‘And now,’ he said in a practical tone, ‘the guests await and the mistress in her rubies must attend.’ He leaned forward, took the rubies from my hand, put them round my throat and fastened the clasp; then, smiling, he took my hand and raised me from my seat. ‘I would not live if you were not with me. Stay, Jane. You will stay.’ He kissed my brow, then led me to the head of the great staircase, and, as we descended, the guests in all their beauty, dignity and worth looked up at us, master and lady of Thornfield Hall.
I could not forget that fierce assault in the dark, the pang of horror as I saw that upraised knife and knew I was close to death. But Edward’s firmness, and his reassurance that he would stay with me and protect me, had weakened my resolve to leave Thornfield. And, though he had been too proud to appeal to me, how could I leave him? My heart failed me. But had he not told me I had imagined not one but two attacks on my life? And I knew full well they were not fancy, but horrid reality. But was it not hard for a man with the pride of Edward Rochester to believe any would dare lay hands on that which was dearest to him?
I suppressed my fears and anxieties as he led me out into the ballroom, which gleamed with light. Some twenty couples joined us, circling the shining floor before the long mirrors which fringed the walls. The ladies’ dresses billowed out like petals and the music was very sweet.
By supper time I was tired and good Sir George Lynn, remarking it, took my arm and led me into the supper-room, where he sat me down at a table and fetched me some refreshment.
He said, ‘Eat and drink, Mrs. Rochester, I beg you. What a splendid occasion you have made for us and how gratifying it is to see Thornfield opened up again, to know that one of the great houses of the county is once again functioning as it should, as a bedrock, a stay and support to the little world it dominates.’
I was barely able to understand his words. I felt as if the wine I supped was some strong opiate. I saw the tables, the feast laid out on long tables, the spotless linen, shining cutlery. I heard the music and the talk of the guests – and remembered again that terrifying assault in the thorn field. Mr. Phillips’s voice said again, ‘I fear your husband is ruined.’ Where did reality lie? In this entertainment under the mighty roof of Thornfield, where men and women of distinction danced and ate and talked and greeted each other, or elsewhere, in a world of violence, assaults, rumour of unnatural death and sudden, unpredictable events?
Sir George spoke on and I attempted to listen and reply, but I had one impulse now, to speak fully to Edward for he and only he could solve the mysteries, he and only he could provide explanations, give me back a sense of what was real and what was not, settle my mind, which seemed wandering, independent of my control, like some lost creature roaming through mist seeking home, light and security.
‘Sir George,’ I said, ‘will you escort me back to the ballroom? I wish to find Edward.’ And he conducted me back.
There was a dance in progress and I sat in an alcove with Sir George, watching Adèle dancing with my husband. She, exquisite creature, smiled up at him radiantly. As she did so, Lady Norton came past, arm in arm with Lady Jago, the two of them watching the dancers so that they did not observe Sir George and me.
In her clear voice Blanche Norton said, ‘How splendid Rochester and Adèle look together. What a wonderful creature she is. Your son must beware, my dear, for Jane is not looking well. Childbirth is hazardous and if she were, sadly to succumb – well, how can I best put it? – there would be no obstacle to a marriage between Rochester and Adèle. She is his ward, not his daughter, after all, and she loves him well enough, that is plain.’
Lady Jago’s response was cold. ‘More than enough, I should say. Too much.’
These were dreadful words, yet in some strange manner my dreamlike state protected me from feeling the pain they would otherwise have caused. I even understood Blanche’s motives in so speaking. At no time did she feel the necessity to believe what she was saying; she did it merely to rouse her own dull spirit and the interest of others.
I was conscious of Sir George, who had not, I think, caught what was said, asking me anxiously, ‘Mrs. Rochester – are you well?’
I replied, calmly, I believe, ‘I am a little tired. Perhaps I will go and sit quietly in my husband’s study.’ For all I desired at that moment was some solitude for a little while.
And as Edward and Adèle still danced, Sir George led me from the room. Mrs. Poole caught up with us. ‘Mrs. Poole will look after me now, Sir George,’ I said. ‘I order you away to do your duty and ask a lady to dance.’
Mrs. Poole helped me to the library and brought me water, and I sat numb yet clear-headed for half an hour and knew again the compulsion to leave Thornfield, that mighty house which had turned itself, for me, into a place of danger and torment. And yet, could I leave, in the face of Edward’s opposition – and his sore need of me?
Then above the sound of the music came cries – and abruptly, the music ceased. Then a woman screamed, and another. I smelled smoke.
Chapter XXVIII
It was as if I had expected it. I rose and left the study and the moment I opened the door heard hubbub. The hall was full of smoke and people; the front door gaped open; figures staggered blindly out on to the lawn. The drawing-room was a red glow, the staircase alight, flames shooting up from the treads and places on the banisters. The entire gallery upstairs was ablaze.
I fought my way through the smoke into the freezing air outside, quickly finding Jonathan on the grass. Mrs. Poole was beside him, holding his hand but not regarding him. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the upper windows, from which flames now leaped. As I bent down to reassure Jonathan, I heard her say, ‘So it has come.’
As the ladies in their ball dresses huddled on the lawn, and the men formed a bucket-chain from the stables to the door, Sir George counted us all, checking that everyone was present and safe. Then suddenly I heard Hal Jago’s cry of alarm: ‘Adèle! Where is Adèle?’
I gave Jonathan into the care of a maid and ran to Edward. Bucket after bucket of water was being emptied on to the blaze in the hall but the flames still burned.
‘She must be inside still,’ he said desperately. ‘Oh – dear God, dear God.’
He declared, ‘I will go in.’
‘No, Edward. It is an inferno,’ I cried.
‘I have no choice,’ he told me.
Even as he spoke I saw, through the open doorway, halfway up the stairs, in all the flame and smoke, Adèle, engulfed in flames, her mouth open in a scream.
Edward ran into the house. He hurled himself across the hall and up the burning stairs, flung Adèle over his shoulder and came down.
I, too, had run into the flames. At the foot of the stairs he put down his burden – together we dragged her from the house. Lord Jago tore off his coat and flung it over her body to smother the flames.
As we bent over her, I took from the convulsive grasp of her blackened hand – a key, an old, dark key.
Chapter XXIX
And so I come to the end of my story, which I write, as I have said, in the window of my room overlooking the lawn and garden at Thornfield. My little daughter lies beside me in her cradle, asleep, pale lashes showing on her creamy, perfect skin, her head crowned with gold. Who would have believed that dark Rochester and I could have between us such golden children? Yet we have, and rejoice in this new daughter, whose birth followed tragedy, as if to redeem us after much pain.
We came to Thornfield without her and soon, very soon now, we shall be taking her away, for the house must be let as we are much poorer. We will go back to Ferndean.
And so I must complete my story before we go, conclude the sad tale which began at Thornfield and, there, ended.
Poor Adèle is dead. She lived only a week after the fire, in much pain, and then died. It was better so.
Following the fire I was taken straight to Mr. Todd’s by night and there forced to rest for several weeks, recovering my strength, which had been so much taxed at
the time of the fire and, indeed, for many months before it – during that period which I now look back on as a trial, a trial of courage and love.
During the early days at Mr. Todd’s Edward was ever with me, save for the visits he made to Adèle, who lay opposite, at Old House, devotedly nursed by Grace Poole.
Was it not strange that Madame Roland gave Adèle shelter so close to where I lay, recovering? Some might find it so. Edward, indeed, spoke to me tenderly after I had been a day at Mr. Todd’s and, holding my hand asked gently, ‘Jane – does it disturb you, my darling, that Adèle lies so close at Madame Roland’s? Certainly, she bears me no love – nor do I for her – but she was insistent after the fire that Adèle should go to her because of the great affection she has for Céline.’ – And I confess, I shuddered at that name on Edward’s lips. ‘It is a blessing in some ways,’ he continued, ‘that she insisted Adèle be carried there, for where else could she have gone to spend her last days?’ For by that time we knew Adèle had not much longer to live.
‘But tell me, my love, do you find the situation painful?’
And I told him, ‘Edward – whatever the child needs, she must have.’
He smiled at me then, a slow, sad smile. ‘Could I doubt you would show charity? And,’ he went on, his eyes still fastened on mine, ‘there are reasons why old enmities no longer have the same force – matters about which I must not speak while you are still so tired.’
‘I know there are mysteries,’ I told him softly, and said no more; for I knew that I must wait for explanations not only until I was stronger but until Edward was prepared to confide in me. And this was not the time, as Adèle took her last journey, that from this world into the next.
I believe no one knows what I saw on the night of her death.
I was in my chamber, which overlooked the road, when I was aroused by the sound of carriage wheels outside. I rose, pulled a robe about me and went to the window, where I knelt on a seat below it and gazed out into the darkness. The moon was shining, and by its light I observed the carriage draw up, horses breathing hard, their breath white on the cold air.
From the carriage there descended the figure of a tall woman, swathed in a hooded cloak of some dark fur. At the same moment the front door of Old House was flung open and light flooded out. Madame Roland ran from it, arms outstretched towards the other woman.
As the woman stood motionless, half turned towards the approaching figure of Madame Roland, her hood fell back and I saw for the first and, I imagine, the last time the beautiful profile of Céline Varens, clear as a cameo in the moonlight, and above that lovely face the cloud of fair hair.
Madame Roland gathered Céline to her and led her into the house. Though she was the shorter figure, I saw by her posture she was supporting the taller woman. They went in and the door closed behind them.
I believe thoughts of Céline had caused me some of the most anguished moments of my life. Indeed, at that time I was still uncertain of the exact relationship between her and my husband. But I am a mother; I was attending the birth of another child. How could I not pity that woman who, for all her beauty and fame, was now watching over the deathbed of her only child like the poorest of women in the humblest cottage in the land? I lay awake until dawn came and I heard the carriage depart – and then I slept.
In the morning Edward told me Adèle was dead and I said nothing of the visitor that night. It may be that none but those at Old House knew of it. My duty then was to comfort Edward as best I could. His sadness was great but, ‘It is better so – much better,’ he said. I thought then that it was only of Adèle’s hideous injuries he spoke.
That day St. John, to my surprise, arrived and sat all morning with Edward in Mr. Todd’s study. In the afternoon he took tea in my room. He told me Edward had asked him to speak to me, for he was at Old House discussing the arrangements for Adèle’s interment. St. John told me that Edward thought I should be apprised of some information of great future importance.
‘We have discussed certain affairs which will secure both you and Jonathan,’ he told me. ‘And of that I will say no more, unless you would like to ask any questions about our deliberations.’ I shook my head and assured him I had all confidence in any decisions made by him and Edward.
‘Then,’ he said, ‘I will turn to the matter of the Janus, as Edward has asked me to. This business – a bad business I may say – began with the arrival of Madame Roland and her fierce demands for return of the dowry of Bertha Mason, a claim which Edward still disputes but which,’ St. John said with a smile, ‘he, in his lordly way, decided to pay. He told me his idea was not to haggle with the woman like a tradesman but to obtain the money the lady thought she was owed, give it to her and tell her to be gone.’
St. John was still smiling as he said, ‘That, I have come to realise, is the Rochester manner, grand but impatient.
Consequently, he sold his interest in the Manchester mill to his partner and chartered a vessel, the Janus, loading it with all manner of goods to trade in the West Indies. On her return the Janus would carry cotton (which Edward’s partner, Mr. Jessop, had agreed to buy), also tobacco and rum. As a man of the cloth,’ St. John said wryly, ‘there is that in this scheme I might deplore, but although I am no man of business I see that it had every prospect of success. Then the Rochesters would have been on their way to riches and Madame Roland paid off and gone.
‘He did all for the best, Jane,’ my cousin earnestly assured me. ‘He has confessed that during the time he was selling his share in the mill, preparing the Janus – and during her voyage – his anxieties often overcame him. He was hasty, impatient – well, Jane,’ St. John said humorously, ‘I can bear witness to that – but you see, the doctor had forbidden him to trouble you in any way, otherwise there might be danger to you or the coming child. Your husband obeyed the doctor.’
‘Would that he had not,’ I said. ‘For I was more troubled by that ignorance than I should have been by any amount of business cares laid on me.’
St. John nodded. ‘Indeed – but the doctor cannot have guessed what he was asking your husband to keep from you. He may have supposed it would have been a matter of some plates from a dinner service broken, or your boy scratched and bruised by falling from a tree. As it was, the doctor ordered and Mr. Rochester obeyed – he is not, I would guess, a man given to running back and forth to the doctor and confiding all his family business.’
‘That is so,’ said I ruefully. Yet I was glad to note St. John’s affectionate understanding of my husband.
‘Like all of us, he has the defects of his qualities.’
‘But what of the Janus?’ I was asking of my cousin, when Edward came in, clad in black and very grave.
St. John stood up. ‘Will you take up the tale?’ he said.
‘I will. And thank you, Rivers, for beginning it for me. But before you go, may I request something of you – a kindness?’
‘Aught in my power,’ St. John replied.
‘We shall be burying Adèle in the churchyard next to this house tomorrow. I should take it as a great favour if you would consent to conduct the service. Mr. Todd will, I am sure, have no objection.’
St. John, bowing slightly, replied, ‘I should be honoured. You may count on me tomorrow.’
‘I thank you,’ said my husband and St. John left the room. I saw by this that the difficulties between my husband and St. John had indeed been resolved, for this request was as close as Edward could come to an apology for his hasty treatment of my cousin – and would be seen as such by St. John.
‘You will consent to my rising for luncheon,’ I said to Edward. ‘And then, when you have taken a little refreshment, will you continue the tale of the Janus?’
He agreed, adding with bitter humour, ‘For it is a story best not told on an empty stomach.’
That afternoon, in Mr. Todd’s drawing-room, before a brightly burning fire, he said, ‘St. John has, I expect, told you of my dissolving the partnership with Jessop t
o invest in the West Indies trade, and he may also have mentioned that to make good the shortfall I took money from the estate’s funds. Anyway – there it was – business gone, estate plundered and all hanging on the success of the Janus. Now, before she sailed I gave strict instructions to the master on no account to put in at Kingston in Jamaica, giving to him to understand that I had private information from friends in high places that riot and disturbance were expected there and I feared the loss of ship and cargo. This was not the real reason – as my intelligent little wife will have guessed,’ and he looked at me quizzically.
‘He could not put in at Kingston for fear of the Masons?’ I hazarded.
‘Just so,’ he said. ‘I suspected that if the Janus put in at Kingston and word got back to the Masons they would make trouble. And,’ he said, in a tone of calm resignation, ‘they did, Jane, they did.’
Then he told me the tale of the ship being forced to put in at Kingston and how the news rapidly circulated that this was Edward Rochester’s ship and cargo. He described the arrival of a mob led by the Masons which, carrying torches, swords and cutlasses, rapidly overpowered all who stood in their way, fired the ship and destroyed her completely.
‘What I chiefly wanted from this scheme,’ my husband told me, ‘was a sufficient sum to pay Madame Roland so that she would cease to distress you, my Jane, and cease to blemish the name of Rochester, which would in turn affect our son. And is it not an irony that, by causing me to charter the Janus, which was then destroyed by her family, Madame Roland has managed to ruin not just the Masons – but me?’
‘Well, we are not quite ruined yet,’ said I.
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