Mrs Rochester

by Hilary Bailey

  The study door slammed shut. Something inside, a chair perhaps, fell to the floor. I stood for a moment, then crossed the hall, walking automatically towards the drawing-room. Mrs. Poole was standing at the door, which she, expressionlessly, silently opened for me. As I passed, I gazed into her eyes. They were triumphant.

  Inside the room I sank into a chair, my heart beating wildly. I felt dizzy and ill and, ‘My child,’ I thought, ‘my coming child. I am ill. My child may be harmed.’

  Who was this woman? Why was she in Hay? Had she come there by chance – or deliberately, in order to persecute my husband? What relations had she had with him – and what could she want now? She had a French name, yet, when she cried out, her accent had been that of an Englishwoman. Had she come from France? Had she known Edward during the years when Céline Varens had been his mistress?

  I was wholly bewildered. Our life together had been clear, perfect, and now some ugly phantom had arisen to oppress us. From the occasion of Madame Roland’s first appearance, in church, all had changed between Edward and myself. His brusqueness to me, his anger, dated from that moment. And his desire to avoid me and my questioning.

  And yet, I reflected distressfully, perhaps this was not a woman from the distant past. Perhaps – a dreadful thought – she was some woman Edward had met in Manchester, when he had been there on business. It was there he had found Mrs. Poole and given her employment. And the two women knew each other, for I had seen them together. Was that why Mrs. Poole was here, at Thornfield? Because she knew the secret of Edward’s relations with this woman?

  My mind filled with the most hideous suspicions, suspicions that only a few months previously I should never have believed I could entertain, I lay in my chair, waves of sickness going through me. How could I mistrust my husband, so suddenly, after years of perfect faith? I could not – I must not. Yet what was I to think? All was very far from well. And he would explain nothing to me – nothing.

  Even as I agonised, the door opened suddenly and Edward was there, dressed for riding. ‘I must leave for Manchester again,’ he declared. ‘I am sorry. After that, I may have to go to London.’ There was pain in his face, and love for me – that I knew.

  I ran to him. ‘I will pack for you.’

  But, ‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Mrs. Poole has done it. Jane, my dearest I must go.’ And he pressed me to him, in a kind of agony, it seemed to me, then held me from him and his fierce eyes were glistening with tears. ‘I would not willingly leave you, Jane,’ he said, ‘but I must – I must. Be well, my darling, be careful of our child – wait for me.’ And he was gone.

  Through the drenched windows I watched him leave the house and mount his big grey horse, held for him by the groom. I watched him ride away, across the lawn, down to the road, in the rain.

  I could make nothing of the day’s strange events. Even if the black-clad woman were an old lover of my husband’s or some connection of Céline Varens, that Parisienne so-called ‘opera dancer’ (a description which I understood better now than I had at eighteen, when Edward had imparted Adèle’s history to me), even if she were his present lover, what difference could it make? It had been plain that, even while angry, and sometimes cold, yet he loved me. And that, perhaps, I reflected, was all that should concern me. If he loved me, we could together resolve all other difficulties, if he loved me no harm could come to me, to him – to either of us.

  Chapter XIV

  Next day I rose determined, for I knew, though my husband was gone, though I was still anxious and fearful, that I had duties to perform for him, for Thornfield and perhaps above all for myself. I would visit Mr. Todd, even though in doing so I would be obliged to pass Old House. Yet that, I was resolved, would not deter me in my mission.

  I descended from the carriage opposite Old House, which was shut up and quiet, and discovered Mr. Todd at the vicarage, enjoying a late and ample breakfast. He took me to see his garden and his fruit trees. We stood by the bee-hives round which bees, sated on the apples and plums lying beneath the trees, buzzed lazily, though the air was cool. He asked me about Edward’s disappearance from the church on Sunday. I told him Edward had felt unwell.

  ‘I came,’ I told him, ‘because I hear there is no school in the village. I wished to discuss with you the matter of beginning one. When we were at Ferndean, I created a school which still thrives, and I would wish to do so here, for Hay, I see, is a poor place, and I believe conditions among the lead-miners in the hills may be worse. To teach the children some reading and writing, and something of correct conduct, would be a marvellous thing.’

  ‘With the greatest respect, Mrs. Rochester,’ he said, ‘I have never been convinced of the wisdom of educating humble folk whose paths are destined to remain humble, and to whom education is unnecessary. Hay is wretched not because the people are deprived of schooling but because they have no work, and this lack of work is caused by circumstances over which we have no control. Once the villagers were wont to weave cloth in their own homes, but now the new factories in the industrial towns can weave faster and more cheaply. Therefore, Hay’s trade is dead. What I do not think we wish to do, in this unfortunate situation, is stir up a ferment of thought in weak and inexperienced individuals. There is always danger in that, do you not agree?’

  I confess I was not surprised by this response. I confess also to a stratagem – I knew I must not proceed without informing Mr. Todd of my intention, knew also that he would oppose it. This visit and my declaration that I supported the idea of a school was the opening salvo in my campaign.

  ‘But if one were to found a school,’ I asked, ‘is there a building in Hay which might be used for the purpose?’

  He shook his head, ‘Alas, no. Hay is a sorry place, a cluster of houses, several inns – too many – and that is about the sum of it. A suitable building would have to be built and then comes the old question, how would the money be found?’

  ‘Perhaps by means of a subscription raised among the better people of the neighbourhood.’

  He shook his head. ‘I wish I could assure you of their support, but alas, they are not as generous as they might be. The church roof is in great need of attention, and yet money for that even worthy cause is slow in coming, alas.’

  That is most unfortunate,’ I told him, ‘but tell me, does the new lady who has come to the neighbourhood, Madame Roland, offer you any support?’

  ‘She has been generous,’ he admitted.

  ‘How excellent of her,’ I said. ‘What do you know of her, Mr. Todd?’

  ‘Not a great deal,’ he told me. ‘Her name is Madame Justine Roland. She is English but was married to a Frenchman, and was a resident of Paris until the death of her husband a year ago.’

  Paris, thought I. ‘What brings her to this neighbourhood, do you know?’ I enquired.

  ‘A desire for a peaceful retreat in which to live quietly and mourn her dead husband,’ he said. ‘She told me she has no longer any connections in England, but had been told much of this neighbourhood by a close friend, who once lived at Millcote.’

  ‘It must be pleasant for you to have Old House occupied at last, and by such an agreeable person,’ I observed, and soon took my leave, reflecting that now at last I knew a little of Madame Roland’s history, if indeed what she had told Mr. Todd was the truth. When I passed her house it was still silent and no one appeared to be stirring, either inside or out.

  I stopped the carriage outside Hay, and sent it back to Thornfield without me, deciding to walk home through the village in order to obtain a more precise impression of the place and its inhabitants.

  When I had awoken that morning, though afraid and doubting of all, I had nevertheless resolved that, if I were able, the poor of the locality should henceforth get that assistance and good government from the neighbourhood’s chief house which had for so long been wanting. And so I descended at the bend in the road leading into the village and walked first through bare fields until I found on the outskirts of the villag
e two fairly commodious houses, no doubt dating from the days of prosperity when wool was spun and woven by the cottagers. But both were now dilapidated, the doors nailed up, the windows boarded.

  Then came the first small houses. There were some twenty-five in all, straggling up the village street. At one, surrounded by a neglected garden, a woman at the door, evidently about to throw out a bucket of water, saw me, gaped, then went inside quickly, closing her door. I walked on. Two men standing leaning against the wall of a set of five cottages, which led directly on to the street, turned away with no greeting, avoiding my eye. A knot of men with tankards of beer disappeared into the ale-house. As I went up the street, dry now, but full of pot-holes containing water, scenes of this kind were repeated again and again. The village emptied before me, as if a signal, unheard, was going out as I advanced. Two children were called in from playing in the street even as I approached. They ran inside and slammed the cottage door behind them. Had it not been for the plumes of smoke from chimneys, the figures I could see through the open doors of a silent ale-house as I passed, a dog turning over a rag in the gutter, I might have been going through a place deserted by all its inhabitants. And thus I passed through Hay and out into the fields beyond.

  As I walked back to Thornfield I felt a chill which had nothing to do with the wind blowing about me. I could not account for what had happened. Did they fear me, suspecting I meant them harm? Or were they keeping some secret, such as will sometimes arise in isolated, neglected places such as Hay? I had gone some quarter of a mile along the narrow road up and was walking between hayfields, bare now under autumn sun, when a voice hailed me from a distance. ‘Mrs. Rochester!’

  Turning, I espied behind me on the road the figure of a man, who called out again, ‘Mrs. Rochester!’ An elderly man, leaning on a stick, was effortfully coming towards me. As he advanced, I went back to meet him. He was bent and grey and plainly poor, though his clothing was neat and clean.

  He was breathless when I reached him. ‘You go fast, for such a little woman,’ he told me, with some humour. This was the first friendly voice I had heard coming out of Hay. ‘Well, you’ve young legs,’ he continued.

  ‘Do you want to speak to me?’ I asked. ‘You know my name – but who, pray, are you?’

  ‘You’d best not take a lofty tone with me, Mrs. Rochester,’ he said, his tone blunt but not unamiable.

  ‘Even so,’ I said, ‘you might let me know your name.’

  ‘Why – do you not recognise me, Arthur Crooke, the old butler, from before your time at Thornfield, when you were Miss Eyre? We met, do you remember, ten years ago at the inn I ran then, when you had first seen the ruins of Thornfield. It was I told you what had occurred.’

  I was startled. Of course this was Crooke, ten years older. I recalled now questioning him desperately about the whereabouts of Edward Rochester. So great had been my agitation at that time that perhaps it was unsurprising I had not at first recognised him.

  ‘I remember you now,’ I said, and asked him how he did.

  ‘I’ve little money and less health,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Let me ask Mr. Rochester to look to your condition,’ I said.

  But even as I spoke, he became agitated. ‘Please do not do that, I beg you, madam,’ he said in a tone of great urgency.

  ‘But why not?’ I asked in astonishment. ‘You are an old servant of the family. He would not wish to see you in want.’

  But he became yet more disturbed and implored me, ‘No, madam, no.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  He spoke rapidly. ‘I saw you pass through Hay. I could not speak to you then for fear of the villagers. So I crept out by a back way and have caught up with you here to ask you for help. Not knowing you, they do not trust you, but I do, madam. I have heard of how you nursed Mr. Rochester back to health and of your goodness to the folk at Ferndean. I believe you are one who would always see justice done.’

  We stood on that empty road in the wind, no soul near us and no sound but the curlew’s cry. ‘Tell me what you want, Crooke,’ I said.

  ‘It is the lady and Grace Poole,’ he averred. ‘Will you command them to leave me alone?’

  I was surprised – wondered, even, if the old man were losing his wits. ‘What can you mean?’ I asked. ‘Are they disturbing you in some way?’

  ‘Yes, indeed they are,’ he said emphatically. ‘It began two weeks ago, when you and Mr. Rochester came to Thornfield. Since then those two ladies have given me no peace. The first morning both came and knocked on my cottage door, Mrs. Poole and the new lady from Old House, who dresses like a widow. They came with gifts, to relieve my want, they said, but soon the conversation turned to events which happened long ago. And better forgotten, to my way of thinking, as I told them.’

  ‘But they would not allow me to be silent. They would not cease to speak of those events nor leave, as I wished they would. Finally I was obliged to tell them I could not – did not wish to – speak of the past and they left. But alas, on the following day they returned in the evening after dark, avid as before. They threatened me, madam,’ he appealed. ‘Mr. Rochester is my landlord and what money I get comes from him. Mrs. Poole told me she had great influence with him and could use that influence to lose me my home and my allowance from the family if I did not comply and tell her and the widow what they wanted. I cannot tell you how afraid I was, to hear from those two ladies, with their cruel faces lit up by the flickering candle, that if I did not obey them I was like to be turned out.’

  I could hardly believe what I heard. That Grace Poole had claimed to be able, through my husband, to ruin this old man seemed to me horrible and outrageous beyond words. But why were these two women – the other, undoubtedly, being Madame Roland – in an alliance, and what was their purpose?

  The answer must lie in the nature of the information they tried to prise from old Crooke and this was what I wanted, yet dreaded to hear. And so, disguising my trepidation, I asked him what they had wished to know.

  His eyes sought the ground. He muttered, ‘They wished to hear the accounts men give of the fire and the death of the late Mrs. Rochester,’ then burst out, ‘Madam, I was afraid – I could not resist, so I told them, and thought – there, that is done, it is over. But next day the widow came back, alone, with more questions, many of which I could not answer, for they concerned matters I could not know – and then she came alone, a third time, this morning early, Mrs. Rochester,’ he said passionately, ‘desiring me, yet again, to remember what I saw on the night of the fire, and what others saw. Madam, I have told her all I, and the others, know, and it is very painful and disturbing to rehearse again that terrible event. But she will not be content. It is as if there is something yet to be known, and this information she desperately craves and she will not give up until she has got it. She is like a woman possessed.’

  The old fellow was plainly very much alarmed. And I no less so, I believe.

  What mystery could there be concerning the events at Thornfield over a decade ago? Mrs. Poole had been there – heaven knows, she had been there. My head spun, yet I was forced to rally myself for the old man’s sake.

  I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I will speak to Mrs. Poole, find out what is occurring and why you are being worried in this way. I will speak to Mr. Rochester, also, and get his guarantee as to your safety. Go home now, and rest. You are upset.’

  He thanked me, turned and left. I stood for a while, gazing out over the fields and up to the foothills of the mountains, where long fringes of shadow extended down their slopes. The wind was chill and I began to hurry back to Thornfield, my mind in turmoil. I was not helped by the knowledge that for so many years I had taught myself not to think much on those old days there, nor of the fire which had destroyed the house. Old days, long ago, yet suddenly I knew they were coming closer, just as those long shadows reaching down over the hills came, saying to me, no sun without shadows, Jane, no sun without shadows. And, brood as I might, I could
still find no explanation for the questioning of old Arthur Crooke by the woman from Old House and Mrs. Poole.

  I made my way slowly back to Thornfield, knowing sadly the house to be empty and that it would be many days before Edward returned to me.

  As I came through the open door, I observed Mrs. Poole and Madame Roland in the hall, talking like conspirators and, again like conspirators, they broke apart when they saw me. The woman Roland even had the audacity to advance towards me, in mock politeness, as if she had merely come to call. She could not know that I overheard her arguing with Edward, and confronted me brazenly.

  I did not greet her or hold out my hand, but assumed a firm demeanour, though in actuality I concealed some inward uncertainty. I said, ‘I have just seen an old servant from Thornfield, Arthur Crooke. He is very upset that you have been visiting him frequently and questioning him against his will. And I believe you, Mrs. Poole, have been threatening him with the loss of his cottage and his income – by what right, I do not know.’

  Grace Poole, during this, had been standing in the shadows, by the pillar. I said, ‘Come forward, Mrs. Poole. I am anxious to discover why you have been badgering that poor old man. I think we will go into the drawing-room. There, perhaps, you will both explain yourselves to me.’

  And with that I led the way into the drawing-room and they followed. Once inside I closed the door. ‘Will you sit, Madame Roland?’ I invited coldly.

  ‘No, Mrs. Rochester, thank you,’ she responded, and her mien and tone were very stately. ‘I would prefer to stand.’ And stand she did, tall and erect, entirely composed and with a challenging look. ‘You wish to know why I have been visiting Arthur Crooke in his cottage, asking him questions about the fire at Thornfield and the death of the late Mrs. Rochester?’