How else to describe him? Words seem wholly inadequate. He’s neither a dandy, nor a scholar. Not a young man, nor one of middle age. He is, in fact, rather a riddle to me, though I have been traveling with him these many weeks.
I daresay my confusion owes more to my own reaction to him than to any objective fact. And yes—in answer to your question—he’s tall and handsome and all that sort of thing. But the same might be said for dozens of men, and none of their kind has ever captivated me to such a degree before. I suppose it’s that Mr. Rochester has taken such an interest in me. He solicits my opinions on a range of topics and has even heeded my advice on occasion.
And you’re not to think it’s because of my fortune, for Mr. Rochester has a fortune in his own right. He owns property in the West Indies, as well as in Europe, from which he derives a sizable income. It is enough to fund his various pursuits—one of which, I’ve lately discovered, was the dig I visited in Thebes. Mr. Rochester has a particular passion for antiquities, and not only of the Egyptian variety. He’s collected ancient artifacts from all over the world and keeps them in a special vault at his estate.
As to Greece, there isn’t much I can say. I imagined ancient wonders, honey-covered sweets, and warm waters of sapphire blue, but the heat has played havoc with Mr. Rochester’s health. To accommodate him, Mrs. Wren and I restrict our outings to the evening, just as we did in Cairo. We’re up all hours of the night, talking and dining and wandering about the city. As a result, I sleep through much of the day. Agnes and Mr. Poole do not approve. But you know how very unromantic British servants can be. They love nothing more than tradition and routine. Anything that diverges from such is looked on with the gravest suspicion.
I shall have more time to write in the coming days. We plan to remain in Greece for the month. Mrs. Wren is looking into taking a villa. It will be more comfortable than staying at a hotel.
Goodbye for now, my dear. I promise to write again before the month is out.
I remain, your always loving,
Bertha
Villa Striges
Athens, Greece
Friday, 9 September 1842
Dearest Blanche, —
Apologies for the delay. What a domestic dustup we’ve had! You will never believe it, but I’ve been writing to you often these past weeks, and only noticed yesterday that you’ve yet to send a reply. On further investigation, I discovered that one of the servants at the villa has failed to deliver your letters, or to post any of mine. Heaven knows why. Mrs. Wren says it’s pure laziness and has fired the girl. She tells me that she’ll be taking personal responsibility for the post from now on, but I’m loath to inconvenience her with my private correspondence and have set Mr. Poole to the task.
Along with domestic troubles, we’ve also had a tragedy in the village to contend with. The body of a local woman was found on Friday. She was mauled by some manner of wild animal. No one knows for certain what kind of animal it was, but we have all been advised to remain on our guard after dark. It’s put me rather on edge, especially as most of my activities of late take place in the evening. I’m eagerly anticipating cooler weather in hopes that Mr. Rochester can better tolerate the temperatures, and I can once again resume a daylight existence.
He and I have been spending more time together in the evenings. Mrs. Wren has lately been ill, and often retires to her room while Mr. Rochester and I dine or go out together to stroll about the village. You will, perhaps, think it not very appropriate that I should spend so much time in his company unchaperoned, but Mr. Rochester is the soul of propriety. Indeed, his manners are faultless. I frequently joke that he has the sensibilities of a much older gentleman—a courtier from centuries gone by.
But though I feel a definite fondness for him—and flatter myself that he cherishes the same sentiment toward me—that fondness has never been put into words. He’s not said a thing to me that could ever be construed as a passionate declaration, nor made any attempt to do more than shake my hand. I own to being a trifle frustrated. There have been many moments when some greater expression of affection would have been welcome, and most happily so.
Have I done wrong to remain so long in company with Mr. Rochester and his sister? The villa in which we’ve taken up residence is in every way agreeable, but the servants answer to Mrs. Wren, not to me. I keenly feel my lack of power here, and my lack of independence. Perhaps it’s time for me to strike out on my own again? Then again, it can surely do no harm to remain a while longer. The warm friendship I’ve developed with my host and hostess does much to compensate for my misgivings.
Enough about me. Let me hear from you, dearest! Tell me what the weather is like in Millcote, and who has come to call since last you wrote. Anything more about the vicar in Hay? Is he still as promising a prospect as you first surmised? Enclose a sketch of him when next you write, and I shall tell you precisely what I think.
I must dash now. Mr. Poole is walking into the village, and awaits my letter to post. I pray you will receive it directly.
All my love to you,
Bertha
Villa Striges
Athens, Greece
Monday, 17 October 1842
Darling Blanche, —
How pleased I was to receive your letter this morning—and how angry I am at our former servant for having disposed of your previous ones, for I realize now just how much I’ve missed of the goings-on in Millcote and Hay. Thank you, my dear, for so patiently catching me up with the state of things. I am, of course, overjoyed to hear that your vicar has asked leave of your father to pay court to you. Judging from the portrait you enclosed, I must conclude he’s as sensible as he is handsome.
I have some good news of my own to share, though I fear you will find it comes rather too quickly. It is this: Mr. Rochester has proposed to me.
As you’ll no doubt guess from my last letter, his proposal was entirely unexpected. How was I to know he was even contemplating such a course? After more than two months in each other’s company, we had settled into a companionable enough relationship, but he never once made any direct overtures until last evening. (As to that, I will tell you all, my dear, but you must promise to burn this letter after reading it. If it fell into the wrong hands, it would compromise me utterly.)
You see, Mrs. Wren has been away this week. She was obliged to travel inland on a matter of business. I was given the choice of accompanying her—an unpleasant prospect, especially with that wild creature still roaming about. It’s mauled another villager, can you believe it? The fellow was found near the beach in a most dreadful state. Regrettably, he succumbed to his wounds before he could describe what manner of animal had attacked him.
The villagers have been frightened. They’re a superstitious people and have come up with all kinds of theories, none of which have the slightest connection to reality. Common sense says that there must be a wolf or bear hereabouts. One with hydrophobia, perhaps. It gives me shivers to think of encountering such a creature. Hence my decision to remain at the villa with Mr. Rochester. You see, I hold my life slightly more valuable than I hold my reputation. An unpopular opinion for a lady in my position, I know.
Naturally, I’m still attended by Agnes and Mr. Poole, though neither was accompanying me on this particular night. Mr. Rochester suggested we go for a walk along the beach. The sea was in turmoil, the waves crashing mightily on the shore. It was there he first took me in his arms and kissed me. Not a friendly kiss like you and I have shared, nor a kiss one might receive from a gentleman beneath the mistletoe. This was altogether different. To begin with, it lasted much longer than any kiss I’ve ever had before. I won’t go into intimate detail, except to say that, when coupled with the passion of his embrace, it was all rather thrilling.
Sometime later, he confessed that he had come to care for me deeply. To love me, in fact, and that it was his fondest wish that I would consent to be his wi
fe. He even produced a ring—a blood ruby on a band of gold, not too dissimilar to one worn by his sister. A family heirloom, he said. Part of a valuable set, hundreds of years old.
Dearest, you know what my feelings have been about marriage. How determinedly I resisted the pressure of my parents and of Yorkshire society. But this is quite a different matter. I’m no longer an inexperienced girl, languishing in the country. I’m a woman, grown. A woman who has seen the world, and who knows her own mind better than she ever has before.
It’s true my attorney, Mr. Hughes, has been urging me to marry. I expect he thinks a husband will manage my fortune and property better than I will myself. But Mr. Hughes’s advice has had no influence on my decision. The simple truth is, I believe that marrying Mr. Rochester will be the greatest adventure of my life. He’s unlike any gentleman I have ever met, or am ever likely to meet again. I’d be a fool to refuse him. And I am no fool.
Be happy for me, my dear.
Your own,
Bertha
Thornfield Hall
Yorkshire, England
January 1844
After depositing Mr. Fairfax’s letter at the post office in Hay, John returned to Thornfield along the same narrow lane from whence he’d come. Walking briskly through the gathering mist, he was alert for any sign of the wolf. But the creature made no reappearance.
John began to doubt whether it had ever existed to begin with.
It had likely been nothing more than his imagination playing tricks on him again. One day the ghostly figure of Helen Burns, another the form of a ravening wolf. If there was some deeper meaning to the sightings, John couldn’t discern it. All he knew—all that he was quite certain of—was that the two teaspoonfuls of laudanum he’d taken last night had been one teaspoonful too many. Better to suffer the pains of a headache than to be haunted thus.
Passing through the creaking gates that led up the drive to Thornfield, he crossed the frozen lawn and entered the house through one of the side doors. At this time of evening, Thornfield was usually quiet, its inmates settling down for dinner and bed. Tonight, however, it was bustling with activity. Footmen dashed past John in the hall. Mr. Fairfax followed after them, barking orders at everyone in his path.
“Whatever is the matter?” John asked.
Mr. Fairfax came to meet him. “Oh, Mr. Eyre. Thank goodness you’ve returned.” He took John’s hat and coat. “The mistress has arrived this very moment. And injured, too! Some thoughtless fool startled her horse on the road. She fell and turned her ankle. I’ve been unable to persuade her to send for the surgeon. She claims all is well, but what a foul mood she’s in. And rightfully so.”
John stilled for an instant, understanding sinking in.
The darkly beautiful lady he’d encountered in the lane had been Mrs. Rochester.
A leaden weight formed in his stomach as he recollected the noble turn of her countenance, the feel of her corseted waist under his hands, and the soft brush of her hair against his face. She’d been almost queenly. Vaguely seductive with her exotic perfume and imperious manner.
Good lord. He’d known his employer was a woman, but he hadn’t imagined her being quite so womanly. How could he work for such a person? Not a middle-aged matron, but a lady who was almost of an age with him?
It was perhaps foolish to concern himself with such things. A lady was a lady, no matter her age, and he was only a tutor. A gentleman of no family or fortune. He could scarcely be expected to have much interaction with her. But his experience with Helen had made him wary.
“I’m sorry now that I sent you off with my letter,” Mr. Fairfax said. “Had I known the mistress was returning today, I’d never have troubled to write to her. If only she could have given us some notice. But I won’t complain. We’re fortunate to have her home in any event.”
“Does she wish to see me?” John asked.
“You, sir? Ah, you mean does she wish you to bring down Stephen and Peter. No, indeed, Mr. Eyre. She’s in no mood to see the boys this evening. You’re quite at liberty to retire after you dine. Alas, I will be too busy to join you. The coach will be arriving soon with her baggage from Millcote. I shall have to eat in the kitchen as I’m able. Make free with my parlor, if you like.”
“Thank you,” John said, “but I believe I’ll dine with the boys this evening.”
He’d done so on several occasion in the past months. It gave him an opportunity to be with them outside of the schoolroom and to further develop the tenuous bond they were forging.
That he hoped they were forging.
After washing and changing, he joined them in the nursery. A small walnut table stood in the corner. The two boys sat around it in high-backed wooden chairs.
John wondered how Mrs. Rochester would react to the changes in their appearance. Not only had their hair grown, their features had filled out a bit, too. Gone were the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes that had characterized their faces on John’s arrival last year. Under his care, even their skin had improved. It was no longer deathly white, only a little pale and shadowed.
A footman assisted Sophie in bringing up their dinner, a wholesome meal of roast beef, boiled potatoes and carrots, and a tureen of pea soup.
Dismissing the servants, John ladled out the soup to the boys himself. “Mrs. Rochester has come home.”
Stephen and Peter exchanged a glance before dropping their eyes to their bowls. Their faces were curiously blank.
John gestured for them to pick up their spoons. He hadn’t expected them to respond, but was nevertheless disappointed at their lack of reaction. The least they could do was show some sign that Mrs. Rochester’s return was of interest to them. She’d brought them into her home. Had ensured that they were looked after. Provided for.
“Perhaps you’ll see her tomorrow,” he said as the boys began to eat. “She’ll be pleased to hear of all the progress you’ve made.”
But on the following day, Mrs. Rochester didn’t send for the boys, nor did she send for John. In fact he didn’t see her at all, not even during his midday and early evening walks about the grounds. He’d quite given up on being summoned when, at half past four, as afternoon lessons were ending, Mr. Fairfax came into the library.
“Mr. Eyre,” he said. “Mrs. Rochester has requested that you and the boys join her in the drawing room for tea this evening.”
John was standing at the bookcase, directing the boys to put away their books for the day. He straightened to attention at Mr. Fairfax’s words. “Of course. What time does she take her tea?”
“At six o’clock. You’ll have ample time to shave and change.”
“Should I?”
“Oh, yes. I always do before joining her in the evenings. One mustn’t give her any reason to criticize. She’ll have cause enough already, what with you having taken away the children’s tonic.”
John didn’t say anything. What could he say? He’d known when he made the decision to put a stop to the boys’ patent medicine that, eventually, he’d have to answer for it. “I see,” he replied at length. “Well, I trust the improvement in their appearance will speak for itself.”
Mr. Fairfax inclined his head. “Sophie should be down to fetch them directly. I’ll see that she prepares them for tea. They’ve little jackets about somewhere, haven’t they? And clean neckcloths?” With that, the butler withdrew, still muttering to himself as he went.
A gathering mass of anxiety grew in John’s chest. A physical weight he could feel lodging itself beneath the bones of his sternum. He didn’t know enough about Mrs. Rochester to anticipate what she might ask of him, or what she might expect. And he didn’t like having to defend his methods.
“That will be all for today, boys,” he said after the last book was shelved. Sophie had materialized at the door of the library, awaiting her charges as she always did. Stephen and Peter were never permitted t
o roam the house unaccompanied. “Go with Nurse. I’ll see you again this evening at tea.”
As they passed him on their way to the door, John patted each of them on the shoulder. He’d never endorsed teachers being overly demonstrative with their students. A pupil wasn’t meant to be doted upon. Certainly not by a figure so briefly in their lives as a governess or tutor. Forming an attachment would only inflict unnecessary suffering on the child when the inevitable day of parting came.
But Stephen and Peter were a different case entirely. They were small and frail, and sometimes…
Sometimes, John even fancied that they were afraid.
Of what, he didn’t know.
Perhaps, like him, it was only bad memories that haunted them. Some tragedy from their past. The loss of their parents or their homeland. The least he could do was offer them reassurance. To that end, he’d lately made it his habit to ruffle Peter’s hair on occasion, or to rest a steadying hand on Stephen’s narrow back. Initially, they’d flinched, but now they seemed to accept his attention. Sometimes, even to bask in it.
After they’d gone, John tidied the library, pushing in the chairs at the boys’ makeshift desks and organizing his papers for tomorrow’s lessons. Having done so, he repaired to his room where he shaved and changed into a fresh frock coat and cravat.
At ten minutes to six o’clock, he collected Stephen and Peter from the nursery. Together, they made their way to the drawing room. Mr. Fairfax was already there, seated on a damask-covered settee in front of the fire. Across from him, half reclined on an overstuffed silk sofa, was Mrs. Rochester.
She was clad in unrelieved black crepe. A mourning dress. It was fitted tight through the bodice and arms with a high neck and full skirts that spilled all about her. A jet brooch was affixed to her throat, along with a silver locket on a long chain. It twinkled in the flickering light cast from the fire and the two wax candles that stood on the mantelpiece. Another ornament of jet adorned her hair, pinned into the thick coil of plaits she wore at her nape.
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