***
Before the others awoke, I rode to Carter’s home, where he was tending to Richard Mason, who lay, still weak, in bed. “It was a fearful night,” Richard moaned when he saw me. “I could never have anticipated my own sister would come at me with such vengeance.”
“In her mind, she is not your sister,” Carter reminded him, as he helped him to a draught, which Richard drank deeply. A few moments later, he was snoring lightly, and Carter turned to me. “How did she get a blade?”
“She is locked up all day, day after day,” I said. “She has more than enough time to fashion a weapon from some stray object—a spoon, for example.”
“Perhaps you need a better caretaker, or more of them,” Carter said. “Grace Poole is fine, but perhaps she is not enough—”
It was not the first time I had wondered about that. “One Grace Poole can be explained,” I said. “More climbing those stairs every day would arouse suspicions that must not be aroused.”
Carter looked at me seriously. “Perhaps it is time to make it known who resides in that apartment,” he said. “People are apt to be kinder than one imagines.”
To Carter it seemed simple, but he had no idea about Jane, or my hopes for a future with her. And yet—perhaps he was right on one count: the situation with Bertha must change, and change now.
As I rode home, a plan began to take shape: I would see Everson about finding a new place to house Bertha, discreetly. The location must be far enough away to allay suspicion, yet close enough for me to visit occasionally; but that was the easy part. Finding a place with light and fresh air, yet without windows that could be broken, would be much harder. It was not something one did in a week or two, or even a month, perhaps, but I vowed to begin immediately, during Jane’s absence, so that I could begin to press my case to Jane without the specter of Bertha lingering over us both.
Chapter 17
The following days were a most anxious time: Jane had promised she would return, and, as well, that she would let me find her a new position. I wanted to trust her, and she was not one to renege on a promise. But what if something fell into her lap? Surely governess positions were not so common that she could afford to refuse. She had no idea that the whole thing was a charade, that I would never marry Miss Ingram, that Thornfield would be Jane’s home for as long as she wanted it.
As soon as Jane left, it seemed to me that the life had gone out of Thornfield-Hall, and perhaps it had gone out for my guests as well, for with only a few words on my part, they decamped that very same day, leaving Thornfield-Hall quiet and me at a loose end.
In those first days without Jane, both Adèle and I were wholly out of sorts. I bought her trinkets when I could and tasked Sophie with taking the child on walks and little adventures on the estate grounds to keep her mind and heart occupied, while I tried amusing myself with rides across the moors on Mesrour, as Pilot bounded along beside.
Once I crossed paths with Miss Ingram, who archly told me she had more pressing things to do than to join me in a ride. It was clear that the Gypsy’s hints had taken root and I was evidently not deemed an eligible suitor. Oddly, I was discomfited in this result, though I had planned it myself. I had once assumed the choice between Miss Ingram and Jane was mine alone to make; now I had closed a door and there would be no going back. Though I felt some satisfaction in giving up what I had once possessed, it was worth nothing—Iwas worth nothing—if I did not have Jane. But upon her return, I vowed, that would change.
In the meantime, Thornfield without Jane was barren. She wrote to Mrs. Fairfax with news of her aunt, which the housekeeper kindly shared with me, and it became clear that the visit was going to last much longer than Jane had originally implied. It was irrational, perhaps, but I began to worry again that she was gone for good. I could not simply remain in place, waiting anxiously for her return, so after consulting with Ames about issues on the estate, I packed a bag and left.
I headed immediately for London. I’d told Mrs. Fairfax I was going to buy a new carriage—which indeed I did, imagining Jane riding home on our wedding day—but I had also heard that a daughter of the Gateshead Reeds, a Miss Georgiana, had been much admired in London society a few seasons back, and, with veiled questions, I sought out what news I could of her family. Did she have a cousin Jane Eyre, in truth? And what was the standing of the family? I wondered. Would they cause trouble for me if I tried to marry Jane without first ridding myself of Bertha, if the secret got out? Unfortunately, I did not learn much—Georgiana was beautiful and selfish, it seemed, and the whole family had suffered much at the recent death of her brother, John. No one had heard of a cousin.
This last niggled at me: it fit with what Jane had told me—that the Reeds had never considered her a true relation—and yet it made me wonder again why she had been sent for. Since I was ready to return to Thornfield anyway, I made the detour to Gateshead unannounced. Of course, I did not intend to make my presence known to Jane, but I thought I could get a better picture of the Reed family and perhaps even hear some gossip about their visiting cousin.
I found accommodations in a nearby inn, telling the landlord I was distantly related to the Reed family and asking for news of them. He was a loquacious man and warmed up easily to conversation, telling me that the Reeds had experienced no end of trouble since the death of Mr. Reed. The son had been a bully as a youngster and had grown into gaming and alcohol and other dissolute substances, had played too much with women he shouldn’t have, and had recently died, though, he assured me, he hated to speak poorly of the dead.
And his mother? I asked. Ah, yes, that woman was as blind as a bat as far as her son was concerned, wasting her money on him until, rumor went, it was mostly gone, though the one daughter still dressed and acted as if she were a princess. And now the mother had apoplexy and was not well, maybe even dying for all he knew, and there was another daughter, as thin as a stick and with a sour face to go with it. Was there a cousin who used to stay with them? I asked cautiously. Name of Jane Eyre? It was she, I added, who was my relative.
“You may be in luck,” he told me: “I heard a young woman, a distant relative perhaps, is doing the work of a servant in old Mrs. Reed’s last days. If you have any sense”—he leaned closer—“you’ll get her out of there before they make a maid of her.”
I left him, determined to see for myself, but they must have been keeping Jane busy, for it was three days before I saw any sign of her. The “princess”—whom I assumed to be Georgiana—was walking along the street finely attired, carrying a parasol, with Jane in her usual sober gray a half step behind, loaded with bundles. It was a pitiful sight, and immediately I decided that when I had Jane home, I would dress her in the most beautiful silks and satins and shower her with jewels. I left, then, for if I had stayed, I would not have been able to resist interrupting this charade, no doubt fully humiliating Jane.
At Thornfield, returning with my new carriage and bearing gifts for Adèle, I was surrounded by the idyllic sight of the hay harvest: laborers swinging their scythes and others with rakes drawing the hay, and haystacks in meadows all around under the warm, early summer sun.
When I set foot in the Hall, however, I was greeted with unwelcome news. “That same gentleman has been here to see you, sir,” Mrs. Fairfax said as she took my hat and cloak. “Mr. Rochester, he calls himself; he says he is your nephew.”
I was just removing my gloves, and I looked up sharply. Mrs. Fairfax, as any good servant would, had no expression at all on her face. “He is here now?” I asked.
“He has been here, sir. He is staying in Millcote, I believe. He said to send for him when you return.”
“Thank you,” I replied, retaking my things from her arms. I made directly for the stable, where Mesrour had just been unburdened of his saddle, and I ordered the hand to saddle him up again. I should have left the poor horse to rest from our journey, should have taken another mount, but Mesrour was in my heart and I needed him beneath me, and Pilot beside me. If Jane had been present, I might have wanted to take her with me as well.
***
Everson was just tidying his office when I arrived. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said.
“Have you?”
“Mr. Gerald Rochester, he calls himself,” he said.
