‘Good Heavens!’ Mr. Todd exclaimed. ‘How astonishing! That house has stood empty for ten years. I knew nothing of this.’ He took a pace towards the door as if unable to prevent himself from rushing out to look, then pulled himself up and told me, ‘Old House is the residence opposite to this. It has been empty since the gentleman who owns it went to Italy for his health.’
I stood up. ‘Well, let me not detain you any longer, Mr. Todd. It has been very pleasant to visit you, and no doubt we shall be seeing much more of each other once we are back at Thornfield.’
‘I look forward to it,’ he said, half bowing, but I detected still his restless desire to see what was afoot at Old House, as a child will drop one toy, eager to play with a newer one. He would have done better, thought I, to have gone out among the lead-miners, who were probably nearly as ignorant of the Gospels as any Indian my cousin St. John was attempting to convert. Or getting up a fund to provide shoes for the barefoot children of Hay. But there, Mr. Todd was a shallow man.
In the street outside the rectory a dispute had begun between Jeremy and one of the drivers of two heavy drays. This man was trying to draw up his vehicle outside Old House, which I now perceived to be a large and graceful building with long, plain windows on either side of a porticoed door, after the Georgian style. The present difficulty was that one dray was already stationary outside the house, while the second man wished to pull up his own waggon alongside the first. This was prevented by the presence of my waiting carriage. I put a stop to the dispute by shortening my farewells to Mr. Todd and ascending into my carriage, ready to depart. Even as I did so, he glanced over my shoulder to see what goods were being removed from the dray already being unloaded outside Old House.
We had gone only a quarter of a mile down the road back to Hay, when round a bend in the road a handsome black open carriage drawn by two fine horses came racing towards us at a cracking pace. This apparition was startling – Jeremy uttered an exclamation – but to my eyes the most astonishing feature of the scene was that the driver aloft on the seat above the horses, wielding her whip over their backs – most expertly, so far as I could tell – was a lady! Dressed all in black, she wore no bonnet, but had a piece of white lace over her head and tied about her throat and this streamed off behind her as she came. I saw an erect figure, swaying with the vehicle and not at all discommoded by the speed at which she was travelling, the line of a long and emphatic nose – then no more.
Jeremy had been forced to pull our horses over on to the verge of the road to let the lady and her carriage go by. When I swung round I saw only the rear of her vehicle disappearing in a cloud of dust. As Jeremy drove the horses back on to the road I wondered, was this bold creature the new tenant of Old House?
And so I returned to the refuge of Ferndean. But safe refuge it was no longer.
Chapter V
Dear Ferndean stood in darkness as I descended from my carriage and approached the door. While I was disappointed that Edward had not yet returned, I was glad that when he did so I would be there to greet him. Mary, opening the door to me reported unceremoniously, ‘There’s soup and cold meat for you in the dining-room and master sent word he’d be home in an hour.’
‘And Jonathan?’ I asked.
‘Been a lamb all day, bar falling in the stream deliberate, and now sleeps the sleep of the just,’ she told me.
‘The stream?’ I questioned.
‘That weren’t no accident, though he fibbed and said it were.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘we shall speak of this in the morning.’ I gave her my cloak.
My heart was leaping at the thought of Edward’s return. How absurd it seems for one to await the return of a husband of ten years’ standing with all the excitement of a girl attending a lover, yet that was what I ever did when Edward was away.
Only an hour, and he would be back, thought I with delight, and then crept upstairs to my son’s small bedroom.
And there he lay, my Jonathan, one soft hand beneath his soft cheek, and spread across his face a lock of golden hair, which I gently moved. How strange it was that dark Edward and I should have for a son this apple-cheeked cherub, golden of head and blue of eye. In one hand he clutched a small, carved wooden horse, his friend and familiar, the favourite toy from the collection of farm animals he loved so much.
I stood for a little while beside his bed, my heart filled with joy at his existence and rejoicing more that if my hopes were fulfilled next year my dearest boy would have a brother or sister, my husband another son or a daughter. For a long month and more, I had been checking my own hopes but now, I thought, now, surely I could say to myself, would be able to tell Edward – yes, yes, it is true. We will have another child. Was any woman ever so blessed? thought I, and with one last look at my sleeping child I went on to the landing.
I paused, thinking I heard Edward’s voice in the hall. I decided he must have come in when I was in Jonathan’s room but evidently rather quietly. His usual manner was to enter the house like a hurricane, calling for me as soon as the front door was opened to him. Instead I heard Mary say, in a low tone, ‘I’ll take your coat, sir,’ and a muttered response from him.
Surprised, I ran to the head of the stairs calling, ‘Edward!’ and started to descend rapidly.
But although I had heard my husband’s voice it was not Edward who came out of the shadows of the hall and advanced to the foot of the stairs, gazing up at me with dead, expressionless eyes. Oh, those eyes, how well I remembered them! There below me, as I looked down in utter shock, was a figure horribly familiar from earlier days, even from the nightmares which had haunted me during the early years of my marriage, until daily love and security quieted my fears.
How bad she looked – standing there in a hempen dress which fell in skimpy folds over her wasted figure, the uneven hem revealing rags of stockings and boots cracked across the top. She had a miserable, worn tartan shawl about her shoulders. Some of her hair, knotted roughly at the nape of her neck had escaped and hung lankly on her shoulders. She was the very figure of a beggar in the street, and in that pale and sallow face her great, pitiless eyes burned like coals. I saw she hated me.
My head spun – why was she here, back to haunt me? It was Grace Poole standing at the foot of my own stairs at Ferndean. I was dizzy. I fell.
Chapter VI
I lay in my room for four long weeks after that, seriously ill and in danger of losing my child – perhaps, said the doctor, even my own life.
A fortnight passed, during which I was conscious only occasionally of the attentions of my good Mary and the nurse brought in to care for me, and of my dear Edward, patiently beside me. But oh, my nights were tormented by thoughts of that dreadful vision of Grace Poole, standing in the hall, her eyes blazing upwards into mine. Sometimes I thought it had been nothing but a vision, precursor of my illness. At others I knew, all too well it was no vision: the woman had indeed been there that night, in my house.
Yet slowly, weakness, fear and bad dreams abated. One morning, I awoke a little better, to see sunshine coming through my window, and hear reassuringly the sounds of the household coming to life below. I thought of Edward, who had been so loyally attentive during my illness. I luxuriated in the sensation of recovery. All might yet be well with me and my coming child, I thought. But then, what of Grace Poole? Even as I asked myself that question, there came a quiet knock at the door and in she stepped, bearing my breakfast-tray. She was still gaunt and pale, but now wore a plain dress and white apron and her greying hair was neatly arranged. My head swam; I turned my head on the pillow closing my eyes. Awful recollections filled my head of that spare, intimidating figure, severe and sinister, haunting the house at Thornfield. I remembered her standing by as the dishevelled madwoman attacked her own brother.
A voice, hard and level, was in my ears. ‘You seem better, madam. Will you take some food?’
‘No. No, go – leave me,’ I murmured.
‘Very well,’ came that unsym
pathetic voice. And she went.
Dear God, thought I, what can she be doing here?
Later Edward came. Accustomed, I suppose, to seeing me very ill, barely conscious of my surroundings – though never, I think, during the course of my illness was I completely unaware of him during the hours he spent at my bedside – he was surprised to see me look at him, smile, speak, utter his name. ‘Edward – Oh, my dear love. Edward.’
He bent over me, seized my hand and bent to kiss my brow. There were tears in his eyes as he sat down beside me still holding my hand.
‘You are better! Oh, Jane, the worst is over, is it not?’
‘I believe it is.’
For a little while, we spoke of our son and Edward told me of all the small events which had taken place while I was ill. So delighted was I to be well and united again with Edward in spirit that I had no heart to ask about Grace Poole, scarcely thought of her. The nurse came then, and bustled my husband from the room.
‘Do not let Mrs. Poole come to me, though,’ I said. ‘I will have Mary and only Mary.’
‘These instructions will please Mary – John, too,’ the nurse quietly told me. ‘For Mary dearly wished to attend you, and said none would do but she, but Mrs. Poole would not have it.’
‘And so Mrs. Poole has been with me over these weeks?’ I asked, and I am sure there was dread in my voice.
‘Yes, from time to time, though never when you were conscious of her presence, so far as I know,’ responded the nurse.
‘Henceforth let it be Mary alone,’ I commanded and then, overtaken by weakness, knew no more for a time.
Later, the doctor came and pronounced me better, though still frail and in need of much rest. I had insisted on being raised up on my pillows and had seen my boy, and now Edward came again. I almost dreaded to ask him what Grace Poole was doing in the house as a servant and moreover giving instructions to the others. Plainly she was there because he had ordered it. But why? I asked myself. Surely the last thing he could ever have wished was for the presence of that woman, a reminder of the dark days of the past.
So, we spoke of the progress at Thornfield – nearly ready, he said – and of our boy’s latest escapade (he and Mr. Weatherfield’s son chased by a bull!) but he said nothing of Grace Poole and nor did I until, timidly, I asked him, ‘But, Edward – why is Mrs. Poole here, in the house?’
He replied earnestly, ‘Jane, I found that poor woman in a street in Manchester, starving. After leaving Thornfield she went back to her brother, who, as you know, was in charge of an asylum, and there got employment. But when he died the new incumbent took a dislike to her and discharged her. She sank, Jane, she sank and finally, savings gone, became destitute. I was riding towards the mill when I saw her plodding along, in the rain, a pitiable figure indeed. I stopped merely to give a stranger, as I thought, something, a few coins, to relieve her immediate wants. Imagine my horror to find my old servant ragged and starving, utterly forlorn! Of course, Jane, after the fire and when gravely injured, I had not thought of Mrs. Poole’s fate. But now – I ask you, Jane, what could I do? What would you have had me do?’
I murmured, ‘I do not know. But she was hardly true to her trust, when she was your servant, Edward. It was through her negligence the tragedy occurred.’ I said no more, unwilling to violate our unspoken agreement not to refer to those old, bad times. Nevertheless, Edward knew well, as I did, that it was Grace Poole’s liking for drink which had caused her, more than once, to fall asleep and allow Bertha Mason to escape her room. In reality she had been the cause of the fire at Thornfield and the agent of my husband’s injuries, for had she not permitted the madwoman to escape there would have been no fire, and therefore no attempted rescue of the madwoman by Edward and no injuries to him. Though Edward might generously overlook this, I could not.
‘Come, Jane,’ he told me. ‘It is unlike you to be so unforgiving.’
‘It is the injuries to you I cannot forgive,’ I told him. ‘For had she done her duty—’
He stopped my words with a kiss. ‘That was long ago. And now we are happy.’
What was he telling me? That we owed our happiness to Grace Poole? In logic, of course, we did, for had there been no fire Bertha Mason might still have been alive and had she been alive, we could not have married. True, all true, but a truth too hard to contemplate.
I said faintly, ‘It was your choice what to do about Grace Poole, whether to help her or not. I would never question your judgement, as you know. But to me it seems you have appointed her as a servant here, over John and Mary who have been so faithful over the years.’
He then said something terrible to me. ‘You will need a housekeeper at Thornfield, Jane. It is a large establishment and you will be occupied with other matters.’
‘But I have written to Mrs. Fairfax,’ I told him.
‘Sensible Jane, but perhaps not sensible enough. Mrs. Fairfax is old; the burdens of conducting affairs at Thornfield might prove too great, even if she were willing to assume them. I will write and tell her so, if you will permit me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ I concurred, but only so that he would leave me – leave me to my tears.
And, as soon as he had left the room, I sobbed. I could not understand Edward’s appointing Grace Poole without consulting me. I could not understand why he did not take into consideration my obvious reluctance to have her as a servant. Now, she had settled like a black cloud over the house, and would be with us at Thornfield, as housekeeper. It was horrible, horrible.
As I sobbed, there came a tap at the door. In the doorway stood the black-clad figure.
‘Madam!’ she exclaimed. ‘What ails you? I will tell Mr. Rochester. He must call the doctor.’ And she was gone.
Not half an hour later the doctor came to me and composed a draught, which, when I had taken it, caused a heavy sleep. What had been said to him I do not know. All I know is that from that moment on Mrs. Poole came to me twice a day, at morning and evening, and gave me medicine. I would gaze into that impassive face, take the potion from her long, cold hands, always with the sensation that she was giving me something damaging. Yet I had no choice; I could not assume the responsibility of defying the doctor’s orders, when the consequence might have been to lose the child I so dearly longed for. This medicine made me sleep away my nights and days. And so another ten days passed until at last I received permission from the doctor to cease the drugs, and his reassurance, ‘You and the child are out of danger now, Mrs. Rochester. But you must be careful in future not to indulge in any excessive physical or mental exertion. I have told this to Mr. Rochester. There will be henceforth some danger both to you and the child – all will be well, though, if you are most careful.’
‘And that I shall be,’ I assured him fervently. After giving me his further instructions, he pressed my hand and was gone.
However, during the ensuing days it became plain what a heavy burden the doctor’s orders imposed on me. Edward continued to sleep in another room, as he had since the commencement of my illness. This parting – for we had not spent a night apart since our marriage – had afflicted me during my illness, and now became harder to bear. Yet there was no help for it. We must stay apart. A further grief was that my weakness precluded any domestic activities but the least taxing.
Edward came to me one evening and said, with an air of satisfaction, ‘Well, my dearest, I am assured that all is in order for the move.’
I had almost forgotten the move to Thornfield. ‘Could we not delay it a little, perhaps until after Christmas?’ I appealed.
‘It will be better to manage the thing now, while the weather is fine and the days still fairly light,’ he declared. ‘A move in winter can be gruelling, even for one in perfect health which, alas, you are not. Even now we are making efforts to warm and air the house for you before we take up residence. Mrs. Poole has ordered the main fires to be lit and kept lit from now on. Rest assured, my dearest, nothing – nothing – will trouble you about the move. Al
l will be done. You will need only to appear when the move is over, and become mistress of the house.’
This was not what I wanted. Yet how could I explain my need to be in charge of our translation to Thornfield, to order all the arrangements myself, to understand all the workings of the house from its inception? How could I explain this to Edward? What man could understand it? Be reasonable, Jane, thought I, or if you cannot be reasonable, seem so. And I answered, ‘I hope this incapacity of mine at such a time is not too burdensome for you, Edward.’
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘nothing is too much trouble. Your health and that of our coming child are my only concern.’ He added, ‘There’s nothing at all to concern you – Mrs. Poole has the whole thing in hand.’
And so my sadness at leaving Ferndean, and my dear servants John and Mary, was increased by the knowledge that the move was to be presided over by that hard, cold woman, associated in my mind with all that was foul and gloomy, that woman who, I was sure, hated me. It was she who was to pack my belongings, even my most precious things, she who would ordain where they were to be placed.
Next day a letter came from Mrs. Fairfax. She told me she had received Edward’s message to her, written during my illness, telling her that my invitation to return to Thornfield as housekeeper was revoked as he had recently come upon Mrs. Poole in very poor circumstances and had offered her the appointment. He had concluded by inviting Mrs. Fairfax most cordially to visit Thornfield at the earliest opportunity, as a guest. My dear Mrs. Fairfax ended her letter by saying she had been most concerned to hear of my illness and added, in a guarded manner, that she had every respect for Mrs. Poole and she dearly hoped I would be happy with my new housekeeper.
Mrs Rochester Page 4
