I slept only fitfully for the remainder of the night, and rose from my couch before the servants began their work. Immediately I climbed to Bertha’s hidden apartment and let myself in. Grace was dozing in her chair, but I could hear Bertha pacing and mumbling in the adjoining chamber. Soon after dawn, I knew, she would fall into sleep and Grace would take her daily respite away from that terrible place. I shook Grace awake, and she startled in agitation, as if she expected to see Bertha bearing down on her at any moment.
“A word, Grace,” I said.
“Sir?”
“Take this,” I said, handing her the rest of the sedative that Carter had given me. “Give this to my wife in her usual cup of tea if she seems to you unusually disturbed. It will not make an addict of her if you give her the correct amount. I will get more from Mr. Carter, and perhaps I shall have a stronger lock installed on the door.” I studied the two windows high on the wall—they were indeed too high to see out of…unless… “Have you ever seen her pull a chair over and look out those windows?”
“No, sir, I have not, but it is not impossible. I sometimes must leave, for food or to empty chamber pots.”
I stared up at the windows. I could not paint them over: that would leave the rooms forever dark and airless, more like a cell than I could bear to think. “You must be sure to lock her in her chamber whenever you must leave, even if she is sleeping. Always. Today you will be needed to help repair the damage done in the night: that will be a welcome change for you, I should think. And don’t speak to anyone of this. You know nothing of what happened in the night—whatever tales you hear, you yourself know nothing. And one more thing: I have brought you this length of rope. If there is ever a need, we will use it to bind her to keep her from doing real damage. You understand?”
She tried to stammer an answer.
“It was Mr. Carter who suggested it,” I added, for, indeed, he had.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Thank you. I am in your debt; I am well aware of that.”
She nodded. “And I in yours.” A curious response, I thought then and think still.
“Good day, Grace,” I said.
“Good day, sir,” she responded.
* * *
I wanted nothing more than to see Jane that morning, and I feared nothing more, as well. I wished, in those stolen moments in the night, she had given me more reassurance of our common feeling, had spoken to the companionship I had felt growing between us. But she did not, and I found myself increasingly disturbed by the horror of having both Bertha and Jane under the same roof, risking the chance of discovery, or something worse. I needed to solve the problem, and quickly, but was unable to clear my head.
I confess that in my distress I succumbed to my old habits and fled Thornfield altogether. I told myself that this was for the best, that time away would allow me to avoid any questions regarding the fire and let the whole thing be finished and forgotten before my return.
Fortunately, that very evening there was to be a gathering at the Leas, the home of Mr. Eshton, the local magistrate, and his wife. The major families in the neighborhood had been invited, including myself. I had sent my apologies a few days previous, preferring instead to spend my days in conversation with Jane, but now I sent a message ahead that I would be coming after all. I hurriedly packed my things, went down the back stairs to the kitchen, and had a quick breakfast and was off on Mesrour. My trunk would follow in the cart. It was cowardly, I knew then and admit still, but at the time it seemed the cautious thing to do. And, if I am being honest, a small part of me also wished to make Jane feel my absence, to show her how easily I could leave her, too, after her almost emotionless farewell in the night.
As it happened, it might have been better had I remained at home.
* * *
Riding across the countryside, I purposely turned my mind to Miss Ingram and reminded myself that this was where my affections should lie. She was beautiful, charming, accomplished in every way, an established and admired member of the neighborhood society. Yet, I did not feel a sympathy with her in the way that I had come to feel with Jane. She did not have the power to intrigue me, as this young girl had, did not bring me the same pleasure—or pain. Still, is it ever wise to let one’s emotions rule one’s life? Did I not do that for all those regrettable years in Europe?
I told myself—sternly—that Blanche Ingram was my fate. That I should value her for her social charms and beauty as I was valued for my name and land and income. With her as its mistress, Thornfield-Hall could once again be bright with candles and elegant women and music. What more could a man want? What more, indeed.
When I arrived at the Leas, the group was just finishing a lazy breakfast. They had all arrived the night before and had stayed up late gossiping, I suppose, and had slept nearly till midmorning. Miss Ingram’s eyes caught on me as I entered the room, and she smiled broadly and patted the back of the empty chair beside her. “I knew you would change your mind,” she called out. “You could not possibly miss the fun!”
Eshton rose and indicated the same empty chair. “Sit, Rochester! So good you could join us after all.”
I gazed around the room: Lord and Lady Ingram and their son, Theodore, and their other daughter, Mary; Lord and Lady Lynn and their sons; Colonel and Mrs. Dent; Mrs. Eshton and the two Eshton daughters. They all greeted me warmly in one way or another, and immediately folded me into their conversation.
This is where I belong, I told myself. These are the people whom I was bred to join. I filled a plate at the buffet and sat down beside Miss Ingram. She was telling a story of the vicar of the local parish, a meek man of limited talents, and imitating his lisp with remarkable accuracy.
“Why, Blanche, do you not indeed find his sermons stimulating?” her brother asked in a mocking tone.
Miss Ingram laughed. “Stimulating to sleep, I would say!” She turned to me, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “What would you say, Rochester?”
“I have only heard the man once or twice,” I responded. Indeed, he had seemed a fool, but a harmless one.
“That is enough for an opinion, surely,” she pressed.
“Well, I suppose he is good for an hour or so of sleep,” I admitted, reluctantly.
Ted Ingram let out a loud guffaw. “At least. At least! Would he not be good for a nightly sleeping draught?” I did not care for Ted; he was tall and slim and elegant, and he had a way of dismissing anyone he did not think worth his time. I could not see him without thinking of Rowland.
“And his wife,” Miss Ingram pressed. “Have you ever seen anyone so mousey? Brown hair, brown clothes, and she never speaks a word without his permission first.”
“That last part is not so bad, actually,” Colonel Dent observed.
“Oh, really?” Miss Ingram parried, leaning forward across the table. “Do you think all women should be silent unless spoken to?”
“Present company excepted,” he responded. “But a woman like that, what possible ideas could be floating around in her head?”
“No doubt she is worrying herself over what woman might steal her husband away from her, such a marvelous catch he would be!” Miss Ingram said with her eyes fully on me. I nodded uncomfortably and the whole company laughed.
Lady Lynn, who was seated nearby, leaned over just then to ask: did I not have a ward under my care?
“Yes, I do,” I responded mildly. “A French child, but she is learning English.”
“Learning?” said Lady Lynn. “So she must have a tutor or a…a governess?”
“A governess, yes.”
“And is she pretty?” Miss Ingram interjected.
“She’s only seven, but yes, I suppose—”
Miss Ingram laughed. “The governess, I meant. Is she pretty?”
“Ah.” I hesitated, unsure how best to halt this line of inquiry. “In a way, I suppose.”
She laughed again. “Not such high praise, I think.” She leaned closer to me, in confidence. “My father had an eye for every governess we ever had. He seemed to think it his prerogative. My mother ignored it, but we all three hated every one of them.”
“Adèle seems to like this one well enough,” I said, and I left it at that.
* * *
My father had an eye for every governess we ever had. I could not shake the comment. As my time at the Leas lengthened, my opinion of Miss Ingram soured and my respect for Jane grew. But how true were my feelings? Did I find her appealing only for her dependence? No, decidedly not—she was hardly of a dependent spirit, whether or not she accepted a salary. But I could see how it would look if I seemed to favor Jane—to Jane first of all, but also to Miss Ingram and all the rest as well. Even to Mrs. Fairfax, no doubt. I, the master of the house, exacting pleasure from an underling—that’s how it would appear, and how many times had that happened? I thought back to Jamaica, where many men owned girls and they so often took advantage of the fact. Had not I myself, at the age of fifteen, tried to claim the affections of a girl in the mill’s employ? No. If there were to be anything between me and Jane Eyre, I would have to convince her to come to me. I must reveal to her my affections without expressing them directly; show her how she suited me far better than any other; then extend my hand and wait for her to take it. For this now seemed immutable: she must make the movement—I could not.
I could almost laugh at the irony: I had spent years in Europe, hoping for a woman who would suit me. Now here I was, faced with one woman who suited me better than any ever had, but whom society would not accept as my equal; and another woman who pleased society to no end but not me; and still a third woman with whom no one cared to spend two minutes unless paid handsomely for the duty. And it was this last to whom I was married. Oh, God in heaven. Jane was my only hope for relief, for regeneration.
But how to manage it? How to convince Jane, first of all, that I preferred her company above these others’, that I was not merely dallying with her as a man in my position might? How to break through that composure and provoke a reaction that would allow her to reveal what she thought of me, she who guarded herself so closely?
* * *
As I contemplated all that, the days flew by; there were riding parties and excursions and picnics and every evening a dance or an entertainment of one sort or another. Though it did not give me quite as much pleasure as it once would have, I enjoyed showing off Mesrour to Miss Ingram, who did at first seem to be suitably impressed. She admired his size and his vigor but seized immediately on the fact that, as I had been warned, he was not a good jumper. “You should have taken me to see him before you made the purchase,” she scolded me. “I would have told you he wasn’t suitable.”
“Well,” I responded, “he’s suitable for me.”
“Really, Rochester,” was all she said.
I did try to flirt when the occasion called for it, but my heart wasn’t in it. In the rare moments that we were alone together, Miss Ingram asked me about Thornfield—she seemed already to know the extent of its acreage, but she was curious about the number of cottagers and the amount of land under cultivation and the number of servants I kept in the house, all of which she approached in such circuitous ways that I believe she thought I would not notice her interest. I was reminded again of Rowland and his calculations and was surprised this had not struck me before.
I was reminded of someone else as well, a figure even more loathsome in my life than my callous brother. I watched Miss Ingram make her grand entrances, determined to be admired in all things: the best markswoman, riding the finest horse, dressed in the most beautiful clothes, noted as the best dancer, the best singer, the best pianist. The others, I noticed, always made way for her to go first. It was that familiar determination to be the envy of everyone present that completely, irredeemably finished her for me, and after that I knew I must withdraw myself from her inner circle. That was the easy part; the other—provoking Jane to act—was much more difficult, but perhaps, I realized, I could use one to accomplish the other.
I waited until after dinner to broach the subject. Miss Ingram had been at my side all evening. Sitting in the Eshtons’ drawing room, listening to Miss Ingram play the piano, I thought again of Jane, of her amusing lack of skill at that instrument, but also her lack of embarrassment about it. It was time for me to return to Thornfield: I yearned to see Jane again, and I worried over Bertha. I knew I would receive word from Thornfield if another event occurred, but I also knew I could not afford to wait for that to happen. I needed to be on hand, I told myself. I needed to make sure that all was still well. And I could not keep Gerald Rochester out of my mind. Someday he would appear, I was sure, and I could not leave those at Thornfield, who knew nothing of him, to deal with him alone.
When Miss Ingram finished her piece, I vigorously applauded, and before anyone else could say anything, I rose. “Miss Ingram, perhaps you don’t know that I purchased a new pianoforte when I returned from Jamaica. While I have dabbled at playing on it, I would like nothing more than to have you christen it properly. Why don’t we all”—I cast my gaze around the room to include all present—“why don’t we all move on to Thornfield-Hall, where it has been many years since a party of this significance has entered our gates.” How could they decline such an invitation? As I expected, Miss Ingram was the first to gush her enthusiasm, and the next morning I sent a message to Mrs. Fairfax to prepare for our arrival.
* * *
I may have fled like a coward from Thornfield, but a fortnight later I returned like a king, and what a procession we must have seemed as we rode up the drive to Thornfield-Hall: the carriages polished and shined, the coach horses trotting briskly with braided manes and ribboned tails, and the rest of us on horseback leading the way, with Miss Ingram and I in front, she resplendent in purple with a matching purple veil surrounding her black curls, and I sitting proudly on Mesrour. I only hoped Adèle might have dragged Jane to the window to watch our approach.
I did not see Jane the day we arrived, nor did I expect to. She would have, as a matter of course, kept Adèle and herself invisible to the company unless they were summoned. But I did catch Mrs. Fairfax to ask if all had gone well in my absence, eager for assurance that Bertha had remained safe in the chambers.
“All was tranquil, Mr. Rochester,” she responded.
“Nothing unexpected occurred?”
“No, sir, except for a man who came looking for you, shortly after you left.”
I drew a quick breath. “Did he leave a name?”
“I asked his name, but all he said was that he was a relative, on the Rochester side. And he did not say what he wanted—only to speak with you.”
“It was only you who spoke to him?”
“Yes. A handsome man, I must say.”
“Did he say…that he would return?”
“Oh yes, indeed. And as he claimed a relation, I told him he would be welcome anytime.”
I paused, unsure how to instruct her without showing my alarm, and finally I turned away.
* * *
The first dinner at a hosting house is always a magnificent affair, and Thornfield’s was no different. The polished lustres gleamed, the plates sparkled in the candlelight, village men hired for the duration as footmen stood proud and straight in their finery, and the food was excellent. Mrs. Fairfax had, in all ways, done a superb job. The party lasted well into the night, and I wondered if we were keeping Jane from her slumber. I would be sure to have her in attendance tomorrow.
The next day an excursion was planned to an ancient stone circle, famous in the neighborhood. Before we left, when Mrs. Fairfax was making sure everything was in readiness, I stopped her for a moment, asking after Adèle and Miss Eyre.
“Oh, sir,” she said, “you should have seen Adèle last evening! She was dressed to the nines, hoping to be invited downstairs.”
“Well then,” I said, “have Miss Eyre bring her to the drawing room this evening after dinner.”
“Mr. Rochester, sir, I don’t know about that. Miss Eyre is not so used to…to…such company. I can’t imagine she would like appearing before so gay a party—all those strangers.”
“Nonsense!” I replied. Though Mrs. Fairfax spoke the truth, I would hear nothing of it. “If she objects,” I added, “tell her I will come and fetch her myself in return for her rebellion!” Jane must attend the gatherings; there could be no discussion. She held the most essential role in my play.
And come she did, but hidden in a corner, nearly behind some window draperies, while Adèle allowed herself to be petted by the ladies. Jane was working on some handwork, and I could tell that she chose not to look at me unless she felt sure I was occupied elsewhere. So, for my part, I stood beside the mantelpiece, watching the scene before me: Lord Ingram flirting with Amy Eshton; the other men gathered in a corner talking politics or rent-rolls no doubt; Adèle vying for attention from whoever would give it; Louisa Eshton sitting with one of the Lynn brothers, who was trying to speak French to Adèle; Mrs. Dent acting the grandmother she someday would be; and Lady Ingram, haughty and proud, sitting on the settee and nodding in conversation with her daughter Blanche, who seemed to be just waiting for me to approach. Of all of them, it was only Jane Eyre, sitting patiently in a corner, whom I did not watch; yet it was she on whom every fiber of my attention was focused.
And yet, to my shame, I knew the evening was painful for her, especially when Miss Ingram and her mother began an overloud and odious dissertation on children and, more to the point, their governesses, indirectly pointing their blunt conversational daggers at Jane herself. Ted Ingram, of course, could not refrain from adding his bit, making the conversation even more distasteful. While my first instinct was to protect Jane, I suppressed it: Jane had a sturdy sense of self and did not need my protection. Instead, I chose to let my distinguished guests parade in front of her their grotesque opinions and smallness of mind, showing at each turn how unworthy they were compared to the steadfast little governess in their midst.
It was Miss Ingram herself who changed the subject, for she, so unlike Jane, reveled in attention. Shooing Louisa Eshton away and seating herself at the piano, she called for me to sing with her, and I fell into her game—a game she believed she was winning, even as I mocked her with overwrought obedience and excessive praise. She, so used to being spoiled, thought it genuine emotion, I am sure. How I wanted to sit with Jane one day and laugh at Miss Ingram, the same way Miss Ingram had mocked the vicar and his wife so mercilessly, though on second thought, I could not imagine Jane laughing at anyone’s frailties. But Jane could see, I was sure, the artifice beneath nearly everything Miss Ingram said or did: the way that woman treated Adèle, the absence of any originality of mind and the shallowness of conversation, no matter how showy she was in presenting herself. It would be immediately clear to Jane that she was far better suited as a companion to me than Miss Ingram would ever be.
I moved away from the piano when I had finished in a sign that I had had enough, and as the talk turned to something entirely different, I noticed Jane attempting to make a quiet exit. I followed and caught her just as she was about to mount the staircase.
“Miss Eyre,” I said gently, “how do you do?”
“I am very well, sir,” she responded.
“Why did you not come and speak to me in the room?”
She replied, as I could have known she would, that she did not wish to disturb me when I seemed otherwise engaged. I longed to hear her say she had missed me, but she did not; I pointed out that she looked pale, yet she would not confess to jealousy, too polite to give any reaction at all to the odious scenes played out before her that evening. As ever, she kept her own counsel. I tried to urge her to return with me to the drawing room, but I saw that the thought of it nearly drew tears to her eyes. Aha—there was feeling in there for me after all. I did not wish her to suffer, only to allow that I belonged with her, not with Blanche Ingram. But this evening I had pushed her too far already, I saw, and regretted it.
“Well, tonight, I excuse you,” I told her, “but understand that so long as my visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing room every evening; it is my wish; don’t neglect it. Now go, and send Sophie for Adèle…Good night, my—” I swallowed that final word and fled, having nearly played my whole hand at once.