Mrs Rochester

by Hilary Bailey

  I was unable to speak to him on that or any other subject. It was evident he had nothing to say to me; indeed, he evaded me, though in the politest way, so that I alone, I think, noticed this. It was clear that he wished no questions abut the message brought by Mr. Phillips.

  That gentleman, dressed for travelling, found me in the morning-room as I was giving some instructions to one of the maids. ‘I wished to thank you for your hospitality before departing, Mrs. Rochester,’ he said to me.

  There was gentleness in his face and this emboldened me. If Edward would tell me nothing of his troubles, then I would make one last attempt to get information from Mr. Phillips.

  ‘Would you come with me into the study, Mr. Phillips? I would like to talk to you,’ I said. He gazed at me for a moment and then agreed. In the study I confronted him. ‘Mr. Phillips, there is some news adversely affecting my husband’s fortunes which he has not told me. I wish so much to help him – yet I cannot unless I know what you have told him. Will you pity me, and say what has occurred?’

  He looked at me with sympathy and then said regretfully, ‘How can I, Mrs. Rochester, if he has not? Believe me, if I felt I could I would be pleased to do so. But you must see this is your husband’s business, and he must decide when to confide in you. I am sorry.’

  ‘I too am sorry,’ said I, ‘if I have demanded of you something you find you cannot do. You will understand, it is only concern for my husband which impels me to ask.’

  ‘I do understand, Mrs. Rochester,’ he told me sincerely.

  ‘Well then, you are eager to get away. The carriage will be at the end of the drive for you and I have had put in it some provisions for your journey.’ I held out my hand to him and he took it. ‘Goodbye, Mr. Phillips.’

  We shook hands and he turned to go. Then he turned back and earnestly said, ‘Mrs. Rochester – it would be wrong for me to inform you of any details but I will tell you what I believe you already suspect and what I am afraid inevitably you will soon know. I fear your husband is ruined. I am sorry.’

  Gravely I thanked him and took him to the front door. As we arrived, Edward was in the hall with Jonathan and I heard him say, ‘Whatever they said to you yesterday about your following the hunt, today I say you may not do so. Go upstairs now and take off your riding-clothes.’ Jonathan bit his lip, turned and went upstairs.

  Mr. Phillips, meanwhile, left the house and began to make his way through the crowd of riders and hounds milling beside the front door and over the lawn.

  Now my husband was behind me. ‘Jane, I would prefer you to attend to our guests rather than withdraw to the study, to have a private interview with a ship-owner’s clerk.’ I believe Mr. Phillips heard these words, for, though he did not turn round as he trudged onwards, I saw his shoulders stiffen.

  ‘I am sorry, Edward,’ I said softly, but as I spoke he strode past me to where a groom stood holding his horse, grasped the reins, flung them over his horse’s back and mounted up. The others, who had been inside the house, crowded past.

  ‘Wish us a good day, Jane,’ Blanche Norton, stately in her riding-dress, called as she went past and I did, but my heart was heavy.

  Edward had chosen not to confide in me a disaster which I now knew absolutely to have taken place. He had seen me leave the morning-room with Mr. Phillips and, angered, had publicly rebuked me. Though this behaviour stung me, as it would any woman, I guessed it to be connected with the bad news imparted to him by Mr. Phillips and I dreaded his beginning the hunt in such a passionate mood; such violence of feeling might impel him to ride too wildly.

  The horn blew and the riders, some twenty of them, streamed across the lawn and down towards the road. Sir Stanley Norton’s gamekeeper had singled out a place, near the boundary between his land and the Rochester’, where he thought they would get a scent and it was there the hunt was heading. I saw Edward in front, amid the baying pack, and moments later the hunt had gone from sight, the sounds of horn, hooves and hounds receding into the clear, cold air.

  Heavy-hearted, I turned to go, Jonathan beside me. He had changed out of his riding-clothes. ‘Why did Papa forbid me to follow the hunt?’ he asked. ‘He told me yesterday that I might.’

  ‘The ground is frozen hard. It will be dangerous riding today,’ said I, ‘and he will be ahead and so not able to watch you.’

  He sighed. ‘I think Papa was angry,’ he told me.

  ‘Gentlemen sometimes have anxieties they cannot share or explain,’ said I.

  A long day ensued, shared with Adèle, Lady Jago, who like myself was no rider, and the doctor and his wife, whose son had gone out with the hunt. After our meal, the doctor took me to one side saying, ‘Mrs. Rochester – I am quite concerned for you. You appear fatigued. Will you promise that from now on, until your child is born, you will exert yourself less?’ And so I promised him, but still he was not satisfied. ‘Will you promise me also that you will keep your mind at ease, that you will not allow yourself to become unduly anxious, nor allow the woes of others to overwhelm you, for I know that is something you are prone to do? Will you promise me that?’

  To that I replied, ‘I wish that were a promise I could make, but sadly I cannot, for I am not sure I would be able to keep it.’

  Then he told me soberly, ‘Very well, but do your best, Mrs. Rochester, for a new life hangs on it.’

  The afternoon was longer, even, than the morning and full of comings and goings, for the final preparations for the ball were being made and Adèle ran to and fro, full of commands and requests, while I attempted to keep my patience with her. ‘You will be exhausted before the ball, child,’ said Lady Jago at one point, suppressing her own irritation.

  The others played cards, I read, and soon it was growing dark. Seated at the piano by the drawing-room window I thought I heard, as I concluded a piece and the last tones died away, the sound of a horn. It seemed to come from high in the hills above Thornfield, where the ground was rocky and dangerous and very icy – higher still, the snow lay thick and deep. At dusk, unable to suppress my anxiety I put down the piano lid and said, attempting to sound quite calm, ‘I will go out to see if I can view the hunt.’

  The doctor caught my eye and I assured him, ‘I shall be very well alone, for I am only going for ten minutes, to clear my head.’

  And so I put on my cloak and went forth into the failing light, walking behind the house and past the elms to where I could look up into the hills. I heard the horn along the hillside, again, from that direction and, gazing upwards, just made out the long line of horses strung out along the hillside, Edward’s big grey in front. Such light made riding dangerous and I was sure the Master would soon call off the hunt.

  As they moved, I followed them, paralleling their progress, and this took me to the verge of the their field where, eager to descry again the pale shape I thought must be my husband’s horse, I entered that strange place through an open gate and found myself on the rough ground, amid those bare, distorted trees. Bright stars were emerging in the darkening skies. I followed the hunt, which still moved along the side of the hill, hearing faintly but clearly over the distance the blowing of the horn and the yelping of the hounds. Yet I thought I must turn back soon from this dreadful place. It grew ever darker and I had overstayed my time.

  I was passing through a small grove of trees, which were formed in a crude circle of five, when a shape, a tall shape, rushed at me through the trees and, instead of stopping on seeing me in its path, came on. Too late, I realised that this person, now almost on me, had no intention of pausing. I saw too a raised arm, a fist clenched about something. In that terrifying instant I caught the glint of steel and realised that, unthinkable as it was, here in this fearful field, bare of aught but twisted trees, I was being attacked.

  I saw only the white blur of a face, a covered head, a dark cloak, before my assailant was on me, gripping my shoulder firmly with one strong hand. The other arm, grasping the knife, was high above my head. Even as I felt the weapon plunging d
own towards me I pulled to one side, still unable to free myself from my attacker’s grasp but avoiding the knife. As it met empty air I felt my enemy to be off balance and, wrenching myself free, fled, stumbling down the darkened field in the direction of the road. Slow and heavy, terrified all the while of falling, I pushed forward, hearing behind the sound of my pursuer coming after me over the uneven ground.

  On I went, terrified, gasping my own breath so loud in my ears it drowned out all other sound.

  As I reached the wall by the road and fell against it, spent and breathing hard. I became aware that the sounds of feet behind me, the clatter of dislodged stones, had disappeared; what I could hear nearby, now, was the sound of the hunting-horn, the baying of dogs, horses’ hooves coming down the field towards me.

  I leaned against the wall, still sobbing for breath. When the hunt passed me, bound for the gate and the road beyond, I was too weak even to cry out. Yet as they went by I understood it must have been only the sound of their coming which had deterred my attacker, he must be still lurking there in the darkness and as soon as the riders were far enough away – would strike again.

  I forced myself to move towards the gate, hugging the wall for concealment, then go through and out on to the road. The hunt, though moving slowly, was far ahead of me now; in the darkness I could barely see the hindmost riders,

  Fearful every moment of a renewed attack, I limped slowly down the dark road towards Thornfield. I was shaking with cold and fear by the time I gained the drive. I stumbled across the lawn.

  From the open front doors of the house, light flooded; outside were the horses; riders were going into the house; two men were mustering the excited hounds for their return to the kennels. All was light, noise, movement and activity.

  Shocked and exhausted, seeking, like some wounded animal, only rest and darkness, I went in by the side door next to Edward’s study and made my way unobserved by the back stair to my chamber. There I cast myself on my bed. Only one lamp burned, in a corner; the fire was low. From the rest of the house I could hear voices, laughter, footsteps on the stairs and along the gallery outside my room. There was the sound of the orchestra tuning their instruments. Below, supper would be being laid out, candles lit. Upstairs, maids would be going to and fro with hot water. Soon, more guests for the ball would arrive.

  Yet I was still in the dark thorn field in fear of my life. I lay there long, hardly able to believe what had just occurred. I had been attacked, on my husband’s own land, by someone whose intention was almost certainly to kill me. I had no clue as to whom it might have been, whether a vagrant, a tenant resentful of some supposed injustice or – heaven forbid! – someone close to me. In reason and common sense, I could not think of anyone who wished me harm, whether at home or abroad. And yet a month before someone had cut my horse’s girths and left her saddled in the yard for me to ride, I could not believe I had an enemy. Yet I had.

  There came a tap on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said I.

  ‘Mrs. Rochester?’ Grace Poole stood in the doorway. She observed my dishevelled state, my pallor, and asked, ‘Mrs. Rochester – are you well? Is something the matter?’

  I could not trust her – where trouble was for me, there was Grace Poole; it had always been so.

  ‘Shall I make up the fire?’ she asked me.

  ‘If you please,’ I told her. She bent to the grate, then went about the room with a taper, lighting the lamps, and pools of light appeared; and as she did so she ever glanced at me. I lay there, still not looking at her. Then she came up to me, looked down and said grimly, ‘I have warned you once, Mrs. Rochester. You are not safe in this house. And now I warn you again – you should go, go anywhere, but go, and go quickly.’ And then she left the room.

  I lay for some time, scarcely thinking, and those thoughts I had were not rational, yet from somewhere, it was as if a voice spoke in my head, I knew that, yes, if only for a time, if only until my child came, I would – I must – leave this house. I would explain all to Edward, crave his forgiveness if need be – but I would leave. Curiously, what hardened my resolve was not so much the thought that here in this place there was one who had, twice now, I believed, tried to kill me, but that now over Thornfield Hall, magnificent as it was, hovered a cloud of mystery and confusion. I could no longer bear that in spite of its new brick, fresh paint and paper, odours of lavender and rosemary and good scents of all description, and in spite of all the care I had put into its re-creation, this house, Thornfield, was as rank, as tainted as corrupt as any place in the land, however vile. I determined that as soon as morning came I would leave go to my cousin Diana’s, and there I would remain in peace until my child was born.

  This resolve, shocking as it was, was all the more startling because it came to me so suddenly, almost like an order given to me by another. Only now did I understand how, day by day, event by event, culminating in that attack in the thorn field, had my strength and endurance been worn away until now, as in one blinding flash, I saw all the mysteries and dangers of Thornfield and found I could bear no more. Who or what I was fighting, I did not know; involuntarily it seemed, I had made my decision that the battle was too much for me. A voice was crying ever more urgently, ‘Leave this place!’

  A maid, no doubt told by Mrs. Poole where I could be found, came in with hot water. ‘Will you dress now, madam?’ she asked.

  Well, I will, I thought. For as long as I am here I will not be found wanting in hospitality, or courtesy towards my guests. And later, when the ball is ended, I will tell Edward about the attack, explain I can stay at Thornfield no longer and he, I suppose, will understand. Therefore, ‘Return in ten minutes, please,’ I requested. I washed, and laid out my dress and my jewels, but rather than begin to put on my grey lace ball-gown began to take from my cupboards those few simple articles I would need to take to Gateshead with me. One valise would suffice.

  I determined that only when I had packed would I put on my dress, and put in my ears and round my throat those earrings and the matching parure of bright rubies said once to have been worn by the last Queen of France. I would wear these, not for myself – for those brilliant and costly crimson jewels always imparted to me a sense of unease, as if they had been created from great drops of blood. No – I would wear the rubies for Edward, who some days before had suggested my dress would be well set off by their colour and splendour.

  When the maid came to help me dress, I had in my valise all I would require when I left Thornfield. Her eyebrows went up, but she said nothing, and silently picked up my dress and helped me into it.

  How cold I felt, now that my resolution to go was made. I was seated before my dressing-table, the maid having assisted me in dressing my hair, and she was about to place the circle of bright jewels around my neck, when the door opened and Edward came in, dressed for the ball, handsome and commanding. I began to tell him of the attack on me, but almost immediately his eye hit on my packed valise, which was standing by the bed, and his expression darkened.

  ‘Leave us,’ he said to the maid. She, with one swift glance at his lowering countenance, dropped the necklace of rubies into my hand and left the room. Edward came to stand behind me so that as he spoke I saw, not him, but his reflection above me in the long mirror. ‘Jane – is this what I think – are you leaving here?’

  ‘I must,’ I said. ‘Dreadful things are happening and I afraid. Oh, Edward, it is not for lack of love for you, but this place has become a nightmare to me. I fear for myself and for my coming child’s life. I must go, Edward, I must.’

  ‘I am astonished,’ he said vigorously. ‘I am astonished you can consider leaving me, and without telling me, asking me.’

  ‘I did not suppose you were going to forbid me a visit to my cousin’s, like a Turk,’ said I, but I think my voice was shaking. ‘Nor have you asked why I wish to go. I have good reason, I assure you. Do you think I would lightly separate myself from you? You, who are as much to me as life itself?’
/>   ‘Then why go?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘It is that I am afraid for myself and the coming child. Edward – there have been two attempts to kill me. I know you were unsure of what was intended when Ruby’s girths were cut and she threw me. But just now – just now – while I was in the thorn field looking out for the hunt, someone attacked me with a knife, I believe, and tried to kill me – and would have, had I not broken free at the moment when the hunt came past, allowing my attacker to escape.’

  He uttered an oath. ‘I cannot believe it. But who did this thing?’

  ‘The attack was sudden and in near-darkness. I could not tell.’

  He gazed at me and slowly, to my horror, I saw him become doubtful. ‘Are you sure, Jane? Could you not have been mistaken? Could you not have become caught in the thorns, in the darkness, and become afraid?’

  ‘Edward,’ I burst out, ‘you must believe me! Twice, someone has tried to kill me. Can you not see how this life at Thornfield is affecting me? I truly believe that if I stay I and the child I am carrying will not survive.’

  He gazed at me. ‘This is sore news to receive when I have just had such a blow.’

  ‘But what is it?’ I cried. ‘You will not tell me. How can I help you and comfort you when I do not know what ails you? What is it, Edward?’

  But he said, ‘I do not require you to bear my burdens. That would be unmanly. What I should like is for you to be with me as I bear them. Is that an unreasonable thing for a husband to ask of his wife?’

  I bent my head. ‘Oh, Edward – I am so afraid.’

  ‘You imply that I cannot protect you.’

  ‘No – no!’ I said.

  ‘You will forgive me if that is how I interpret your words.’

  ‘But you are not always here – you cannot always be here,’ I cried wildly.

  ‘I shall be with you from now on,’ he told me gravely, ‘for my disappearances are over. Now, Jane – my dearest. Our guests are arriving and we must greet them. Listen to me. Perhaps your imagination has been playing tricks, for ladies in your condition are said to be subject to fancies. But, be that as it may, you need fear nothing – henceforth I shall always be near you, protecting you. You will be safe. But you must not, you shall not, leave me. Beauty – you must stay by your monster’s side, for what kind of sad beast would he be without you?