Mrs Rochester

by Hilary Bailey

  There could be no question now that Mrs. Poole must leave the house. I would persuade Edward on his return that his charity towards her had been misguided.

  The blacksmith’s forge lay at the far end of the village street so that to reach it I should have to walk the length of Hay. From where I stood I could see our carriage outside the blacksmith’s. As I began to walk towards it one of a group of three working men, plodding uphill, evidently towards the lead mines, noted me below and pointed me out to the others. All three turned, lamps in hand, to watch expressionlessly as I walked by. A woman on her knees outside a cottage, plucking a cabbage from her kitchen garden no more than ten feet from me, stared at me, on her face an expression of what looked like apprehension, even fear. As I got further into the village matters grew worse, much worse. I heard a door slam behind me, ahead a woman dragged a crying child indoors. The street appeared deserted. Then, from a narrow gap between two cottages, two men appeared and barred my way. Both were young, ill-shaven and grimy, their waistcoats and trousers ragged and dirty. They looked at me ferociously, like savage dogs. The street was otherwise quite empty.

  ‘May I pass?’ said I, attempting to appear calm.

  ‘We don’t want you here,’ said one, the taller – and I thought with alarm of the child I carried.

  ‘I am on my way to the blacksmith’s. You have no right to bar my path,’ I told him.

  ‘Right or no right, we do not want you here,’ he said.

  ‘Not you, nor your husband, nor any Rochester,’ said the other. ‘I warn you – turn back, lady.’

  There was a pause. I was hardly able to believe they were prepared to lay hands on a woman, and a woman, moreover, whose husband was their landlord, yet that, I saw, must be their intention.

  ‘I do not understand,’ I said. ‘I think you owe me an explanation. What are your names?’

  ‘I will give you no name, but I will give you an explanation,’ the taller man said. ‘Your husband is an evil man – wherever he goes, he brings harm. Some round here fear him, saying he is in league with the devil, others think him a plain villain, an exploiter and a wife-murderer. And you, so small and meek-seeming as you are – you are nothing but an accomplice to him in his wickedness. You own the houses, the land and mine, all that there is about here, and for this reason many fear you; but you do not own us all. We do not want you here, and some of us are ready to tell you so, no matter what the punishment.’

  ‘And punishment there will be,’ I assured him hotly. ‘I will find out who you are. How dare you speak thus of my husband?’

  ‘Just go,’ said the second man, his eyes hardening.

  But I could not decide what to do. I was deeply frightened, yet how could I allow myself to be chased from the village?

  Mercifully, just then a voice from the other end of the street called, ‘Mrs. Rochester!’

  It was Jeremy, who stood outside the forge at the end of the street, holding the newly shod horse. He paused, then, handing the horse’s bridle to the blacksmith, began to walk towards me. Meanwhile, I and the two men stayed where we were, as if frozen.

  Halfway between us and the forge, Jeremy called out, ‘What’s going on here?’

  The tall man looked at him as he came. ‘We’re inviting your mistress to go home, return to her big house and leave us to our squalor,’ he called back contemptuously.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, man,’ called Jeremy, still coming on.

  The tall man turned back to me. ‘Stupid we may be, and ignorant we may be, but we’re not mad and wicked like Edward Rochester.’

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Jeremy had reached us now.

  ‘Be quiet, man, or you’ll get into trouble,’ he told the other. ‘Let the lady pass – she’s nothing to do with all this.’

  With that he walked round the two men, held out his arm to me, I took it and we walked away. I felt eyes, many eyes, on my back as we went down the deserted street to the forge, and my legs seemed weak and barely able to carry me.

  The blacksmith was outside the smithy as we arrived, an expression of anxiety on his face. ‘There’s a stool in there, Mrs. Rochester,’ he said promptly. ‘We’ll harness the coach up now and you can be off. My wife will fetch you some water.’

  He helped me to a stool at the side of the smithy, his wife gave me water in a horn cup and, attempting to disguise the alarm I was still feeling after being so roughly used, I drank.

  Not long after, Jeremy had the second horse back in the traces and he helped me into the carriage. ‘I hope you are better now, madam,’ he said. ‘This is a nasty place. Some villages go bad, like people, and I fear this is one of them. Do you still wish to go to Ferndean, or will you go home instead?’

  My boy was waiting for me at Ferndean and with that in mind I said, ‘To Ferndean,’ and we set off. I was much relieved to put Hay behind us and glad to be travelling towards that quiet landscape, those fields and orchards where Edward, I and Jonathan had been, it seemed to me, happiest. Yet, as we went, I could not forget the angry faces of those two brutes who had menaced me, nor those of the two evil women who had stirred up so much trouble against us.

  When we reached the rectory my dear little Jonathan ran out, all smiles, to greet me, followed by the kindly Weatherfields and their sons. The boys jointly opened the gifts I had brought for Jonathan.

  ‘But I would sooner live at Thornfield with you and Papa,’ my boy said wistfully over lunch. There was that in my face as he spoke – and I think she may have seen other signs of disquiet – to make Mrs. Weatherfield take me to one side later and, shortly before my alas all-too-early departure, enquire, ‘My dear, is all well with you at Thornfield?’ To which I replied, ‘I fear it is not. There are difficulties, but I hope they will be of short duration. In the meantime I owe you a great debt for taking such good care of Jonathan.’

  I wished I could have told her more, for at her concerned enquiry I was suddenly aware how heavy was the burden of anxiety I bore alone, without the help and consolation of one human being whom I could count a true friend. Yet I could not reveal to anyone the affairs of my husband and family, though I knew that tears had come to my eyes, and kind Mrs. Weatherfield had noted them, though she said nothing. It was weakness, I knew, yet so little kindness had I received over the last weeks (and so much, I could not help thinking, of the reverse).

  ‘Well, Jane,’ said Mrs. Weatherfield, ‘I shall pray for heaven to protect you. And be assured, we shall take as good care of Jonathan as of our own sons.’ And we embraced.

  I bade Jonathan farewell, telling him I would come again soon, and departed that place where for ten years all had been love and happiness, with, I confess, the feeling of being cast out of Eden.

  How I wished during the journey back to Thornfield that I might find Edward at home on my return, but I knew it was most unlikely my letter had yet reached him. So I re-entered a silent, empty house, ate a little supper and went, exhausted, to bed.

  Eventually I shut my eyes in sleep, only to be woken with a start not half an hour later. I heard the madwoman’s laugh, Bertha Mason’s laugh, echoing through the house. I lay in horror in the pitch darkness of the room in a kind of waking dream, still hearing the maniacal laugh of that woman, ten years dead, ringing round. Then my mind went again to the beautiful face, to the lovely, knowing eyes in the miniature of Céline. Tired, worn, sobbing weakly, I lay in a kind of stupor. That laugh came again. Oh Edward, Edward, I cried silently, come home to me soon.

  Chapter XVI

  Such nights, however, end and are succeeded by morning and the day’s tasks. I summoned up my resolution and rose early next day, determined to go about my normal duties, for I knew that the tale of what had occurred the day before in the village would have reached the house and I wished it to be seen that I was unmoved and in full charge of my household.

  When Mrs. Poole came for orders just as if I had not been angry with her the day before, I sent her back to her room, indignant at her insolence. I
then called Mr. Sugden, the estate manager, and spoke to him at some length about the restoration of the garden. He had been in charge of Thornfield during its years of decline and I knew him, for he had come twice a year to report to my husband, and I believed him a trustworthy man.

  I outlined my wishes and plans for the garden and ordered the hire of a man and a boy to begin the work of digging, rebuilding the walls and marking out beds. I then said, ‘The village is very stirred up against Mr. Rochester. Will you tell me why?’

  The abruptness of this question took him back. ‘Mrs. Rochester,’ he said, ‘I know there is bad feeling. But please understand it is not my place to say anything. The people there are very ignorant – that I will say.’

  ‘There are ugly rumours flying.’

  ‘That there are. Mr. Rochester will be able to deal with everything on his return, I expect.’

  ‘I am sure he will,’ I told him.

  Now, I had risen after that dreadful night – when my imagination had brought back to me that demon Bertha Mason and the beautiful, mocking face of Céline Varens – with full determination to chase these devils away with useful action. Yet, in truth, after talking to Sugden, there was little left for me to do. At Ferndean we should have been preserving for the winter but here at Thornfield there was nothing to preserve, for nothing had been grown. Nor could I work at gardening, for such was the state of the garden that much rough work, of which I was incapable, must be done before I could begin. At Ferndean I might have played with my son; or gone to the kitchen to create with my own hands a tasty dish for Edward – but the lady of Thornfield could not go into her own kitchen, and alas, the lady of Thornfield’s husband was absent. In short, I had anxieties aplenty, and no occupation.

  Therefore, to throw off melancholy, I put on my cloak, gloves and hat and took my way, from the back of the house, across the fields of the home farm in the direction of the mountains, waking over walled field – poor ones, it must be said, fit only for hay or oats. The activity consoled me somewhat. Ahead lay the mountains, their slopes coloured by grass and patches of bright heather; overhead was a huge pale-blue sky full of moving white clouds. Then over the brow of a hill some quarter of a mile from where I stood I saw a sea of moving sheep, some figures running, and dogs, and then the figure of Sugden on his big brown mare. They were bringing the sheep down for winter, for slaughtering or for pasturing in lower fields, away from the fierce weather to come.

  I stood watching this spectacle for some time, as Sugden and his men and dogs gathered up more than a hundred sheep and drove them, in a long, living stream, along the top of the hill and down one side of it. Keen-eyed, at one point he spotted me and lifted an arm in friendly greeting.

  A little calmer and more cheerful for my walk, I turned for home, hoping against hope that on my return Edward would be there. Yet I had to recognise that he might have left Manchester for London and having no London address for him. I was reliant on Mr. Jessop’s forwarding of my message. How long it might take my letter to reach him in London I did not know. I knew nothing now of my husband’s movements, not where he had gone, nor why. I had never known so little of his concerns. He had never told me so little. Nevertheless, I returned to Thornfield more optimistic than I had set out. What was marred could be mended, I hoped.

  On my return I was greeted with the news that a visitor, Lady Norton, awaited me. This lady had formerly been Blanche Ingram, the beauty whom I had once believed to be Edward’s chosen bride. An invitation to her wedding to Lord Norton, whose estate and home, Raybeck Hall, lay some fifteen miles from Thornfield, had come one day to Ferndean, but Edward had chosen not to go, pleading his ill health and incapacity. So I had not seen that haughty beauty Blanche Ingram, now Lady Norton, since I was first at Thornfield, as governess to Adèle – and she had thoroughly snubbed me then. In short, we had not been friends and I was doubtful that we ever should be.

  A call by Lady Norton was what I least desired at this troubling time and had I had any choice in the matter I should certainly have preferred to receive her with Edward in the quiet of Ferndean rather than now, alone, at Thornfield. This was a challenge, though one I felt I must do my best to meet, giving her no hint of my anxieties, not allowing her to patronise me on account of my former position.

  I entered the drawing-room, where she was seated and she arose, hand outstretched, to greet me. She was tall and dressed in high fashion; the years had done nothing to erode her beauty. She said in her low pleasant voice, ‘Mrs. Rochester, how delightful to see you again after so many years. I hope you will not mind my calling unexpectedly. I had business in Millcote and, thinking you must now be fairly well installed, I thought I would allow myself the pleasure of a visit. You look well – have you been out walking?’ For her eyes had evidently taken in my plain dress.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have been watching them gather up the sheep from the hills.’

  ‘The countryside about here is not short of such opportunities,’ she remarked.

  ‘Will you have some tea?’ I offered.

  She accepted and then said, ‘I am so glad to see the Rochesters back at Thornfield. Indeed, we all are. They told me Mr. Rochester is away from home at present.’

  ‘He has business affairs in Manchester to attend to. Do you spend much time in the country, or are you more in London?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, half and half, I should say,’ she responded. ‘I like to be in town. I find it stimulating. You must persuade Mr. Rochester to bring you. I should be pleased to recommend you to friends who sometimes let their houses there.’

  ‘I shall be content here for some time, I expect,’ said I.

  ‘I expect you will,’ replied Blanche Norton. ‘And how is your little boy? Well, I hope.’

  ‘He is. Have you children, Lady Norton?’

  ‘Alas, so far we have not been blessed.’ She looked about her, without evident pleasure. ‘This is charming,’ she said. ‘Mr. Rochester must be most pleased to have returned.’

  ‘I believe he is,’ said I.

  ‘He will, of course, have sad memories. That dreadful fire – we feared for his life. How splendid, what a tribute to his fortitude, that he has managed such a magnificent recovery. Your husband is a man of extraordinary capabilities, my dear.’

  I noted that as we spoke her manner, fashionably charming, had become a little hard.

  ‘Will he hunt, do you suppose, now he is back?’

  ‘He speaks of it. I confess I am not so enthusiastic. It is after all a dangerous affair.’

  ‘You must not try to trammel the free spirit of Mr. Rochester,’ she said with a cold smile, adding, ‘How welcome his return – ten years’ absence from a neighbourhood is a long time for the land and for a locality without the stabilising force of a landlord close at hand.’

  ‘Yes. It has been a long time,’ I said dully. Blanche Norton had lost nothing of her old air of command. Indeed, it had increased with the years. She was overwhelming now.

  ‘Mr. Rochester will no doubt get all in order now he is back,’ she said evenly. I suspected she, a woman who did nothing without a purpose, had heard there was trouble in Hay and come to discuss it, since the troubles of one landlord often affect his neighbours.

  ‘I am sure of it,’ I responded. ‘And for myself I plan to start a small school at Hay.’

  She leaned back in her chair. ‘My dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘What need?’ Her next sentence confirmed my view that rumours were flying. ‘What is required at Hay is the regular presence of the landlord and a sense that he is in control and says what is to be done, and not done. Of course, there will always be difficulties in places where there are mines and men getting employment unconnected with the land. It leads to a certain attitude…’ Her voice trailed off then strengthened again. ‘No, my dear, I must tell you I do not think your plan a good one. The working folk do not need unnecessary learning. I know of many cases where such things have stirred up trouble in the neighbourhood – machine-breaking and t
he like. What is required in the countryside today is not more book-learning, it is a firm hand. Besides, my dear, you will soon have other matters, more interesting ones, to concern you. Now, tell me, will you dine with us on Thursday? We have coming Sir George Lynn, Colonel and Mrs. Dent and one or two others. I hope you will agree to join us.’

  And, reluctantly, I was forced to accept the invitation. She stood up to go and as we parted asked, ‘And when do you think Mr. Rochester will be back?’

  I stammered, ‘I have sent him a message – I am not sure.’

  She nodded, but was unable to conceal some satisfaction at my discomfiture. ‘He will be back soon, then. And so – we expect the pleasure of your company on Thursday.’

  In the drawing-room doorway she paused, looking out into the hall. ‘No – I cannot believe my eyes. My dear!’ she exclaimed, and moved swiftly forward.

  She blocked my own view so that I could not see whom she addressed. But as she moved into the hall a figure, in a travelling-cape, wearing a smart fur hat, holding a muff and with a valise at her feet, was revealed to me. Adèle! Adèle to whom I had written telling her to remain in Switzerland. She was tall and lithe, her pale hair was charmingly arranged under the fur hat, and her lovely face bore a calm smile. Yet, as I approached in welcome and her eyes turned to mine, I saw that though her lips smiled those almond eyes did not. They were cold, cold as topaz. Then those eyes swept over me and I believe she noted instantly I expected a child.

  I chose not to ask her whether she had received my letter, but led her into the drawing-room saying, ‘You have just come from Switzerland? You must be tired. Will you have some tea? Or will you go and rest?’ Blanche had followed us, unwilling to depart before she had seen Adèle’s homecoming.