Mrs Rochester

by Hilary Bailey

  At last came the final hymn and we left the church. Mr. Todd, in the porch, enquired had Mr Rochester felt himself unwell at the commencement of the service? There was no sign of the lady. Seated at the back, as she had been, she would no doubt have had time to leave and return to her home by the time Jonathan and I reached the porch. Old House, I noted, as I got into the carriage, showed signs of repainting. The garden had been tidied and was freshly dug, indicating, I thought, her intention to remain some time in the neighbourhood.

  As we neared the gates of Thornfield I observed, coming off the path which led across the fields to the church, not just the mysterious new tenant of Old House but, with her, Grace Poole. They were in conversation. I saw them turn from the path on to the road past Thornfield as we approached the gates of the house.

  I was absorbing this strange sight, and pondering its implications, when we arrived back at the doors of Thornfield. However, when I entered and asked where was Mr. Rochester the maid replied that he had not returned.

  Luncheon was ready, but I could not think of eating. My mind was confused. I could understand nothing of what seemed to be a very strange combination of circumstances – Edward’s leaving the church and the association of Grace Poole and the new tenant of Old House. As soon as I decently could, I collected my shawl and ran, like any common woman whose husband has not returned home, down the drive and into the road. Glancing back and forth wildly, I could see no sign of Edward, nor of the women. The road was deserted.

  Clouds had covered the perfectly blue sky of morning. I roamed to and fro on the road and then found myself at the thorn field. Leafless, twisted branches under lowering skies; long, straggling grass, brown and faded green – and here, black backs turned to me and talking intently, were the lady of Old House and Grace Poole, going uphill away from me. I gazed at them from the road, in horror. Grace Poole took a long pace over the little stream not a foot wide, which coursed downhill from the mountains, then turned and gave the other woman her hand to help her cross. As she did so I envisaged them both, in one of those surges of the imagination – so alarming – as unwilled – as two black crows in a field, hopping and leaping.

  I turned to go back to Thornfield. Carrion crows, carrion crows, came a voice in my head. What do they mean, those carrion crows?

  When I returned Edward had still not come back, and I spent a wretched afternoon wondering where he might be and why he had sent no message. I kissed my boy and put him in the coach back to Mr. Weatherfield’s, then spent a long, anxious evening of vigil. It was not until after nine that a man came from Millcote, with a brief note from Edward saying only that he had been suddenly called to business in Manchester, where he was partner in a cotton mill and had been forced to leave immediately. He would be back within a few days.

  This action amazed me, for never before, during our ten years of marriage, had he gone off precipitately, without saying farewell.

  A long lonely week at Thornfield, during which time I was scarcely for one moment free of doubt and dread. All the time questions hammered in my head. What were Grace Poole and the lady of Old House to each other? What was Edward to the lady?

  It was impossible to go to Grace Poole for explanations. She was a servant, and we were not, in any case, confidential. Had she been my dear old Mary from Ferndean, things would have been otherwise, but, alas, here they were not; and could not be. During Edward’s absence Mrs. Poole behaved entirely as usual, being efficient as ever, correct and polite without warmth. The suspicion that she knew something of the mysterious woman and that this might have a bearing on aught to do with Edward preyed on my mind, but I could do nothing.

  During that period, also, there came from up the village a note in an unfamiliar hand. It lay on Edward’s desk in the study, unopened, mysterious.

  And so began a time when I understood very little of the events surrounding me. Not since my early days at Thornfield had I felt so uncertain of my world and what was to take place in it.

  Chapter X

  I take you now to a location where I was not, London, for it was thither Edward went after he left the house so precipitately. He arrived on the crowded wharves of the Thames and found the offices of Grover and Sims, shipping agents, where he chartered a vessel, the Janus.

  That evening he found himself in a noisy, smoke-filled inn near the waterfront, speaking to the robust sun-tanned man who would captain his ship to the West Indies.

  ‘Do not,’ said my husband earnestly, ‘on any account land at Kingston, in Jamaica. I have had serious warnings from friends whose position grants them access to much confidential information, and they assure me riots and other disturbances are expected there. Put in at Kingston and you risk ship, cargo and even the lives of your crew. That is why I desire you – nay, command you – to avoid Jamaica at all costs.’

  The ship’s master readily agreed. ‘If those are your instructions, Mr. Rochester, I will do exactly as you say.’

  And then, his business done, Edward came home.

  Chapter XI

  Edward returned after a week at night, entering the drawing-room just before dinner. He crossed the room towards me, powerful, strong in limb and shoulder, but with a dark and brooding expression on his face which alarmed me. He dropped a kiss on my brow then went to a chair opposite and fell into it, as if very weary.

  ‘Do you wish anything?’ said I, standing up.

  ‘Ring for the maid and sit down, Jane, do,’ he said. ‘You’ve no need to wait on me hand and foot yourself.’

  I rang the bell and sat down, attempting to be calm. He had been gone for many days, had given no real explanation for his going and now – now, on his return, seemed angry with me for no reason.

  When the maid came he told her, ‘Bring a hot rum to the study,’ then got up and left the room.

  At dinner he ate little and said almost nothing, and his manner was if anything gloomier than when he had first entered the house. Distracted with anxiety though I was, I knew I must not persecute him with questions, though when one course had come and gone I asked, as calmly as I could, ‘Is anything the matter, Edward? You seem silent. Please tell me if there is anything wrong.’

  At first he did not reply. Then, ‘You might ask, is anything right?’ he burst out. ‘For one thing – read this’. And he seized from his breast pocket a letter and handed it to me – yet this was not the note the servant had brought from the village but another piece of correspondence which had been delivered during his absence. This, I knew from the handwriting, was from his ward Adèle, once my charge, who was away at school in Switzerland. I read it. It was couched in very affectionate terms and said in essence that since she was almost eighteen she felt it was time to leave school and come home.

  My relationship with Adèle had been, perforce, distant. She had been away at school for long periods and at sixteen had elected to leave and go to Switzerland, to a very good place widely known for its skills in broadening and expanding the minds of its pupils, granting them a greater degree of polish and knowledge of the world than they could find in any comparable institution in this country.

  All had been done for Adèle that could have been done, but now I felt it would be almost more than I could bear to have the responsibility for a grown-up young woman placed on my shoulders. What could I do with her? I said, though, only, ‘Might it not be better if she stayed until spring, until after our child is born?’

  ‘If that is what you wish,’ he said.

  ‘No, Edward. If it is what you wish,’ I replied. ‘I merely suggest.’

  ‘Then,’ he told me, ‘I will accept what you call your suggestion, and you may write to her accordingly.’

  ‘She wrote to you,’ I pointed out. ‘Should you not reply to her yourself?’

  ‘Perhaps I should,’ he said, ‘but I desire not to. I would prefer it if you replied.’ Then he stood up, saying, ‘If you will forgive me, I will go now to the study. There are affairs which require my attention. I will bid you g
oodnight now, for I may not have the pleasure of seeing you before you retire.’

  I was left at the table alone, surprised and wretched. The coldness of his tone chilled me. His manner was that of the old Rochester, enduring a hopeless marriage; with no prospect of future happiness. Sadness swept over me and, weakly, I thought, Oh, how could he have been so loving, so true, at Ferndean and then, no sooner than we are back at Thornfield be once more the old Edward Rochester, bitter, hard, ironic, disillusioned? My feelings overwhelmed me so that, a very brief time after he had gone to his study, I sought the shelter of my bedchamber, where I could be alone and unobserved in my distress.

  I hastened from the room. At the foot of the stairs was Mrs. Poole, standing, erect in her black dress, by the newel post. ‘I hope dinner was to your satisfaction, Mrs. Rochester,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poole,’ I replied.

  ‘I could not help noticing that neither you nor Mr. Rochester ate well tonight.’

  ‘Mr. Rochester is tired and I am a little unwell,’ I responded. ‘That is the reason. There was nothing wrong with the dinner, thank you. Goodnight, Mrs. Poole.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs. Rochester,’ she said.

  I felt her eyes watching me as I ascended the stairs and reflected that it is a bitter thing to have an enemy in your own home.

  Chapter XII

  I could not keep to my bed next morning, for it seemed important for me to talk to Edward and try to resume our old, free communication. I knew – I could not help knowing – that he was troubled and I wished to find out what his anxiety might be and, if it was in my power, assist him.

  I rose early, dressed and went down to breakfast. Mrs. Poole was there in her black dress, hands clasped before her as usual. Impassively she told me that my husband had gone out early, asking her to tell me he was with Mr. Sugden, the estate manager, inspecting outlying farms. She asked coldly, ‘It is early, madam. Should you be up at this hour?’

  It was a dark and blowy day, gloomy, with intermittent rain, which ran like constant tears down the window-panes. I sat in the drawing-room at my little desk, where I wrote to Adèle that her papa and I were agreed she should stay in Switzerland until spring, though we looked forward to seeing her at Christmas. Having done this, I tried to sew, but all the time anxiety gnawed at me. I had still not spoken to Edward and I began to think he was avoiding me. My morning went sadly on.

  At midday, a seamstress came from Hay, her task being to adjust the lengths of any curtains in the house which were not at the correct levels. As she knelt on the drawing-room floor, pinning up a hem, she glanced up at me, asking, ‘Were Mr. Rochester taken ill in church last Sunday?’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ I answered.

  ‘Aye, well he might,’ she responded as if my reply satisfied her in some way. I could not fathom what she meant, though there was something angry, even unpleasant, in her tone. But I knew nothing of her or Hay, except that I had seen it to be poor. I ignored what she said and stood back to study the effect of her pinnings. ‘That will do, I think,’ I said. ‘By the by, I do not think there is a school for the children in Hay?’

  ‘There’s never been a school in Hay,’ she replied.

  ‘Do you not feel the lack of one?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye, perhaps,’ she said, ‘but the people are poor.’

  ‘Let us go upstairs,’ I said. ‘There is other work to do.’

  ‘Mrs. Poole used to do this,’ she told me as we ascended the stairs, I in front.

  ‘She is too busy now,’ said I.

  Her voice came from behind me. ‘A good deal has changed at Thornfield. But some things, and some folk, do not change.’

  I waited for Edward throughout the long, dark day. When he returned through the bad weather it was so late I had sent the servants to bed and was sitting by the drawing-room fire by the light of one lamp.

  ‘Jane?’ he said. ‘I thought you would be abed. You should be resting.’

  ‘I am quite well now,’ I told him. ‘Let me take your coat. How wet you are.’

  And with my own hands I took off his coat and then led him to the dining-room where I had fire and food waiting for him.

  ‘A little cheese will do,’ he said, standing by the fire, muddy from his long ride, ‘for the bone-weary.’

  ‘Sit and eat,’ I instructed. ‘Here’s soup and cold meats—’

  ‘Jane,’ he interrupted, ‘I need my bed.’

  ‘You will catch cold if you go to bed hungry and frozen,’ I told him. ‘To please me, sit and eat.’

  Once he had wine and food before him, I sat down opposite, contemplating him while he addressed himself silently to his plate.

  When he had taken some food I said to him ‘Edward, there is something about which I am curious. Will you satisfy that curiosity?’

  ‘As much as is in my power,’ he responded, in a discouraging tone.

  ‘Well then, pray do,’ I continued steadily. ‘Will you tell me, if you please, what caused you to leave church so hurriedly on Sunday? We have not spoken since then.’

  ‘I was suddenly ill,’ he said.

  ‘But you are not ill now.’

  ‘I thought myself ill,’ he said impatiently. ‘It is not unknown to feel oneself ill and then discover one is not. Jane, do not badger me. You have never been the wife to worry a weary man. I hope you are not beginning to be one now. I felt ill – I left the church – but I was mistaken – I was not ill. That is all there is to it. We need say no more.’

  ‘I wondered if your abrupt departure had anything to do with the lady who has taken Old House, the lady who entered the church after we were seated?’

  He threw down his knife and fork. ‘The lady – What lady? – Oh, the lady,’ he said very rapidly. ‘Yes. It is true I thought I recognised her, but that had nothing to do with my leaving. Jane, have you taken leave of your senses? What is all this? I am cold, tired, and was hungry before you set on me, though I now lose appetite. I do not want any more questions.’

  ‘Edward, my dear – I have not set on you. Please do not say that.’

  ‘Very well. You have not,’ he said and took up his knife and fork again.

  There was a further silence.

  ‘And so, when you left the church, you realised you had recognised the lady as someone you knew,’ I prompted gently.

  But as I spoke a rage I hated to see suffused Edward’s face. Then he mastered himself and stood up. ‘I will go to bed,’ he declared, and left the room with no embrace, no farewell, no promise for the morning.

  And I – I went to my bedroom and lay awake until dawn, grieving at the distance that seemed to be growing between us and wondering what was the cause of it. A bitter, sad night, and not the last I was to experience at Thornfield Hall over the coming months.

  Chapter XIII

  A grey day dawned and I kept to my room all morning, thoughts swirling in my heavy head. It seemed vain to try to talk to Edward again, and this separation was causing me such distress no other form of action could appeal to me. The house was silent. No sound came from downstairs. No one came or went. From my windows I saw rain sweeping over the lawn, over the walled garden.

  Just before luncheon I saw Edward return and hand his horse to the groom outside. Then I heard him coming upstairs to change his drenched clothes. When that was done, he came to my room, embraced me and led me down to luncheon.

  As the maid brought in the first course, he said to me, ‘Jane, I am deeply sorry I was so hasty last night.’

  I replied, ‘My dear, I pressed you when I should not have. You were so tired…’

  But even as we smiled at each other, Mrs. Poole, came into the room, saying, ‘A lady has come to see you, sir.’

  There was something in her manner which alarmed me. Not so, Edward. He leaned back in his chair and said, ‘Mrs. Poole, why do you interrupt us at a meal? Who is this lady? What does she want?’

  ‘She will not say.’

  ‘Then, Mrs. Poole,’ he
said, ‘she must surely wait.’

  ‘Sir,’ she said in a warning tone, ‘sir – I think you would wish to see her now.’

  ‘The devil!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why do you think that? I ask again – what is the lady’s name?’

  She hesitated, then said in a low voice, ‘It is Madame Roland.’

  I saw his face alter, then he stood up with an oath and, crashing his chair back, walked from the room, leaving me alone at the table.

  The words were forced from me. ‘Mrs. Poole, what is this? Who is Madame Roland?’

  ‘Madam,’ she responded, ‘it is better you do not know.’

  ‘Mrs. Poole – what insolence!’ I exclaimed, but she turned and left the room. In anger I called after her, ‘Mrs. Poole!’ but she did not come back.

  Without a moment’s thought I left the room. I was in the hall, wondering where Edward had gone, when I heard raised voices in the study, though, through the thick oak door I could not distinguish any words, only Edward’s raging voice interrupted by the woman’s in what seemed to be passionate declarations. I stood some feet from the door, half concealed behind one of the tall pillars of the hall. Could it be that this woman was some creature from Edward’s past come to reproach him or make some claim, to cause trouble, disturbance and pain?

  Then the study door was flung open. The woman stood in the doorway, turning back to look at Edward within, her face deadly pale, eyes blazing, ‘You will give me satisfaction, Mr. Rochester,’ she cried in a powerful voice. ‘I go now, but I will return, as God is my witness.’ She swept past me, not noticing me, through the hall and out of the open front door.