A Breath of Eyre (19 page)
Authors: Eve Marie Mont
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he next morning I rose and dressed, pondering what had happened the day before and wondering if it had all been a dream. I could not be certain until I had seen Mr. Rochester again. While arranging my hair, I examined my face in the glass. Who was this girl who looked back at me? Was it Jane? Or Emma? I felt the answer lay somewhere in these gloomy walls, but I didn’t know where to find it.
he next morning I rose and dressed, pondering what had happened the day before and wondering if it had all been a dream. I could not be certain until I had seen Mr. Rochester again. While arranging my hair, I examined my face in the glass. Who was this girl who looked back at me? Was it Jane? Or Emma? I felt the answer lay somewhere in these gloomy walls, but I didn’t know where to find it.
I went downstairs in a mood of trepidation. Mr. Rochester was in the parlor, and he called me when he heard my steps in the foyer. “Jane, come and bid me good morning,” he said.
When I entered, he did not remain on the chair, his leg sprawled on the ottoman, hardly meeting my eye like he once had, but sprang from his chair and embraced me, kissing me tenderly. “Jane, you look truly pretty this morning. Is this my pale little elf?”
“I am just Jane.”
“Soon to be Jane Rochester,” he added. “Do you hear that?” I did, and I couldn’t quite believe it. The feeling it sent through me stung like fear. “You blushed, and now you are white, Jane. Why?”
“Because it all seems so strange.”
“Yes, Mrs. Rochester,” he said. “And we shall be enormously happy together.”
“It seems like a fairy tale or a daydream.”
“Which I can and will realize. This morning I wrote to my banker in London to send me certain jewels he has in his keeping. In a day or two I hope to pour them into your lap.”
“I don’t want jewels. I would rather not have them.”
“I myself will put the diamond chain round your neck and clasp the bracelets on these fine wrists and load these fingers with rings.”
“No, no! Don’t treat me like a princess. I’m an ordinary girl.”
“You are a beauty in my eyes, and I will attire you in satin and lace, with roses in your hair. This very day I shall take you in the carriage to Millcote, and you must choose some dresses for yourself. I will cover my little sparrow’s head with a priceless veil.”
“And then I will look just like your Miss Ingram.”
“She was never my Miss Ingram.”
“Though you made her think it,” I said.
“Well, I feigned courtship with Miss Ingram because I wished to render you as madly in love with me as I was with you. I knew jealousy would be the best ally I could call in for the furtherance of that end.”
I bristled at his confession, though it flattered me as well. “It’s a disgrace. Did you even consider Miss Ingram’s feelings?”
“Her feelings are concentrated in one—pride, and that needed humbling. Were you jealous, Jane?”
“Never mind, Mr. Rochester.”
“I love the fire in your eyes when you are vexed with me. Now be my good little girl. Go to your room and put on your bonnet. I mean you to accompany me to Millcote this morning.”
I didn’t want to go shopping, and at the moment, I couldn’t remember why I loved Rochester. Even after our engagement, he still treated me like a little pet rather than his equal. He instructed me to be a good little girl, and I was tired of being good. The truth was, I didn’t wish to be married to Rochester, but I wasn’t sure how to extract myself from the promise I’d made.
I went upstairs to get my bonnet, and when I came back down, Mrs. Fairfax was sitting at the kitchen table. Seeing me, she made an effort to smile, but could not.
“I feel so astonished,” she began. “I hardly know what to say to you, Miss Eyre. I have surely not been dreaming, have I? Sometimes I half fall asleep when I am sitting alone and fancy things that have never happened. Now, can you tell me whether it is actually true that Mr. Rochester has asked you to marry him? Don’t laugh at me. But I really thought he came in here five minutes ago and said that in a month you would be his wife.”
“It’s true,” I said, my voice empty of feeling.
“Have you accepted him?”
“Yes,” I said, though I could barely believe it myself.
She gaped at me. “I could never have thought it. He is a proud man—all the Rochesters were proud. He, too, has always been called careful. But he means to marry you?” She shook her head, bewildered. “I really don’t know. Equality of position and fortune is often advisable in such cases, and there are twenty years of difference in your ages. He might almost be your father. Is it really for love he is going to marry you?”
But the real question she might have asked was, is it really for love that I was going to marry him? Perhaps she was more right than she knew in saying he might be my father. I’d heard of such things happening—young girls falling for older men because they provided safety and security, or they replaced a paternal love that had been missing in the girls’ lives. Was this the reason I had fallen for Mr. Rochester, a man who called me his “little sparrow” and expected blind obedience?
Mrs. Fairfax continued. “You are so young, and so little acquainted with men that I wish to put you on your guard. It is an old saying that ‘all is not gold that glitters,’ and in this case I do fear there will be something found to be different to what either you or I expect. I hope all will be right in the end,” she said, “but believe me, you cannot be too careful. Try and keep Mr. Rochester at a distance. Distrust yourself as well as him.”
I did distrust myself. In fact, I had no sense of who my true self was anymore. Happily, Adèle ran in. “Let me go! Let me go to Millcote, too!” she cried. “Mr. Rochester won’t let me, though there is so much room in the new carriage. Beg him to let me go, mademoiselle.”
“I will, Adèle,” I said. “I will.”
The carriage was ready, and servants were bringing it round to the front. Rochester was pacing the pavement, Pilot following him back and forth. I convinced Rochester to allow Adèle to accompany us to Millcote, though he seemed cross about it. The hour spent shopping was a misery. Mr. Rochester made us go to a silk warehouse where I was forced to inspect dozens of samples. Adèle was in her glory, prancing about, holding up multicolored silks to her face like she was an Arabian princess. I hated the ordeal, but Rochester insisted we choose one. Eventually, I handed the task over to him, but he chose such a gaudy and expensive silk that I finally persuaded him to choose a plain one. A similar thing happened with the veil. He chose an elaborate one covered in pearls and gilt and lace, and I made him give it back and replaced it with the simplest one of cream chiffon. Finally we went to a jeweler’s shop. The more he bought for me, the more my cheeks burned.
As we got back in the carriage, I felt exhausted, like a doll Adèle had spent all day dressing up in play clothes. Rochester couldn’t understand why the day hadn’t pleased me.
“You needn’t look so glum,” he said. “You are going to be the most beautiful bride that ever lived.”
“No, I won’t be. And I don’t like this flattery. I don’t want to feel like someone I’m not. If you’re not careful, I’ll wear the old black frock I came here in and walk down the aisle looking like I’m in mourning.”
“Very well,” he said, smiling as if my anger amused him. “You have made your point.” We were now approaching Thornfield. “Will it please you to dine with me tonight?” he asked as we reentered the gates.
“No, thank you.”
“And why not, if I may inquire,” he said, barely concealing the anger in his tone. I had found, since our engagement, he expected even more obedience from me than when I’d been his employee. It made no difference to me that he had grown up accustomed to having his orders obeyed. If I was going to be his wife, he would have to learn how to treat me like an equal.
“I’ve never dined with you before,” I said, “and I see no reason why I should now.”
When we went inside, he stormed into the parlor. Pilot followed him in, and I heard a clinking of glassware that no doubt meant he was pouring himself a drink. I took my newly acquired jewelry and veil and went upstairs. Adèle wished to follow me into my room to revel in my new acquisitions, but I was too tired and needed to think.
That night, I was so exhausted I fell asleep immediately, though I did not sleep tranquilly. In fact, I dreamt that night that Thornfield Hall was a dreary ruin. What remained of the building was nothing but a wall, very high and very fragile-looking. In my arms, I carried a child wrapped in a shawl. I knew I couldn’t leave the child, no matter how tired my arms grew. We wandered through the remains together, stumbling over ruins.
In the distance, I heard the gallop of a horse. I was sure it was Rochester, so I climbed up the wall, eager to catch a glimpse of him from the top. But the stones rolled from under my feet, and the child clung round my neck in terror and almost strangled me. At last I reached the top. I saw Rochester and his horse as a speck, getting smaller every moment. A gust of wind blew so strong I could no longer stand. I sat down on the ledge just as Rochester turned on the road. When I bent forward to take one last look, the wall crumbled and the child rolled from my lap. I reached out for her, lost my balance, and woke right before my body hit the ground.
I had woken because of a noise in the room. It sounded like a rustling coming from the closet. “Pilot, is that you?” I said.
Of course no one answered, but I thought I saw a ghostly form by the closet. I rose in bed, breathless, and the blood ran cold in my veins. The apparition held something in its hands, and then I heard a tearing sound. Throwing my legs to the side of the bed, I watched the wraithlike figure disappear into the hallway. After catching my breath, I bent down to inspect a white shape on the ground, only to find it was my wedding veil. It had been torn in two.
I got out of bed and opened the door with a trembling hand. Something creaked down the hallway. It was not Rochester’s door this time, but the door to the third floor, which had been left slightly open. Without thinking, I crept down the hallway and entered the stairwell. I tiptoed up to the third floor, no longer feeling any fear, even as I recalled the night I had followed Rochester up these stairs to see Mr. Mason, who had claimed someone tried to bite his heart out.
I kept on until I found myself at an iron door, the one that had separated me from the truth that night long ago. I knocked on it now without any reservation or fear.
“Who is it?” I heard. It was Grace Poole’s voice.
“It’s Jane,” I said.
“Go away, I beg you.”
“You must let me in. Tell me who is there with you.”
“Go away!” she hissed.
“If you don’t let me in, I’ll wake Mr. Rochester and tell him you came to my room and tore my wedding veil. He’ll surely turn you out for that.”
Silence fell in the space between us, and I heard what seemed to be the clattering of several dead bolts unlatching, as if this were the cage of some wild beast. Grace opened the door a crack and peered out to make sure I was alone. “Come in,” she said. “Be quiet.”
We were in the tower. The round room was dark but for one candle on a bed stand, and there were no windows. Other than the feeling of coldness from the stone walls, the room was ordinary with a bed, dresser, and vanity. In fact, it looked very much like my own. I noticed a pair of eyes in the corner. As my own eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that the person crouched there was a woman.
“Who is that?” I said.
“That is Bertha. Mr. Mason’s sister.”
“Mr. Mason’s sister? Is she the one who ... bit him?”
“Yes.”
“Is she mad?”
Grace sighed. “I have calmed her tonight with some valerian root tea.”
“Why is she here? Is she the one who tried to kill Rochester in his bed? Is she the one who—”
“Shush,” Grace said. “You ask too many questions. I will tell you what you need to know.”
I knew Jane had never been to this room, had never met Bertha face-to-face. I feared what I had done to Jane’s fate in coming here. But my curiosity as Emma far outweighed any sense of loyalty I felt to Jane’s story.
Slowly, Grace told me Bertha’s tragic history. Rochester had fallen in love with her exotic beauty, and in his folly, he’d brought her all the way from Jamaica to England, like some rare West Indies prize. A lovely insect to trap under glass. Unaccustomed to the English climate and the loneliness of life on the moors, Bertha grew despondent. Rochester was away much of the time, and the cold, bleak winters left her lonely and depressed. She craved sunshine and water, friendship and love.
“I thought she’d be better once the child came along, but when she lost the baby, she fell into such despair I thought she’d tear her heart out. She moaned like a wild beast day and night, and nothing would console her. That was when the master restricted her to the attic under my care.”
“Lost the baby?” I said. “Do you mean Bertha was pregnant?”
“Yes,” Grace said. “This was a long time ago. I took pity on her then. But now she has gone too far, trying to set fire to his room and sneaking into yours to tear your veil. Mr. Rochester will certainly turn me out for my negligence. But if I leave her, she will have no one. No one in this world.” Grace Poole, who had always appeared so stolid and unflappable, seemed genuinely distressed.
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