her up again, wouldn’t you say? But who was to worry about a dead lunatic?
Months earlier, when Mr. Rochester had walked into Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour and told us he was going to marry the governess, we were thunderstruck. Mrs. Fairfax said no good could come of their wedding because ‘A wife of noble character is her husband’s crown, but a disgraceful wife is like decay in his bones’. And poor Mr. Rochester was decayed to the bone by his mad wife. Mrs. Fairfax told us how Mr. Rochester had followed his father’s unwise instructions and married the mad woman in his youth. Unfortunately, his father did not possess the wisdom of King Solomon. The old brute had cared only for his eldest son, Rowland, and discarded young Edward as second best, sending him to Jamaica to marry a rich heiress. Master Edward’s father should have told him how much better it would have been to gain wisdom than gold.
Jane Eyre finally married Mr. Rochester, and imagined she would live happily ever after. But that is not how it occurred. At first he doted on her, pandering to all her whims and agreeing to all her proposals. She feigned reluctance at first, but soon accepted all the frills and jewels the best London shops could offer. She insisted they move away from modest Ferndean. She had inherited a great deal of money from an uncle who had passed away childless, and with her unexpected booty, she decided to build a new mansion on the Thornfield site, in time for the birth of their son.
Eyre Hall was built by one of the best architects in the country, who was responsible for rebuilding large London mansions in the new Gothic style, which included towers, cusped ceilings and pointed arches. She had a central tower built with two wings on either side, plus an adjacent servants’ quarter. The building was decorated with carved mahogany furniture and fashionable buttoned upholstery. The floors were covered with the most lavish Turkish carpets, while French chandeliers hung from the ceilings and English landscape paintings decorated the walls. Richly coloured damask fabric covered the chairs, the best oak was used to panel walls, and sterling silver dishes and ewers decorated the chambers. I witnessed how she became quite the self-righteous, smug mistress she had always said she would never be.
I know my place and my relationship both with Jane Eyre and with Jane Rochester has always been courteous. After the fire, Mr. Rochester sent Mrs. Fairfax away with a handsome and well-deserved annuity. I accompanied her for a time, but her heart was weak and she died shortly after. When the new building, Eyre Hall, was finished, I was working as upper chamber maid in a grand hotel in Millcote. Mr. and Mrs. Rochester asked me if I would like to be their new housekeeper. I was offered an exceptionally good salary and a superior position, so I accepted. I always imagined that she wanted me back there because I had witnessed her rise in the world, and I would continue to confirm who she had been and who she had become. It was a fair deal; we both improved our station.
At first the marriage was happy, but then came the miscarriages, the stillborn baby, her illness, her charity work, her novel, his trips to London, the other women, and the rift, which had always existed, grew even wider. She did not seem to mind her husband’s new pursuits, because she was too busy with her own ambitions, which knew no limits. She wanted to be the mistress of a great house and she wanted her son to be the greatest Rochester of all. She certainly seemed to be on the right track. Unfortunately, Mr. Rochester’s imminent
death and Mr. Mason’s arrival could prove to be setbacks to her great plan.
Last night she informed me of the exceptional and surprising arrangements for the following days. We were having a full house with many unexpected guests. In the first place, Mr. William Greenwood, the famous London poet and Miss Adele’s latest suitor, would be staying in the Green Room. He was not the first gentleman to court her and visit Eyre Hall, but he was the first in several years, and the first to be invited to stay overnight. So I supposed there were more chances of success on this occasion.
It was proving very difficult to marry Miss Adele. In addition to her immature character and spoilt upbringing, she had no social standing and no money of her own. Mrs. Rochester was very fond of her, and Miss Adele repaid her generosity by helping and supporting her while John was a child, through her miscarriages, and especially through her mysterious illness. Her dowry would no doubt be generous, but she had little else to offer, and her childbearing years were almost over. She had become an eccentric spinster, who spent most of her days walking the dogs, reading romantic novels and writing poems and letters in her solitary tower.
The next guest, Bishop Templar, who had been John’s headmaster and mentor at Rugby, would be staying in the Blue Room. Mrs. Rochester wanted to make it very clear that John had invited him, but I was sure it had been at his own request. He was a widower and, according to local gossip, he was living with his housekeeper in intimacy. It was my guess, knowing of Mr. Rochester’s deteriorating health, that he was interested in paying his respects to the future widow, in case she was looking for a new husband.
Mrs. Rochester was a young and wealthy lady, who had become well-known for her social concerns and her novel. I doubted she would remain a widow more than the required year’s mourning. Bishop Templar was an ambitious man. It was rumoured that he would become Archbishop of Canterbury, and he shared her charitable and educational concerns, so they were well suited.
However, the most extraordinary visitors of all were Mr. Mason, Mr. Rochester’s first wife’s brother, and Miss Annette Mason, Mr. Mason’s niece, both from Spanish Town, Jamaica, who would be staying in the adjacent Golden Rooms, which we used for our special guests. I knew of the Masons’ existence from my days at Thornfield. Mr. Mason had visited his sister at the old mansion and interrupted Miss Eyre’s first marriage attempt by reminding Mr. Rochester what we all knew too well. I had never seen him again after that day. He did not even attend his sister’s funeral. Mr. Rochester had said he would shoot him if he ever had him within reach again. He must have taken the threat seriously because he did not appear, although we heard he was in England at the time. Mrs. Rochester should have been buried at a crossroad and staked to prevent her soul haunting the living. But instead, she was buried near midnight, at the corner of the churchyard by the wall, in an unmarked grave. Mr. Wood pronounced some words, because he was a good and just man. He should have insisted on an impalement, which would have put an end to her curse.
The lunatic's spirit had returned. Simon told us he overheard Mr. Mason tell Mrs. Rochester that the child, Annette Mason, was Bertha’s. I did not tell Simon, or anyone else, but I remember the day Grace Poole ran out in horror, screaming that the devil’s child had been born on the third storey. Dr. Carter arrived forthwith, and we employed a wet nurse until Richard Mason took the creature back to Jamaica where it belonged. It was never seen, heard of, or talked of again, until that very morning.
Mrs. Rochester wanted to make sure the domestic arrangements for the following days were to her liking.
“Leah, have you thought of the menu for tomorrow night?”
“May I suggest asparagus soup and broiled salmon for the first course; pheasant casserole, green vegetables for the second course; roast goose, grilled mushrooms for the third course; and port wine jelly, apple pie, and custard for dessert. Finally some ices, wafers, biscuits, tea, coffee, Madeira wine and brandy."
“That’s an excellent choice, Leah, as always. Please see to it that Cook has everything she needs. Will you need any extra staff?”
“We can manage for one evening. It is more time consuming to teach them; once they’ve been taught, it’s time for them to leave.”
“Bear in mind, we will be having four extra guests from tomorrow, and although Bishop Templar and Mr. Greenwood may be leaving soon, my cousins, Mrs. Wharton and Mrs. Fitzjames, will be coming next week with their husbands to stay for at least a week. I suggest you call the George Inn and ask them to send you some extra maids for the chambers and to help cook.”
“In that case I will make the arrangements at once. Is that all, Mrs. Rochester?”
“Just one more thing, Leah. No girls under the age of thirteen, and employ orphans and poorer girls who attend the Sunday school, preferably.”
“Of course, madam.”
After deciding on the menu and extra staff, she told me Michael would be occupied doing her urgent errands and insisted I should not keep him busy with too many household chores, except those related directly to her, such as breakfasts and lunches, and of course her dinner.
She is becoming too protective of her pets, Michael and Susan, who both worship her as their magnanimous saviour. Michael is far too clever to remain a servant for much longer. He reads and writes as well as the masters. He is better at bookkeeping than I am, and far too attractive for his own good. His sister is almost as praiseworthy. I am suspicious of their intentions. Now that Mr. Rochester is dying and Mrs. Rochester will be mistress on her own, the ground is moving under Eyre Hall.
***
Chapter XI Michael’s Letter
I was not the least bit hungry, so I asked Simon to bring up bread and tea. The tea was warming, and the bread was dry and thick to swallow, but I made myself eat some, lest I should fall ill. Dr. Carter was most insistent that I should eat at least four square meals a day, so I would try my best. I would not be of much help to anyone if I were unwell.
John had gone to Thornby, a small hamlet beyond Hay, to a small secluded cottage where Bishop Templar had moved with his housekeeper in an attempt to avoid the gossip in Millcote. Adele had retired to her Tower Room to rewrite her letter to Mr. Greenwood, and Michael was on his errand to the inn, so I was left with the strangeness of dining alone with careless Simon noisily rattling the cutlery and crockery.
After eating, I pulled the curtain and headed to my desk and the comforting privacy of my pen and diary, grateful for the silence and the solitude at last. As I opened the book, I noticed there was a folded piece of paper inside, which I did not recall having inserted. I pulled it out softly, and, for some unknown reason, I imagined it was a precious gift. I unfolded it delicately, as if it would disintegrate in my fingers.
It was a letter addressed to “My Dearest Mistress”. I looked down to the end of the page, but it was not signed. An anonymous letter? Who could have put it here, in my diary? Michael’s troubled eyes, as I had given him the note after lunch came to my mind, and my heart fluttered.
My Dearest Mistress,
My hand trembles as I write this letter. I humbly entreat you to consider it a token of my eternal loyalty and adoration. I can no longer wait in silence while I watch you suffer unjustly. You are not alone. The place I most cherish is by your side or better still, in your shadow. I offer myself to you in humble and loyal service for the rest of my days. For you alone, I live, I hope, and pray. I will do anything to alleviate your distress and contribute to your contentment. You alone shall be my mistress. My only wish is to remain as close to you as I should be allowed.
I await a sign, even the very smallest token, that you are not displeased with these words and will allow me to obey you. Your most faithful and dedicated servant, who must remain unnamed, because he has no name save yours, no hands save yours, no lips save yours, no life save that which you will grant by accepting his service.
Your eternal and unconditional subject.
I breathed in on reading the first line and held my breath to the
end of the letter while my eyes followed the words on the page. When I had finished, I breathed out, and my eyes swelled with tears. I wiped them away with my fingers and reread the letter twice more, forcing myself to breathe as I did so. Simon burst in, as untimely as can be expected of him, and asked, rather taken aback, if I was all right, and I told him I was well. Then he looked down at the letter still in my hands and asked, “Good news, madam?” with a smile that was much too bright for Simon. For once I was relieved that he could neither read nor write.
“Indeed it is, Simon. Good news for a change.”
He smiled slyly and surprised me by saying, “Glad to hear that, madam,” before leaving the room.
My thoughts turned back to Michael. If anyone suspected how he felt, I would have to dismiss him, and the thought of being without him filled me with a heavy void. His silent, vigilant shadow protected me like an invisible shield throughout the day, while his penetrating yet tender gaze had been sending me beams of love to warm my empty heart for years. I sighed and felt a terrifying vibration in my very soul, as I realised I loved him too, and I had loved him for a long time, too long to remember when I had not felt trapped in his devoted eyes.
The first time I saw him, he was so quiet and withdrawn. Later, on our journey to Eyre Hall, he sat with his sister in the coach, facing me with a lost look throughout the journey. I remember smiling and asking him if he was well, and he nodded. Every time I tried to speak to him, he nodded and Susan spoke for him. When he first came to Eyre Hall, he seemed confused and bewildered. Leah said he would not eat or speak unless his sister was with him. Simon said he worked hard and learned the chores with ease, but complained that the new boy was too silent. I told them to be patient, but Leah was not prone to civility with children and Simon was too uncouth to care, so I spoke to Michael myself. I asked him if he was happy, or if he would prefer to be somewhere else. He told me he had never lived in such a beautiful, warm and comfortable house. I asked him why he didn’t speak to anyone at the house, and he answered that at the workhouse he had never spoken to the other men, who were rough and violent, for fear of being picked on. It was obvious to me he lived in fear of himself and of others. I told him he should make an effort to speak to everyone, because not to do so would be considered rude. His big eyes stared at me, as he promised he would make an effort to be more civil.
