“It is complicated—divorce,” Everson said, staring meaningfully at me. “On the other hand, if there existed—”
But I had caught his meaning. “If there are actually documents—proof—that there was a previous marriage…” From the corner of my eye, I saw Carter start at my words: he had no idea what I meant, but for certain Everson did. “Then my marriage to Bertha is null and void.”
“If,” Everson said.
“If,” I repeated. I still did not believe a prior marriage had happened—but what if it had? And if so, Gerald would be the rightful heir. Was this truly something I could even be wishing for?
“You understand what that means?” Everson asked me.
“I do,” I said. “I would lose Thornfield.” But I would gain Jane.
Carter’s face showed genuine surprise, but Everson’s did not; he was too good a solicitor for that.
“I will see what I can discover,” Everson said. “If that is not a possibility, I have little hope for you, for there are only two grounds for a divorce: one is a prior, undissolved marriage, and the other is if a man cannot be assured that his wife’s progeny are his own. As I said, Parliament is well aware of men—and women—manufacturing assignations for the sole purpose of getting a divorce. They would send out their spies, and it is known in the neighborhood that you have been courting Miss Ingram. Your names would be dragged through the mud, and after all that the divorce would not be granted.”
They were thinking of Miss Ingram, but that was not who would suffer. I could not allow Jane’s name to be sullied that way. “There is no hope, then,” I said. None, unless I gave up Thornfield. The idea was still forming in my mind: could I trade one love, one security, for another?
***
I could barely sleep that night, my thoughts roiling, and when I did fall into a fitful slumber, my dreams offered no respite:I was a child, wandering through Thornfield-Hall, crying out for my mother, rushing from room to room but finding her nowhere—neither her nor anyone else—Thornfield itself cold, empty, barren.
And when at last I woke, shaken and stunned from my dreams, I rose and washed and dressed numbly. I made my way to the drawing room, where I sat down on the sofa, facing my mother’s portrait. There she stood, staring down at me. What would she have me do? I tried to order my thoughts, but I could not. Caroline Fairfax Rochester. She had been known for her kindness, Mrs. Fairfax had said—how I wished for her kind hand on my shoulder now, to guide me down the right path.
But I was on my own. I was on my own—except for Jane. It was Jane who grounded me, Jane who knew me to my very soul. It was Jane whom I could never give up—not my life as a landed gentleman, not the Ingrams, not Bertha, not even my ancestral home. If I had to choose, I would let nothing, not even…not even Thornfield itself stand in the way.
Chapter 18
Ileft for Millcote without even breakfasting, At Gerald’s inn, I pounded on his door until, half-dressed, he opened it. I imagine we both were surprised at this first meeting: I at the way he, even dark haired, resembled my brother, and he, perhaps not even knowing who I was, surely startled at my slightly mad appearance.
“You call yourself ‘Rochester,’” I said, the accusation clear.
“It is my name: Gerald Rochester. And you, I assume, are my uncle.”
I would not acknowledge that. “Why have you come?”
“To see my mother, why else?” It dawned on me that I did not know if he was aware that his mother was my wife.
“Why else?” I repeated. “One does not go to a solicitor if one is merely trying to establish a familial connection.”
He looked me straight in the eye. “But we are connected, are we not?” In a sudden motion, he stepped back from the doorway, saying, “Why don’t you come in?”
I advise you not to speak with him except in my presence.I hesitated just a moment, and then, Everson’s advice be damned, I stepped into the room, and he motioned me to the only chair, while he sat on the unmade bed. “Do you know where your mother is?” I asked.
“I know that she is in your protection. Does she live at Thornfield-Hall, perhaps?”
I steeled myself. “Do you know what state she is in?”
“What do you mean by that? I presume she is treated well.”
“Your mother is mad. Insane. She does not take visitors. She would not recognize you; she would not know you; you might very well not want to see her in her condition.”
“I would want to see my mother in any condition.”
I had already opened my mouth in riposte, but this stopped me.See my mother in any condition.Could I fault him for that? “Have you met her brother?” I asked.
“I was at Valley View,” he said, “but my uncle Mason was not there. He lives in Madeira, I was told. In Madeira they said he had come here.”
“Indeed, he was here, and visited your mother and she attacked him for his trouble and nearly killed him.”
