Mrs Rochester

by Hilary Bailey

  We all entered the hall, which I had caused to be decked, country-fashion, with holly and greenery of every kind. Mrs. Poole stepped forward and assisted the manservant in taking the hats and cloaks of the guests. We repaired to the drawing-room, where I had placed a new mirror, and paintings from Ferndean and, along one wall a beautiful sideboard, in red lacquer, painted in gold in the Chinese style.

  ‘My dear,’ cried Blanche, ‘how charming everything is.’

  Then Jonathan came in to be introduced, and stood next to Edward, before the fire, imitating his father’s masterful stance and smiling his father’s broad and cordial smile. We were many at lunch, all in high spirits and I, even I, shy Jane, made some contribution, I believe, to the gaiety.

  Mr. Sugden had come up before luncheon to offer the gentlemen what rough shooting the estate could provide and nothing would prevent Sir Stanley Norton, Lord Jago and Sir George Lynn from going out with their guns that afternoon. Jonathan was permitted to go also, under the supervision of Sugden.

  Edward, though, declared he would spend his afternoon with me and, informing the ladies in the drawing-room that I was under orders to rest after luncheon, took me upstairs, offering me his shoulder to lean on, bade me lie down, pulled a chair to my bedside, flung himself into it and gazed around him in happy appreciation, saying, ‘How glad I am to be home. What you have done in my absence – relieved the sufferings of the village, perfected Thornfield for our guests – such a tiny person it is, Janet, yet so busy. And now you must tell me all that has been happening.’

  And so I told him all, though not of the despair his departure had caused me, for that was as if it had never been.

  ‘You should not have entered the cottages when there was sickness, though,’ he told me. ‘Yet you were ever brave – so brave.’

  ‘And what of you?’ I said. ‘What passed in London?’

  Reassured that his affections for me had not changed, I was nevertheless anxious to hear if he had seen Céline or if Adèle had been united with her mother. The thought of the miniature haunted me and I would have been glad if he had not met Céline in town. But the hoped-for words were not spoken.

  He said, ‘You will have observed our little Frenchwoman, Adèle, has emerged from her chrysalis to become the brightest butterfly in the garden. Her talent for pleasure is no news to us who know her, but now it reaches new heights. Young Hal Jago has taken a great fancy to her – but then, so have many gentlemen.’

  ‘Perhaps she will marry soon?’ I questioned.

  ‘Perhaps.’ He frowned. ‘She will need a good dowry, due to her position’ was all he said, and although I considered his words with all due seriousness I did not realise then their true import, what tragedy they masked.

  ‘Well, we shall be rich soon, my darling. I had not told you, but I have sold out to Jessop and with the money acquired a sloop and cargo to trade in the West Indies. I have recently had favourable news of the early part of the voyage. When the Janus returns, I shall be on my way to becoming a rich man. But I know this is not a matter to concern my modest wife, who has less craving for grandeur and luxury than any woman living.’ He gazed at me with love, pressed my hand and kissed my brow. Then he stood up, ‘I shall go and steal an hour for business, then attend our guests. Will you rest, and we shall be together in a few short hours.’

  Though I own I became increasingly fatigued by the demands of hospitality on such a scale – for of course I was not accustomed to such a life, nor had I my full strength – my days thereafter were filled with happiness. The society was stimulating, for Lord Jago, a minister in the government, was a well-read and interesting man, while Sir Stanley Norton, when released from the claims of a wife addicted to society, was a passionate local antiquarian.

  Edward reproached me humorously, ‘You spend more time talking to the gentlemen than to the ladies. If you continue these conversations about history and statecraft, there will be gossip.’ I did not say how much I regretted that ladies, owing to the small opportunities available to them, are obliged to limit their interests to the small world about them, or, if they do not, are persuaded to pretend they do.

  And now Christmas approached. As the day of the Boxing Day ball came closer, Adèle was ever at my shoulder with a dozen questions about the guests, the orchestra, the choice of dances – ‘More waltzing! We must have more waltzing!’ was her constant cry. Preoccupied by thoughts of the ball, memories of London and the promise of a return to the city in early spring, and enjoying the attentions of Hal Jago, she seemed happier than I had ever known her. My own conception of happiness, I reflected, was not hers, nor could I impose it on her.

  Christmas Day came and it was decided we should attend the morning service, so, on that cold, bright day, with blue sky overhead, we entered our carriages. In the leading one Edward, Jonathan and Lord and Lady Jago were seated. In the other carriage came the Nortons, Adèle and Hal Jago, who had made sure to be of the party including Adèle.

  The evening before, I had been down to Hay with little gifts for each child there. On our journey through the village it was a joy to see some of them outside their houses, playing – with a ball or skipping-rope, a top or a doll – and a greater one, perhaps, to see each chimney smoking and know that on that day there would be food on every plate.

  Edward noted my keen and gleaming eye as I detected these signs. He patted my knee, causing me to blush a little. ‘You see before you the saviour of Hay, your Mama,’ he told Jonathan.

  ‘Beware,’ said I, ‘for I have more plans for Hay.’

  He cast up his eyes. ‘To discover one is married to the Lady Bountiful,’ he exclaimed.

  Lord Jago, during an earlier conversation had coaxed from me what I wished to do and indeed had assisted me to understand more clearly what could and should be done. He said now in my defence, ‘Do not protest, Rochester, for it is often the country gentlewoman who relieves want, and who may unwittingly be the means of preventing disaffection in agricultural areas.’

  ‘I think for that purpose I would sooner rely on the militia than on my wife,’ he replied.

  ‘Will you gentlemen be kind enough not to alarm us with talk of rebellions and calling on soldiers?’ protested Lady Jago. ‘And besides, it is all fiddlesticks.’

  I laughed. ‘I confess I do not see the question so broadly. My intention is merely to relieve want.’

  ‘And provide the needy with the means eventually to relieve their own want, or so you have said, Mrs. Rochester,’ said Lord Jago.

  ‘Or so you persuaded me to think, sir,’ replied I. ‘For as we spoke, you took me several miles further than I had thought to go.’

  ‘Well,’ said my husband, leaning back in the carriage, ‘I am glad you two have set our little world to rights. And here we are, at church, so we must put all this behind us, and concentrate our minds on higher things.’

  ‘Just so,’ said Lady Jago. ‘And I am paying you the compliment of believing you will do so, though secretly I know you are too wicked.’

  ‘Never wicked,’ he said in the same light tone, ‘only misled. But Jane will keep me straight.’

  And so we entered the church, which, bedecked with greenery, and with the organ playing, did, in truth, set my mind to thinking of a better world, beyond our troubles and our pains.

  The children of the village began to sing a carol. We rose to sing too. Our pew was crowded, so I could not see the congregation, but Blanche Norton, who was seated next to me, turned as the young voices were raised in ‘Adeste Fideles’, and whispered, ‘Who is that lady gazing so strangely at Mr. Rochester?’

  I shook my head, murmuring, ‘I cannot see.’

  ‘She is very well dressed, dark and very commanding,’ she persisted, though still in a low tone.

  I was forced to reply, ‘It is most probably Madame Roland, the woman telling these untruths about my husband.’

  As we left the church, Madame Roland was outside, having placed herself deliberately, as it seemed, in o
ur path. She looked at Edward, and smiled an unpleasant, gloating smile. Her gaze swept over me and back to him. ‘You look happy today, Mr. Edward Rochester, but I predict your happiness will not last a day.’

  Lord Jago had evidently overheard her words and, as we reached our carriages, he asked Edward, ‘Who is that woman? I observed her staring fixedly at you during the service.’

  ‘She is a madwoman,’ Edward informed him coldly. ‘I shall deal with her in the New Year.’ Then to me he said, ‘Come, Jane, get in,’ and he helped me into the carriage.

  Nevertheless, the journey back to Thornfield was not as pleasant as the earlier one, for Madame Roland’s words had upset me. That she should threaten was not perhaps surprising, but there had been a confidence, almost a triumph, in her dreadful smile and malicious words – though perhaps, I thought, being advanced in pregnancy and indeed very fatigued, this anxiety might have been no more than my fancy.

  We ate our Christmas dinner with much talk and laughter. Later I played the piano and we sang and had games. We were destined for the Nortons’ for supper and evening entertainment, but as the day advanced I began to feel very tired and weak and, although I struggled against it, eventually I was forced to ask Edward if I might remain behind. He was deeply concerned and offered to remain with me. However, I refused, urging him vigorously to go to the party, so that finally he agreed, saying, ‘Of course, my dear, I will go if you wish, and you must rest. You have been entertaining us royally and tomorrow is the ball, for which you must be at your best.’

  After the party had gaily left for Raybeck Hall, I put Jonathan, who was overcome with excitement and fatigue, to bed, read to him for a little and returned to sit with my own book in the drawing-room for a while before retiring.

  My quietude however, was short-lived, for less than an hour after the carriages had departed Grace Poole announced a visitor. ‘He is a gentleman from London,’ she told me, ‘who says he must see Mr. Rochester urgently. I have told him Mr. Rochester is away from home for the evening and he desires to await him. Will you see him, madam, and find out what he wants?’

  ‘He has come from London to arrive here on Christmas Day?’ I asked. This seemed to me extraordinary.

  ‘That is what he says,’ she told me impassively. But she was grave, for some reason, and suddenly I recalled Madame Roland’s triumphant smile, and there was a voice in my ears saying, as if aloud, ‘This man brings bad news, and Grace Poole knows what it is.’ And at the same time I felt as if all the blood had rushed from my body and I was sorely afraid.

  ‘What is his name?’ I asked.

  ‘Phillips,’ she told me.

  ‘Show Mr. Phillips in,’ I ordered. It was as though I already knew some disaster had fallen upon us, as one may know, before the doctor speaks, that he is about to deliver a death sentence.

  Phillips himself did not at first sight look like one who has come to tell of tragedy. He was a small, clerkly man, tired after his journey but resolute. Awed by the grandeur of Thornfield, he gazed about the drawing-room, covertly, and said, ‘This is most certainly a magnificent house, Mrs. Rochester.’

  ‘It is,’ I said, ‘but it was not to examine our house that you came here on Christmas Day, surely? You had better tell me who you are, and what is your business.’

  ‘I am a clerk in the offices of Grover and Sims, ships’ owners,’ he told me, ‘but as to my business, I think, with respect, madam, I must communicate that first to Mr. Rochester.’

  Already I began to fear some accident to my husband’s ship and cargo, that venture he had been so confident would enrich us. But I felt I could not press this man for information. It was his duty first to speak to my husband.

  I told him, ‘Mr Rochester is at a neighbour’s house. I’m afraid you will have to wait until he returns. Will you please go to his study? I will have refreshment brought to you and he will be told you are there as soon as he returns.’

  The news Phillips brought Edward that night, though I was not to know it then, or for many a long day after, was that his ship, the Janus, and the cargo in which he had invested all the profits from selling the Manchester business to his partner, and much more besides, had sailed for the West Indies. She had fair weather throughout her voyage until by reason of a sudden storm the captain had been forced to put in at Kingston, Jamaica, against my husband’s express commands. The reason he had given the ship’s captain was fear of anticipated riots and disorder. The real reason was that Jamaica was the home of the Masons, his late wife’s family, and that, though in reduced circumstances, they still had a name and influence there. He therefore thought it wise for the ship to stay clear of the island, in case it came to their ears that the Janus and her cargo were the property of Mr. Rochester of Thornfield. But, alas, wind and tide were against her, and she was forced to put in at Kingston. The harbour authorities learned of the ship, her cargo and to whom they belonged, and that information was not long in reaching the Masons. This numerous and impoverished tribe, incensed by the notion of my husband’s presumed wealth, roused up all their other connections on the island and descended by night on the harbour. None could prevent them from looting the cargo and firing the ship. On that one night in the Caribbean the ship, the cargo and all my husband’s hopes were destroyed.

  When this intelligence reached the ships’ owners in London, they saw the disaster as grave enough to be imparted immediately to my husband and so Mr. Phillips was despatched. But it was plain from her triumphant manner outside the church that Madame Roland had received the news from the Masons even earlier.

  Having settled Mr. Phillips in the study I went upstairs, but I did not sleep for, if the news were grave, as I supposed, I imagined Edward might wish to speak about it to me later.

  Late, at one o’clock, I heard the carriages returning from Raybeck Hall. Then came the noisy descent, the entry into the house and the animated talk of those who had come back from the party. The Nortons had stayed behind in their house that night, but would both return early next morning for the hunt, which was due to meet at Thornfield, as Edward had ordained.

  I heard Adèle’s high voice, my husband’s deep one, Lord Jago’s laugh, all the sounds of a happy group coming home after an entertainment. There came the banging of doors, more voices, then a diminution in the sound, then feet coming upstairs, then silence. Downstairs, I knew, Mr. Phillips and my husband must be in conversation.

  I waited for fifteen minutes, allowing time for the imparting of the chief news, then went downstairs. The drawing-room was empty; the fire burned low; a fan, Adèle’s, lay on a chair. I went then to Edward’s study and entered it. The two men, Edward and Phillips, sat in chairs on either side of the fire, some papers scattered on the floor between them. The light was dim; only one lamp burned, that on Edward’s desk.

  Edward was lying back in his chair, his hand over his eyes, while Phillips, seated on the other side of the hearth, leaned towards him as if concerned. At the sound of the door opening, Edward started violently, his hand dropping from his face. He sat bolt upright, then rose to his feet. ‘Jane! Why are you not upstairs?’

  ‘I could not sleep,’ I said. ‘And, the servants being abed, I must tell Mr. Phillips where his room is. You are pale, Edward? Are you well?’

  ‘As well as any man who has received a blow may be,’ he responded. His manner was controlled – too much so, I thought – and his voice was clear and even. But it was plain he had mastered himself with difficulty. He continued, ‘Before you enquire, Jane, may I request you to ask me no questions. This is a matter for Mr. Phillips and myself.’

  ‘I ask nothing,’ I told him, ‘though, as your wife, aught that concerns you must concern me.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ he said in a low, bitter tone, as if to himself. ‘More’s the pity.’ There was a silence then, broken by his saying, in a calmer voice, ‘You had better give your message to Mr. Phillips and retire, Jane. The meet will take place tomorrow, and the ball. You must take your rest.’r />
  I stepped forward. ‘Edward—’ I appealed.

  ‘Jane!’ he said in that tone of command he had so seldom used to me. ‘Phillips and I have more to discuss.’

  I said, quietly, ‘Very well, Edward,’ told Mr. Phillips where he was to sleep and left the room.

  I went upstairs, wishing with all my heart that Edward had wished to confide in me; required my support in whatever trial he was facing. Still anxious, indeed, about the exact nature of the disaster, I could only hope that the morning would bring him to me. But this was not to be.

  Chapter XXVII

  Boxing Day dawned frosty and clear. The hills stood out sharp against a blue sky. It was a bright day for the hunt, the hard, frozen ground promising fast though dangerous going for those ready to take a risk.

  The meet began to assemble on the drive outside. Servants moved among the horses handing up stirrup cups to the riders, horses blew out frosty air and all the while men and women came and went through the house, where a great breakfast was laid out in the dining-room. All was cheerful confusion.

  I, however, was uneasy in my mind. There are small signs given out by those one knows intimately. To one who knew him less well, Edward, strong and active in his riding-dress, must have seemed amicable, hospitable and expansive, entirely at ease. Yet I, who know him so well, noted in him, below the surface, a turbulence and a hard desperation. I did not think he was in a mood to ride safely; he might be reckless, endanger himself.