Mrs Rochester

by Hilary Bailey

  I could not understand why Adèle, having arrived back at Thornfield, had chosen to visit that grave so promptly, and express such strong emotion so publicly. She had not known the madwoman, who had been kept closely confined while Adèle was a child, and had no reason to mourn her so extravagantly. We led her, sobbing and leaning on Mr. Todd’s arm, towards the vicarage, followed by the interested gaze of the spectators.

  On the road outside the church, just as we were about to turn into the vicarage drive, Madame Roland flew from her garden, grasped Adèle firmly by the upper arm, then turned to me and Mr. Todd saying, ‘I see this lady is in distress. Let me take her inside and do what I can.’

  Mr. Todd, a man whose first instinct was ever to avoid any complications in his life not previously assessed as being positively to his advantage, responded instantly, ‘How very kind, Madame Roland. A lady’s house may well provide more comfort than my own,’ and began to guide Adèle across the road to Old House.

  Madame Roland had acted so quickly that before I could protest Adèle was being supported into the house, where a trim maid waited. She was laid down on a sofa in the drawing-room and Madame Roland bent over her solicitously. From an upper room in the house, I realised, the lady would have had a complete view of that corner of the churchyard where Bertha Mason’s grave was situated. Her arrival at her gate just as we were about to take Adèle into the vicarage was possibly, therefore, no accident.

  The maid was instructed to fetch smelling-salts and prepare a tisane. ‘Such things are most calming,’ Madame Roland coolly informed me as, stunned by her audacity, I stood, reluctant, just inside the room.

  Mr. Todd, meanwhile, began to withdraw, uttering many expressions of good will. As he did so, there came a furious knocking at the front door. Instants later, the parlour door filled with a form, weary and travel-stained – Edward’s. His face was strained, his lips set firm.

  ‘What is happening?’ he demanded angrily. ‘Why has Adèle been carried here? What is wrong with her?’ All these questions were addressed to me, in a tone of cold rage.

  Mr. Todd said uneasily, ‘I was about to take my leave, sir.’

  ‘Then please do so, Mr. Todd,’ my husband said brusquely. And, with muttered greetings, compliments and hopes for the young lady’s recovery, Mr. Todd eased himself past me and Edward, who had moved a pace or so into the room. Unacknowledged the clergyman then seemed to disappear.

  ‘Get up, Adèle,’ ordered my husband.

  ‘Oh, Papa…’ she said.

  ‘Get up,’ he repeated, and when she showed no signs of moving from her sofa he took several rapid strides towards her and, grasping her by the shoulder, raised her to her feet. Adèle shocked, made no resistance, but once erect stared at him in alarm.

  ‘It is interesting to see a demonstration of the ruthlessness for which you are so famous, Mr. Rochester,’ Madame Roland said coldly. Her maid began to enter the room with a tray, but she waved her back. ‘I will ring for you.’

  ‘My ward appears perfectly well and I do not wish her to remain any longer in your house,’ responded Edward. ‘You may call that ruthless if you wish.’

  ‘She calls you Papa, but you call her your ward,’ Madame Roland said. ‘Which is it?’

  Without a word Edward began to lead Adèle past me and towards the door. Madame Roland crossed the room quickly to intercept them. ‘Since you are here,’ she said, ‘I have something to say to you.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you. Let us pass,’ he commanded.

  ‘Not until you have heard me.’

  ‘Do not oblige me to put you out of my way,’ he replied forcefully.

  ‘Hear me.’

  ‘No,’ he said and, advancing still with Adèle on his arm, he made as if to walk, so to speak, through Madame Roland as she stood, still blocking the doorway. He was close to her now.

  I moved forward, imploring, ‘Madame Roland—’

  ‘Rochester,’ she hissed directly into his face, ‘be still. Now listen to me, then I will let you go.’

  ‘No one can prevent me from going where I wish to go. Move aside.’

  ‘You killed my sister. I can prove it,’ she said.

  He halted. All three of us, Adèle, Edward and I, stood staring at that handsome face, twisted and black with bitterness.

  ‘None but you,’ she continued, ‘knows what happened on the night of my sister’s death – or so you thought. For up to now it has been your account – only yours – which has provided the explanation of what took place on that awful night. You have said that Bertha released herself from her room, set fire to the house, that you, discovering the fire, went upstairs, helped the servants down, then went up again, to release your wife from her cell. Then, you have said, you found her on the roof, whither she had escaped through the window.

  ‘That was a strange story to tell, Rochester – that your wife had released herself from her place of confinement, set fire to the house, returned and locked herself in again. And that, locked in, she was unable, once the fire had taken hold, to release herself again. Nor apparently, could Mrs. Poole, also inside that locked room – it would seem neither of them had the key. Who had the key, Rochester? Who had the key?’

  I gazed at her in horror. Edward, his face ghastly pale, advanced, still grasping Adèle by one arm, and shouldered Madame Roland out of the way.

  ‘You locked her in. You were prepared to burn down your house in order to kill my sister.’

  As Edward pushed past her she stumbled backwards, almost losing her footing, then fell against the far wall. Before she had recovered herself Edward was back. He picked me up and carried me from the house, crying to Adèle who stood, bewildered, at the garden gate, ‘Adèle! Go to Mr. Todd’s and wait. I will send the carriage.’

  In seconds Edward, carrying me, was in the road. He set me before him on his horse’s back and we were off down the road, to Thornfield.

  Chapter XVIII

  Edward insisted on putting me to bed. The doctor was called, and on his advice the nurse was brought back.

  ‘There is no need,’ I protested from my bed as Edward and I sat hand in hand that afternoon, but he bent over me, chiding gently, ‘I have full reports now of all your naughty doings and dealings while I was away: gardening, visits to Ferndean, even, heaven help us, riding uphill to the lead mines, where you might have been subjected to any insult by the miners or their womenfolk – who are nearly as rough as they are. The doctor instructed you to rest; I informed him that you would. I turn my back and you are off like a bird. Jane,’ he reproached me, ‘my Jane, are you not ashamed of yourself?’

  ‘I am quite well,’ I said, but oh, how happy I was, how soothed by my husband’s concern. I was forced to admit it – I was now very fatigued and weak.

  ‘Dear,’ I said to him, ‘I am sorry to have called you back, but I was so worried and frightened – events here have become so troubling that I knew only you could help.’

  ‘Called me back?’ said he. ‘I did not know.’

  ‘I wrote to Mr. Jessop in Manchester, asking him to give you a letter.’

  ‘Which did not reach me. I must have been in London by then and so knew nothing of it. My business done, I came back as quickly as possible. Almost home, I saw on the road a figure, much like Adèle, being supported into Old House, and you, my dearest, whose person I would recognise from twice as far away, with the group. Thus I found you, for some reason, entering that abominable woman’s house. Well, Adèle has told me something of the business, and perhaps we should say no more, particularly at this time.’

  ‘But Edward,’ said I, ‘one of the reasons for my appeal to you to return was the dreadful charges brought by Madame Roland, which she has now had the audacity to put to you herself. She says she is Bertha Mason’s sister. And that there was a doubt in the matter of’ – my voice grew lower and lower, for I spoke of a subject seldom mentioned between us – ‘of her death.’

  Meanwhile he regarded me steadily, something li
ke a smile on his lips. His consoling grasp tightened on my hand.

  ‘You heard her yourself,’ I said. I think my voice broke as I appealed, ‘Edward – something must be done.’

  He leaned over to kiss my brow. ‘Now, Jane,’ he said, ‘comfort yourself. There is no need for alarm. The woman is deranged. Small wonder, for there is madness in that family, as all know, and I most of all, having bought my knowledge of it so dearly. But I will not – will not – allow her to disturb my own little wife. Come, Jane, you are over-tired. Be calm. I will deal with everything. But tell me first, why is Mrs. Poole upstairs, in apparent exile?’

  ‘She must be sent away,’ I said passionately. ‘She is in a conspiracy with that woman, Madame Roland. I believe she is feeding her with stories about the fire, and its results.’

  ‘I will speak to her. But she is loyal, I believe, and told me some weeks back that Madame Roland had approached her for information about the night of the fire. I suggested she pretend to comply in order to find out what the woman was discovering, or thought she was discovering, and what she planned to do.’

  ‘Why did you not tell me, Edward?’ I asked. ‘Why, when I reproached her, did not she?’

  He smiled tenderly. ‘It was decided you were not to know, my dearest. For the doctor told me you must keep calm and quiet. I thought to spare you, and Mrs. Poole had instructions to do the same. But how was I to know that as soon as I was out of sight you would begin a course of fierce activity? That you would be out and about, worrying yourself and fretting and letting Madame Roland disturb you with her tales? Jane – you endanger yourself and our child. If I did not love you so much I should be a little unhappy with you, but how, I ask the heavens’ – and he cast his eyes up humorously to the ceiling – ‘how could I ever be displeased with my dear over-conscientious lovely Jane?’ He smiled again.

  ‘And now I’m forced to go, for I have strict instructions from the doctor that you must not be wearied. Here are some books I have brought you fresh from London. And, because you are such a dreadful little Puritan, with such a dreadful little Puritan conscience, tomorrow I will allow you to begin listing what books we must get for our library, because we must begin to stock it this winter and continue to build it until the end of our days. And that,’ he said with mock firmness, ‘is what I will allow you to do – but that is all. All other matters will be attended to by myself, your helpmeet and husband.’ He stood up. ‘Edward Fairfax Rochester, at your service.’ With that he kissed me, made me a great formal bow, and left the room, turning in the doorway to admonish me, ‘Rest. I will be with you later.’ And he was gone.

  I leaned back on my pillows, a tide of comfort and well-being sweeping over me. My husband had returned. I was no longer alone. The difficulties and agonies which had beset me during his absence were gone, any that remained would, in his strong presence, disappear. You little fool, Jane, I told myself, how could you have allowed yourself to be disturbed by the accusations of Madame Roland – a madwoman sprung from mad stock?

  I was tired now, worn out by the fatigues I had imposed on myself during the past few days. Although I knew there were difficulties ahead, which must be met, they would be dealt with by one stronger and more capable than myself – my husband.

  The next days passed peacefully. Edward visited me in my room, and Adèle briefly, radiant with the excitement of being at Thornfield, with him. They had been out riding, she said, and the dressmaker had been summoned to make her new dresses compatible with her new status as a grown-up young lady. She was, she told me, wholly, completely happy. She did not mention the scene in the churchyard, and I chose not to question her, though I resolved to ask her, at some point, the reason for that extraordinary scene.

  I was pronounced too frail to dine at the Nortons’. ‘You will not object, my love, I am sure, if I take Adèle?’ Edward requested. ‘She is excited by the prospect, and has bespoken so many new dresses for the evenings that she is even now bending over the seamstress to urge her on. She demands to show off her new finery. And it is time she saw something of the world. At all events, I cannot answer for the consequences if she is prevented from wearing what she calls her “rose silk”. She is passionate about it – with such a passion. She has the soul of a Parisienne.’

  I could do nothing but assent. They visited me in my room before departing for Raybeck Hall. Edward so strongly handsome in his tail-coat, Adèle, on his arm, so charming. Her pale hair was piled high on her head, enhancing the lines of her elegant neck. The ‘rose silk’ set off a slender waist and graceful figure. Whether her character were good or bad, Adèle was undeniably a beauty.

  Edward came over to kiss me. ‘How I detest these events,’ he whispered. ‘Only you know how much. But duty must be done.’ He straightened up. ‘Come, my dear. Cinderella – you shall go to the ball.’

  In the middle of the room, he bowed and Adèle sank down in a deep curtsey, her skirts spreading around her like the petals of a flower. The pearl necklace she wore about her slender neck was from the store of family jewellery, I saw. This handsome treasury of jewels, collected over the centuries, had been at the bank when the fire took place, and thus was saved from harm.

  Adèle saw my eyes on the necklace as she arose from her curtsey and put one slender hand self-consciously to her throat. ‘Papa has made me a present,’ she said. ‘Is he not the kindest Papa in the world?’

  ‘Indeed he is,’ I agreed.

  She had changed little from the eight-year-old who had been my charge, with her babble of ‘toilettes’ and ‘cadeaux’.

  Later, I heard their voices in the hall, their entering the carriage, the sound of horses moving off, and the slamming of the front door. I suppose that many of us, when others go to some festivity and we are left alone, are overcome by a kind of sadness and so, I own, it was with me. I tried to rally myself but only half succeeded. I tried to read, but did poorly at it.

  It was past midnight when I heard Edward and Adèle come back. Later, I heard the sounds of them creeping upstairs, some whispers in the gallery, then the rustle of Adèle’s skirts as she went quietly along to her room, the sound of Edward’s door opening as he entered his bedchamber. The door closed.

  The house became still and silent, yet I could not sleep. I lay sadly awake, reproving myself, telling myself I had all a woman could want and yet, still, I was melancholy. I have ever been active and I suppose by then confinement to my room was affecting my spirits. I concluded that when the doctor came in the morning I would urge him to let me up, back into the world again, and so, finally, I slept.

  Chapter XIX

  The doctor came at ten. He agreed I might rise that day and by eleven o’clock I was up and dressed, surprising Edward in his study. He came to me, arms outstretched. ‘Jane – my Jane.’ And from the couch beneath the window, where Adèle lay extended, holding a book, ‘Are you better now, Step-mama?’

  ‘I am indeed and allowed up.’

  ‘On condition that you keep to the house and its near environs,’ Edward told me.

  ‘Indeed no,’ I said with a smile. ‘The doctor tells me I may ride a little, a very little. His opinion is that some fresh air and exercise will be beneficial. And, my dear, will you permit me to visit Mrs. Sugden, so that we can discuss plans for the amelioration of the mine labourers’ conditions? I will do nothing strenuous, I promise.’

  Edward looked grave. ‘I am not sure that your health will be improved by that. And there are, moreover, considerations concerning the relationship between the workers and their employer to be borne in mind.’

  ‘I will of course do nothing without your consent, Edward.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘See Mrs. Sugden if you must, but commit yourself to nothing. We do well to act cautiously in such matters.’

  ‘You will gain a reputation for saintliness, Step-mama,’ Adèle said gaily, ‘if you will be delivering coals and blankets to the miners’ wives all the time.’

  ‘There is nothing extraordin
ary about the exercise of charity in the locality by those who are, for whatever reason, placed in a more fortunate position,’ I exclaimed. ‘It is not unusual.’

  ‘There are those who say it is by such exercises we avoid turbulence in society,’ observed Edward.

  ‘That is good, then,’ said she, ‘if it is a means to avoid revolutionary excess.’

  ‘For myself,’ said I, ‘it will be enough if I can prevent excessive want. Tell me, how went your party last night?’

  Adèle burst into raptures about the dinner party – the twenty guests, the décor, the candles and the ladies’ dresses, which she described in minute detail. ‘And then we danced,’ she exclaimed, ‘in the picture gallery, where Lady Norton had set a pianoforte expressly for that purpose. Sophie Lynn and I played, each taking turns so the other might dance. I was a success – un succès fou, n’est-ce pas, Papa?’

  ‘You seemed to be, when I came to watch. Lady Norton titled you “fairy”,’ he said with some amusement. ‘But now, my dears, I must ask you to go elsewhere to talk further of last night’s entertainment, for I have weighty business here connected with my visits to Manchester and London.’

  ‘What is that?’ I asked.

  ‘It is too heavy for you, Jane.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps too heavy for me, I sometimes think.’

  ‘May I not help you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I do not think the doctor would approve. Now, begone, ladies – begone, Jane, begone, Fairy. I must to work.’

  Adèle and I repaired to the drawing-room. It must be remembered how little time she and I had spent together since her childhood. We were virtual strangers, yet here we were together, sharing a home and likely to share it for some considerable time, until Adèle, I supposed, married. I was very uncertain of how matters would go between us.

  ‘Well then, we have received our discharge,’ I said, as I sat down and took up some sewing. ‘We must now decide how to employ ourselves today. Have you any particular desires?’