We left Maysbeck on a bright, sunny morning. It had poured rain all the previous day and night, and now everything seemed washed clean—even, almost, the unpainted cottages and shacks of the bottoms. As the coach rumbled past, I gazed at them, hoping to see Alma once more, but I saw only crooked, narrow alleys, children shivering in filthy rags and adults bundled against the mid-November cold and damp, and lank dogs, snuffling amid the detritus. Soon Maysbeck was behind us and we were in the countryside, heading toward Harrogate, and I was imagining myself at Thornfield again, not just being in the place that I had last seen half a lifetime ago, but seeing as well Cook and Knox and all the rest, if they were still there. From Mr. Wilson’s gazetteer, I had surmised that with even the fastest of coaches it would take me a good day just to make the trip back and forth, without any time remaining to spend at Thornfield itself. I could not think of how I could persuade Mrs. Wilson to extend her stay in defiance of Mr. Wilson’s explicit order. And what excuse could I give for being gone so long?
Beside me, Mrs. Wilson was wrapped in her warmest cloak, and I had tucked a blanket around her besides. In less than an hour she was snoring lightly, her head fallen against my shoulder. The coach drove through countryside that looked so familiar that I could almost imagine Thornfield-Hall just over the next rise, with its fires lit and the silver and brass polished. Rowland might be there, hosting a party perhaps—indeed perhaps including Carrot—and an ache came into my gut, and a longing for Thornfield and for Carrot, both.
In Harrogate, at the inn where the coach left us, I hired a carriage to carry our luggage and ourselves to Mrs. Wilson’s sister’s house, which was not so very far away. Her sister’s companion, Mrs. Brewer, greeted us at the door in a flurry of excitement and confusion and, I noted, a kind of relief. She directed the porter upstairs with our bags, and she led us into a small but serviceable parlor, where Mrs. Wilson’s sister was seated close to the fire. At first she stared at us with a kind of detached curiosity, as if she had no idea who we were or why we had come, but on seeing her, Mrs. Wilson exclaimed, “Ella!” and hurried right over to give her a hug. The whole time she was being embraced, the sister gazed over Mrs. Wilson’s shoulder at me, as if she thought she ought to know me. Not knowing what else to do, I smiled at her and nodded, but her face remained blank.
“Who is that man?” the sister asked, and Mrs. Wilson came to her senses and turned to glance at me.
“Why, that’s Eddie,” she said.
“That’s not Eddie,” the sister said.
“Of course it is!” Mrs. Wilson said in her cheeriest voice.
“Not our Eddie,” the sister insisted.
Mrs. Wilson laughed. “No, Ella, not our Eddie. But he is still a very nice young man. He brought me here to you.” And she attempted the introduction. “Ella, this is Edward Rochester, whom Mr. Wilson has taken under his wing and who lives with us—”
“Who is Mr. Wilson?” the sister asked.
“My husband. John Wilson. You know him.” The sister looked blankly at her, but she continued on. “And, Eddie, this is my sister, Miss Little.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Little,” I said, stepping forward, making a bow.
But Miss Little shrank back, as if afraid I would strike her. “This is not Eddie, and I don’t want him in my house!”
“No, dear,” Mrs. Brewer put in, “it’s not your brother, Eddie. But he is a friend of your sister’s; surely he can stay.”
“No, he cannot,” Miss Little said, her voice rising. “I do not want him here, Cassie. He is not Eddie and there is no reason to pretend that he is, and I will not have some strange man staying under my roof!”
Mrs. Wilson glanced helplessly at Mrs. Brewer, for neither one knew how to handle the situation. But I did. “That is quite all right, madam,” I said. “I can just as easily stay at the inn. It’s not far and, anyway, you two sisters probably have a lot to talk about.” Though I had no idea how that could be, as Miss Little seemed to live in another world.
“Would you mind terribly?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
“No, of course not.”
“You could come back for tea, surely,” Mrs. Wilson said, looking at Mrs. Brewer.
“Maybe it would be best if I stay away,” I said. “I seem to disturb your sister; the less she sees of me, the better.”
“But, Eddie—”
“I shall be perfectly fine,” I interrupted. “Mr. Wilson said you could stay for two days. I shall return to fetch you then.”
“But what will you do at the inn all that time?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I have a friend not far from here. Would you mind if I visit him in the interim?”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Wilson said. “It will ease my mind if I know you are occupied.”
Relieved, I turned to Mrs. Brewer. “Please don’t bother to see me to the door. I will just run upstairs and find my bag and be off.” I did not even care if I seemed to be in a hurry to leave, for, indeed, I was.
Unfortunately, I had to spend the night at the inn, as it was too late to catch a coach to Millcote, but I took one early the next morning, and shortly after noon I was at the George Inn, which I had not seen in the nearly eight years since I had left for Black Hill. I knew I had limited time, so with most of the “emergency money” Mr. Wilson had given me, I hired a trap to take me directly to Thornfield-Hall, which took another good hour. I was anxious all the way, almost ripping the whip from the driver’s hand to urge the horse on faster. The George and the countryside around it all seemed so familiar that I could scarcely believe it was not a dream. I gripped the handrail as the trap rolled over the old hills and across the little bridges, and then, suddenly, Thornfield lay before me, settled into its quiet valley, the November mists curling around it.
At the gate, the trap stopped and I descended, paying the driver and asking him to return by ten the next morning, and I picked up my small bag, opened the gate, and walked up the long drive. All the way from Harrogate I had tried to work out what I would say to Rowland when I turned up at his door, but despite that I could not think what to say, I also could not pass up an opportunity to be at Thornfield-Hall again. As for my father, I did have a good excuse to be gone from the mill, though perhaps not a good one to be at Thornfield. Never mind, I told myself; I was not going to allow myself to miss this chance.
The place was quiet as I approached, no evidence at all of activity. It flew into my head that it had all been a lie of Rowland’s, that Thornfield-Hall was indeed closed and empty, but then I saw drifts of smoke coming from the chimneys, and with a lighter step I hurried forward.
It was Holdredge who opened the door for me. After nearly eight years he still appeared the same, but he clearly did not recognize me. “It is I,” I said at last. “Edward. Edward Rochester.”
He took in a sudden breath. “Master Rochester?” he said. Then: “Master Rochester! Come in. We had no idea. I am so sorry.”
I stepped into the entrance hall as he retreated to make room for me.
“I am so sorry,” he repeated. “Did you walk? We could have sent a carriage for you! We had no idea—”
“Of course,” I said. “You had no way of knowing I was coming. I had no idea myself twenty-four hours ago. I took a trap from the George.”
“Master Rochester—that is, Master Rowland—is not here,” he said, as if in apology. “It is only Mrs. Knox and Cook and a girl and a footman who are here at the moment.”
“And my father?” I asked.
“Oh,” Holdredge responded, “he is never here; he spends his time at his residences in Liverpool and in London.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, as if I had known of my father’s residences and trying not to show my relief. Just those I wanted to see, and no one I cared not to. “I had no right to assume Rowland would be here. This is an unexpected visit, and a short one.”
“Do come in,” he said. “Into the drawing room?”
“The kitchen if you don’t mind. I would like to see Cook. And Knox.”
He did not react to this at all, so good a butler was Holdredge. “Follow me, please,” he said, and stepped forward and led the way down to the kitchen, where we found Cook and Mrs. Knox enjoying an afternoon cup of tea. When no family was present in the house, I could imagine, this was the kind of relaxed atmosphere that prevailed.
“We have a visitor,” Holdredge announced as we walked into the kitchen.
Automatically, Mrs. Knox rose before she even turned to look. I can see her face still—shock there, and confusion, and then the dawning. “Master Rochester,” she said quietly.
“Oh, my heavens!” Cook proclaimed, rising and running around the table as fast as her bulk allowed. “Master Rochester! Young Master Rochester!” Mindless of the flour on her apron, she pulled me to her bosom, her body suddenly wracked with sobs. “I thought I would never see you again! I thought I would die without ever seeing you again!” When she came to herself and realized how unseemly her outburst had been, she stepped back, her arms at her sides but her face still locked on mine. “It is,” she added, still marveling, “it truly is.”
“Welcome,” Mrs. Knox said.
“Thank you,” I replied. “I know you have not planned for me. And I can go back to the village if necessary. I only have until tomorrow morning, as it is.”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Knox said. “You shall stay here; of course you shall.”
“It would be my greatest pleasure,” I responded.
“Master Rowland is not here,” she added.
“So Holdredge told me.”
“He has gone down to Bath, with his friends.”
With Carrot? I wondered. “No matter,” I said. “In fact, I saw him only a short time ago. I have come to see Thornfield. And you all. Not him.”
Mrs. Knox did not react at all. “And we are delighted to have you,” she said. “Are you sure you can stay only until morning?”
“I’m sorry, but yes. I must be back in Harrogate by this time tomorrow.”
“I shall make your favorite tea,” Cook said. “Is it still pork and kidney pie?”
“It is indeed.” It was then that my eye was caught by a movement in the shadows of a corner. It was a young woman—perhaps a few years older than I, square built, with a kind of wary cast to her eyes. I had seen such looks on some of the children in the mill. “Hello there,” I said, to put her at her ease.
Shrinking back, she stared at me.
Mrs. Knox glanced at her and at me and back at her, but it was Cook who spoke up. “It’s Gracie, Master Rochester. Jem’s sister.”
“Of course,” I said, though I would never have recognized her. I remembered my occasional playmate Gracie as something of a daredevil, but her spirit seemed to have deserted her. “Is Jem still here?” I asked, out of politeness—to change the subject—and from curiosity about my other old friends.
The young woman looked at Mrs. Knox to respond to my question, and then turned quickly away, as if fearing I would ask another.
“Master Rowland let Jem go,” Mrs. Knox said.
“He doesn’t keep horses?” I asked. That did not seem like Rowland.
“Oh, he does,” she responded. “But Jem got into a bit of trouble and—”
“Trouble?”
Mrs. Knox shook her head, and I understood not to push the subject. But still— “Where is Jem now, then?”
“He’s at the Grimsby Retreat. He has the care of the workhorses there. Mr. Holdredge gave him the recommendation.”
“The Grimsby Retreat?”
“I suppose you would have been too young to know of it. It’s a place started by the Quakers, a kind of madhouse, but…designed, as they say, for ‘moral treatment’ of the mad, whatever that should mean. There is a farm there, and gardens which are supposed to help heal sick minds, though heaven knows if it works or not.”
“And you,” I said to Gracie, taking a step closer, still attempting friendliness, “do you work here?”
She stepped back, as if I had raised a hand in threat.
“She has—” Cook began. I caught a quick movement at the corner of my eye, but when I turned, Mrs. Knox stood as still as a stone.
“Perhaps you could find a place for her here,” I barged on.
“I think perhaps not,” Mrs. Knox said. Though her voice was soft, her words were firm.
I insisted on having tea that evening in the kitchen, as I so often had done as a child. Holdredge joined us, and they asked me of my life and seemed impressed that I was a kind of assistant to the owner of a woolen mill. I am afraid I rather inflated my importance at Maysbeck Mill, but it seemed to please them that I could make such a good account of my life. Nothing further was said among us of Rowland. It was, truly, like being home again.
I did not see Gracie again during my brief stay at Thornfield, and I had little occasion to think of her. We had been playmates as children, but we were no longer children.
* * *
Mrs. Wilson and I rode back to Maysbeck in silence. She was clearly distraught about her sister, and I hardly knew what to say. At first I asked if she had had a pleasant time, knowing that it could not have been anyone’s idea of pleasant, but that is the sort of thing one asks after a visit and I thought I should do so regardless of the situation. She barely responded, turning her head toward the window and closing her eyes. She didn’t say another word.
Once home, she removed her bonnet and trudged up to her room. Mr. Wilson would soon be back from the mill, so I did not go there. Instead, I went into the parlor and tried to read the newspaper, though my own thoughts ran far from the page. I realized it had not been difficult at all to go to Thornfield, and I was no sooner back than I was thinking of how to go again. But as easy as it had been this time, it seemed still a difficulty beyond comprehension: how would I find the time and how would I find the money?
When Mr. Wilson arrived, he stuck his head into the parlor and saw me and frowned. “You have returned, I see,” he said.
“Just, sir,” I said. “Mrs. Wilson has gone to her room, I believe. The trip was a difficult one for her.” I said no more and he asked nothing, just turned, and with a kind of harrumph he mounted the stairs.
Some time later, I heard the housekeeper climb the stairs to knock and announce tea, but she came down almost immediately and told me in a softer voice than usual that tea was served in the dining room and not to wait for the mister and missus. I did not take the newspaper with me; it is bad manners to read and dine, even if one is alone, and I was barely able to focus my mind anyway.
I did not see Mr. Wilson again that evening, but in the morning, he was, as usual, already at breakfast when I came down. He did not glance up from buttering his toast when I greeted him, but he did ask, “You met Mrs. Wilson’s sister, I understand?”
“Miss Little, yes, sir, I did.”
He spooned a dab of marmalade on a corner of the toast, then, his eyes on me, he asked, “And how did she seem?”
I paused before responding. “Of course I met her only briefly,” I equivocated. And then I added, “Perhaps Mrs. Wilson told you that her sister seemed unable to abide my presence. I did not stay there at her house.”
“She told me.” His eyes had not left my face, and I knew he expected more of me than I had already given. But dare I say that the woman had not seemed of sound mind? That was not something one would blithely say to the person’s relation.
“Perhaps her distress was due to my having the same name as their unfortunate brother,” I suggested. “Perhaps the memory was too much—”
“That was all? There was nothing more?”
I wished I knew what else Mrs. Wilson had told him, but the fact that they had talked in private the whole evening was enough for me to know that she must have unburdened herself to him quite completely. “She seemed…quite fragile of mind,” I ventured. “She did not at first recognize her sister, and when Mrs. Wilson told her who she was and mentioned your name as well, she seemed not to know who you were—who John Wilson was. I am sorry that I could not have observed her further, but she was adamant that I leave. And when I returned, she was not in sight.”
He seemed increasingly frustrated at my responses. “And Mrs. Wilson said nothing about it on the return?”
“She did not, sir, nor did I think it my place to insist. She was quite distraught.”
He took a decisive bite of his toast and chewed it slowly.
I looked down at my plate. I was not used to being the bearer of such disheartening news. My egg was growing cold, the fat of the bacon congealing, but I could not think what else to say.
“This changes everything,” he said at last. “I shall have to write to your father.”
This brought my head up in alarm. Had Mrs. Wilson told him of my leaving Harrogate on my own? Oh God, I thought. Mr. Wilson was going to write to my father of my truancy. I could not imagine what would become of me—nearly sixteen years old and not even fit yet for any trade except for the meanest of them.
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my silence and let my breakfast grow fully cold in front of me. Finally, he nodded at my plate and said curtly, “You’d better eat your breakfast, Rochester; there’s no telling what you’ll be getting henceforth.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, but I hadn’t the heart to eat now. All appetite had left me.
“You will not come to the mill today,” he said, as I by then suspected he would. “You must find other lodgings for yourself. I shall inform your father that you can no longer be accommodated here.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, just as if I understood what he was saying.
“One day will be sufficient, I should think.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will be back tomorrow, then, as usual.”
“Sir?”
“At the mill. Tomorrow.”
“I don’t…I thought…I don’t quite…”
“Get it out, Rochester. I haven’t all day,” he snapped.
“It’s just that—if you’ve dismissed me—let me go, then why—”
“For heaven’s sakes, Rochester, I haven’t dismissed you.” His face softened, but only by a degree, as he understood my foolishness.
“But you said—”
“I said you no longer will stay here. Mrs. Wilson has told me, and you have confirmed it: her sister must come here and live with us. God knows, it is not what I—well, not what anyone would choose.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Yes, sir,” I managed to say.
“You shall have to find other accommodations, and I will write to your father that our arrangement is, perforce, changed, and now that you are to be on your own, he and I shall have to work out who is responsible for your living expenses.” He gazed down at his plate for a moment. “Until Miss Little and Mrs. Brewer arrive, you may keep your room here. Unless you prefer to move out sooner.”
“I shall do the best I can,” I said, my head still reeling. For the first time in my life, I was to be on my own.
He rose to leave, but he turned back, his right hand gone to his pocket. “And I suppose it was necessary for you to pay for your lodgings in Harrogate from your own purse.”
“Well, sir—” I started, but he interrupted.
“Rochester,” he said, “some advice. If someone offers to give you payment, do not argue.” And he placed a note on the table.
“Yes, sir, I will remember that,” I said.