It seemed the sort of moment I had enjoyed far too seldom in my life: a moment of relaxation, with the opportunity for true conversation of real depth, with a worthy—or so I hoped—conversationalist. But I could not think what to say. For a time there was only the sound of Adèle’s chatter, and the rain driving against the window pane, and the crackle and hiss of the fire. I grew aware of Miss Eyre’s eyes upon me, as so often I had observed her when she was otherwise occupied. I wondered what she saw there, since I could not remember when I had felt myself truly seen and contemplated in such a way. “You examine me, Miss Eyre: do you think me handsome?” I asked her.
Perhaps I was craving more simple praise, as I had earlier received from my dinner guests. But in that case it was a question foolishly set forth, for her response seemed to surprise us both: “No, sir.”
There is no gracious recovery from such a response, but her honesty startled me—so different from the craven flattery I’d too often heard since I joined society. So I challenged her to announce what specific faults she found in me. It was not so much that I wanted to hear my failings recited—both Bertha and Céline had done that sufficiently—as it was simple curiosity to know how I looked to those lovely eyes. In all, I could not remember the last time I had been spoken to so frankly.
Was I handsome?I knew I was not, no more than she was beautiful. But she was cast in a different mold from the majority, and I found myself eager to hear her assessment, kind or cruel. But now she equivocated, worried no doubt that she had overstepped her bounds. We talked anyway, of other things.
It quickly became evident that, though her mind was sprightly and deft, she held to a moral core that could not be swayed, and was outspoken in its defense, occasionally to the point of insolence. I did not mind—indeed, this only further lit the fires of my curiosity. I discovered that if I played the role of master too broadly, and pushed her too imperiously, she became stubborn and annoyed, so I took care to apologize where I could, to treat her not as an inferior but as a younger, inexperienced equal, for there was something in this Miss Eyre that I could not resist prying into. Then, of course, she began to challengeme, and I found myself engaged in a wide-ranging philosophical debate on my own sins and conscience and truth—strangely enough, one of the most satisfying, provocative, and engaging conversations I had had in many years. This little governess was a rare creature indeed, and I found it impossible to be conventional with her. We talked this way deep into the evening.
Chapter 12
For the first time since Bertha had taken up residence in Thornfield-Hall, I found myself no longer tormented by the idea of remaining within its walls for more than a handful of days. It is not that I forgot Bertha; indeed, I slipped upstairs every day or two to check on her and affirm to myself that Grace Poole had her care well in hand; on that point I was always satisfied, though occasionally Grace appeared somewhat distracted. Bertha continued on as she always had, alternately raving and sleeping. I thought of telling her that her son lived, that he seemed to be thriving and well, but I could not be sure she would have understood me, and the news, to be frank, now brought me little joy. So I said nothing.
No, the change in the oppression I felt at Thornfield came not from Bertha, but from Jane Eyre, the peculiar young governess herself.
The more time I spent with Jane—yes, I had already begun to think of her as Jane, although I knew better than to call her that openly—the more I valued her presence. I spent more time at Thornfield than I had previously, and I had taken to inviting Jane to come to me after tea on the evenings that I was not away with the Ingrams or the others. At those times we read to each other while Adèle played with her dolls nearby, or we chatted lightly, or more often seriously, for she was a serious person, and was well-read and could argue cogently. She seemed to delight in vexing and then pleasing me by turns—it was an unusual arrangement for a master and employee, perhaps, but I had no cause to complain.
I enjoyed Jane’s company immensely, but the more comfortable I became in her presence, the more ominously I felt the weight of Bertha’s presence overhead. I could not imagine what Jane, with her strict moral vision, would think of me if she knew of the inmate on the third floor; I was sure she would not stay one more day in my employ if she were to find out. Yet I believe she sensed I was withholding something, and, further, that she was moved by my burden, despite having no idea what troubled me.
One evening, however, she came dangerously close to finding out. That afternoon, during my usual visit to Bertha, my wife had been more disturbed than usual, begging me to bed her, and when I refused she became violently enraged, her eyes flashing with a dark fury. It made me wonder for a moment if she, too, could sense a change in me, a peace and happiness attributable to another. But, surely, jealousy was now too complex and rational an emotion for this creature in my house, was it not?
I left her to Grace’s calming influence and fled to the lawn, where I found Adèle and Pilot playing, with Jane watchful nearby. Jane agreed to stroll with me and, driven perhaps by a need to confess—even if I could not speak the true weight on my mind—I unburdened myself to her about Adèle’s history and my relationship with Céline. It offered me an unfamiliar but refreshing feeling of relief.
The whole time, Jane walked beside me in silence, her eyes on my face as I spoke, offering neither absolution nor censure. But at one point during our walk I made the mistake of looking up at the house, where, despite that the windows in Bertha’s room were far above her head, I swore I could feel my mad wife staring down at Jane and me.
Guilt and worry tumbled through my head as I tried to sleep that night, tortured by a nagging regret over how despicable my life had often been, especially to imagine, now, how it appeared to Jane’s steady, righteous eyes. Finally, I took a small portion of the draught that Mr. Carter had left for me when I had sprained my ankle, and at last I fell into a heavy sleep.
Hours later I was roused by the sensation of drowning in a deep well. I struggled to gain the surface, only to discover that I was in my own bed, entangled by the sodden bedcovers. “Is there a flood?” I cried out.
“No, sir,” came Jane’s voice, sounding as ethereal as it had on the causeway; “but there has been a fire: get up.”
Still half-asleep, I imagined elves, witches, even demons as I rose from the bed, and looking about, I finally grasped the truth: someone had set fire to my bedclothes, and it was Jane herself who had saved me, pouring water from my ewer and hers to stanch the flames. It did not take much more for me to understand who must have been the culprit.
Leaving Jane safe and warm in my room, and entreating her to send no further alarm in the household, I took the candle she had provided me and rushed up the staircase to Bertha’s apartment. I had thought to confront her—give release to my fury and fears that she had endangered me and the rest of the household, including Jane—but as I flung open the door I found my wife struggling fiercely against Grace Poole. I managed to pry Bertha’s fingers from Grace’s throat and, with no other solution at hand, captured her in my own arms. I swallowed my anger and murmured soothing words until she quieted and could be put to bed. She demanded that I lie with her, that I “be a man,” but it was all I could do to remain calm, not to scream at her. As soon as I could I left her there, locking the door behind me.
In the front chamber, Grace was holding a cloth to the sore flesh of her neck. “She has been disturbed all day, since you left,” she said. “She insists someone has invaded her house. But I thought she had calmed—”
I interrupted her. “See that it does not happen again.”
“Of course.” She nodded.
“Itcannothappen again.”
She stepped back as if I had struck her. “I understand,” she said. I thought I smelled alcohol on her breath.
“Were you drinking?”
She paused. “Just my mug of porter.”
I felt my anger spiking once again, but I tamped it down. Surely, Grace’s life here was difficult—shut into this apartment with a madwoman—but Grace had come into it with her eyes open, knowing the ways of the mad, understanding what it would be. And now this carelessness, her drinking, had moments ago nearly cost me my life. I could not allow it. And yet, I reminded myself, even as Bertha had worsened, Grace had never asked to be relieved. Her life had been a hard one, and this was most likely not the worst of it. I sighed. “Make sure it is never more than one,” I said, and left that wretched place.
I paused on the stairs, wondering if I must bring Jane into my confidence—reveal Bertha to her. And if I did? She would leave my employ immediately. Her moral conscience would never allow her to work for a man who kept his wife secured upstairs like that. I would lose this ray of light that had so recently come to shine on my life at Thornfield. No, I could not risk that.
When I returned to my chamber, Jane was still there, as I had ordered her, sitting in the dark, probably terrified, but safe. She confirmed, to my relief, that she had seen nothing; for some reason she seemed to think it had been Grace Poole’s doing. Well, I thought, there could be worse explanations.
“Good night, then, sir,” she said, and started to leave.
“What!” I said, for I was reluctant to let her go without some assurance that nothing between us had been jeopardized by Bertha’s evil act. “Are you quitting me already: and in that way?”
