Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  “I cannot think of leaving you, sir.”

  It was only then, at this last insistence, that I truly saw the creature and realized that it was neither a sprite nor a child proper, but a young woman with a pale, otherworldly face, all bundled in a beaver bonnet and a merino cloak and a muff. I could not fathom what she might be doing on the path all alone at twilight. “I should think you ought to be at home yourself,” I said, “if you have a home in this neighborhood: where do you come from?”

  I was surprised to hear her tell me she came from Thornfield itself. The warm familiarity with which she spoke the name of my home struck me as both charming and rather improper—clearly she had no idea I was its master, yet she harbored evident affection for it, as I once had. When I tried to draw out her identity without revealing my own, I was astonished to learn that she was the new governess.

  “I cannot commission you to fetch help,” I said to her, “but you may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind.” She had no umbrella on which I might lean to make my way to my horse, so I asked her to fetch Mesrour to me. I saw too late that she had no experience with horses—and Mesrour, proud beast, could tell that too. Yet she was a determined little thing, and fearless, and knowing Mesrour was well trained and would do her no harm, it brought me great pleasure to witness a stubbornness in her nature that seemed to match that of my spirited horse. God knows how long she would have kept at it if I had not in the end intervened, for her efforts had brought me near to laughter and it would have been cruel to keep on with it. “I see the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet,” I said, and I begged her to assist me to the horse instead.

  Apologizing, I leaned quite heavily on this slight creature, and with her help I managed to limp to Mesrour, whom I mounted without much difficulty. Once astride, I looked down at her, struck again by something haunting in that little face, and I thanked her for her aid. She had a letter to mail in Hay, and so we parted ways. She did not know me still, and though I supposed she would learn soon enough that I was her master, there was something unyielding in her little spirit that made me unwilling, yet, to play my hand.

  Over the rest of the way to Thornfield-Hall, despite the pain in my ankle, the encounter stayed in my mind. It was an incident of no great moment, yet I felt somehow as if it marked a change, however slight, in my life. The act of accepting her help had been both discomfiting and curiously pleasant. I could not help but wonder if I had been right at the first, that she was nothing but a woodland sprite, taken shape in the garb of a fragile governess. Her face was dissimilar to all others I had known—quiet, obedient, yet undeniably marked with intelligence and strength. Her tranquil expression stayed in my mind until I reached the estate. There I lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn.

  I found, suddenly, that I did not like reentering Thornfield if it meant merging the world of this dreamlike sprite into one governed by the madwoman there. How could two such different women exist under my own roof?

  Soon, though, Pilot could not help but announce our arrival, and John swiftly appeared to help me inside. He sent a boy for Carter and stoked a fire in the dining room, while Mrs. Fairfax hovered over me, Adèle caressed my leg as if such ministrations would cure the sprain, and Leah scurried to the kitchen to bring tea. I learned from Mrs. Fairfax that, to my relief, there had been no unexpected visitors in my absence, so Gerald Rochester, wherever he was, had not yet come to disturb my home.

  Amid the excitement I might have forgotten the governess, but I did not. Such a delicate thing out alone at nightfall—I could not explain how I could have left her, knowing who she was, out on that icy path in the gathering gloom. I had a sudden need to know she was safe.

  I turned to Adèle, at my arm. “What of your new governess, Adèle?” I asked. “What is her name? She is a small person, thin and a little pale, is she not? Tell me what you think of her.”

  “Oh, Monsieur! Oui! Elle est—”

  “In English, please.”

  “Miss Eyre, she is fine. She is an artiste!”

  “An artist?” I asked. That was not a good sign; I had had enough of artist types in Paris.

  “Yes, but she is! Let me show you!”

  She started to run off, but I stopped her. “Tomorrow,” I said. “I will see her work tomorrow.”

  Just then Carter appeared, tutting over my accident and opening his case and setting to work. When he had finished and given me a sedative to ease the pain, sturdy John helped me up to my room. As he turned to leave, I thought to ask, “I have not yet seen the governess; surely she is about somewhere?”

  “She has recently returned from a walk to Hay,” he said. “She is in her room, I believe. Did you want to meet with her this evening?”

  “Oh no, John,” I said carelessly. “There is plenty of time for that another day.” And I settled myself in bed, closed my eyes, and drifted to sleep forthwith.

  Chapter 11

  I slept late, a drugged sleep, and when I arose, Ames and some of my tenants were already waiting to see me. I meant to have a quick cup of coffee and a boiled egg and then set to business, but suddenly Adèle flew into the room with a portfolio of Miss Eyre’s drawings under her arm. I was impatient to get on with the business of the day, but it seemed her excitement could not be contained. With a sigh, I flipped through the drawings quickly, or at least I meant to, but indeed, they turned out to be much more interesting than I had expected. Still, I had tenants waiting, so I handed the portfolio back to the child and sent her off, assuring her I would look at them again in the evening when I had more time.

  My meetings ended up lasting most of the day, with Mrs. Fairfax popping quickly in and out, bringing tea to the guests. Eventually I signaled to her and confided that I desired to have Miss Eyre and Adèle with me for tea, for I thought it was time for a proper introduction.

  Carter returned in the afternoon, and while he felt at my ankle I winced in acute pain. He glanced up at me. “That hurts?”

  “Indeed, yes,” I responded.

  He muttered something to himself that I insisted he repeat. “That is not a good sign,” he said. “Is it possible that you have injured this before?”

  “Years ago, when I was a boy, I twisted it.”

  “And what was done for it?”

  “Nothing. Rest; it was just a twisted ankle.”

  His experienced fingers probed more carefully. “I think we shall bind it,” he said.

  “Bind it?”

  “If we keep it immobile for a week or so—”

  “A week!”

  “I suspect the original injury was worse than had been supposed, and now, if you don’t take care of yourself properly, you might be permanently affected,” he said.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!”

  He looked at me full on. “It shall be as you wish, I’m sure,” he said.

  “Get on with it, then!” I growled, angry at the prospect of being an invalid for God knew how many days. “I am sorry, Carter,” I apologized, “but this puts me in a foul mood.” He merely nodded.

  When my meetings had finished, I limped into the sitting room and positioned myself on a couch there, feeling sour. Adèle bounced in just before six, all hugs and kisses and caresses, chattering to me in French despite my insistence she speak English. Finally, I dismissed the child, who ran immediately to Pilot in the corner and prattled to him in whispered French, caressing him with an affection he readily returned. I was pondering that free and open exchange of fond attachment when Mrs. Fairfax interrupted my thoughts. “Here is Miss Eyre, sir.”

  “Let Miss Eyre be seated,” I said brusquely, feeling out of sorts still, and exhausted, suddenly, by the abundance of women in my house who had expectations of me. I had been interested to learn more about the strange little governess, but that was before my blasted ankle promised to keep me prisoner in my own home. Now I simply wished to be left alone.

  It’s possible Miss Eyre found me rude—and indeed more so for having concealed my
identity the evening before—for which I intended to apologize. Yet the calm self-possession with which Miss Eyre entered the room and took her seat made me think her less a prisoner of common social niceties than many women I’d met. That unsettling fact in itself began to rekindle my curiosity.

  Not wanting to reveal my interest, I glanced at her once, briefly, while her attention was on Adèle—and indeed she was just as small and determined looking as I had ascertained on the path, yet the sight of her face made me uncomfortable. I reminded myself that she had done nothing to hurt me, and in fact had helped me a great deal, and yet I could not shake the feeling that this Miss Eyre would expect more of me than the foolish gossip of the Ingram crowd, and I could not at first think what to say. Perhaps I had lost all ability to engage in intelligent conversation with a woman.

  Mrs. Fairfax, sensing the tension, chattered on and on about this and that until I was driven to distraction, and I asked her to ring for the tea, as much to employ her with other thoughts as from my own hunger. As Miss Eyre served me my tea, Adèle spoke up—in French—asking if I had brought a gift for Miss Eyre. Of course I had not—but the child had not yet begged for her own present, I realized, a bit of good manners for which I was wont to give Miss Eyre the credit, although at the same time I knew that it had been only Adèle’s way of hinting for her own present. Did she think I was so stupid as to not recognize the ploy? She remained so much her mother’s child—and it annoyed me, too, that she still spoke in French, despite clear instructions to use English.

  Ignoring my gruffness, Miss Eyre, for her part, assured me that she had not had much experience with presents, nor did she expect any from me. I turned my attention fully to her as she spoke, and studied her. She did not wince from my gaze, nor, to my surprise, did she give any hint of having met me the previous evening. I had thought to apologize for my rudeness but saw immediately that there was no need—in her eyes there had been no insult. Her face was mild, but her eyes—a color between hazel and green—stayed steadily on mine: deferential, but with that same uncanny self-possession. I went on to nudge her on the issue of gifts, mostly to see how she would respond.

  She replied with answers that intrigued me, for they were honest and thoughtful, and yet she almost seemed to be parrying with me, as if it were a kind of game. I looked closely at her: this interesting little woman. She was dressed as plain as a Quaker, save for a very small pearl brooch; her brown hair was braided and bound up neatly at the back of her head.

  I took my tea in silence, trying to understand what kind of woman had entered my home, and when I had finished, I urged her to join me closer to the fire for I was curious to learn more of her.

  I could see that she was used to carefully parsing her words, which I took to mean that she had not had a particularly pleasant upbringing, and that she had learned to guard herself. And yet, she had no artifice; she was plainspoken and earnest. It came as no surprise when she told me that she was an orphan, brought up in a charity school, where food was rationed and lives were Spartan.

  The physical poverty had clearly not impoverished her mind, however, for there were depths there that intrigued me. In talking with her I was gripped by a warmth I had not known for a very long time.

  Feeling my spirits returning, I bantered with her a bit, teasing her for causing my injury like the sprite she was. While she kept pace with me, much to poor Mrs. Fairfax’s confusion and dismay, Miss Eyre did not tease back, and I reminded myself that a governess is closer to a servant than to a guest.

  Clearly Miss Eyre’s physical tastes were not extravagant, and I wondered what other gifts she might possess. I asked her to play for me, which she did, serviceably if not particularly well—her modesty in that area was fully earned. But I knew there was another realm in which she rightfully excelled: “Adèle showed me some sketches this morning,” I said, then provoked her with the suggestion that a master had helped her.

  “No, indeed!” came the reply, and I had to suppress a smile at such sharp pride in one so delicate. I asked her to fetch her portfolio so I could see more, insisting that she vouchsafe it all as her own hand. She did so, in her quiet and unassuming way, but she was staunch in her determination; obviously she could not easily be intimidated.

  When she brought the pictures, I looked at them once more, this time not so hurriedly. I had trouble focusing on them and relating them to the artist herself, for the emotion in them did not seem to match this tidy little governess. At last I pulled out three of the most arresting. They were peculiar and striking indeed, each a tragic human figure set against a fierce landscape. In the first one, the figure was clearly dead, a corpse in the water. She insisted that she had pulled the scenes entirely from her own imagination, which surprised me both for the clarity of their evocations, and for the desolation they appeared to contain. What a strange life she must have led thus far, this orphan governess! Where had she gotten her ideas, I asked her. “Out of that head I see now on your shoulders?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied stoutly.

  “Has it other furniture of the same kind within?” I asked, eager suddenly to know more of her.

  “I should think it may have: I should hope—better.” In response to more of my questions, she explained each drawing graciously and without self-consciousness.

  As she spoke, I found myself thinking of Touch, whose imagination held that same vividness and darkness—but when I challenged her she said she had indeed been happy in her painting, only frustrated not to bring more of the reality of her vision to the page.

  I took far more time with her than I had anticipated, and soon it was late. The pain in my ankle, the provocative paintings, the memories of Touch, this pale, steadfast paintress—all these overwhelmed me, and I dismissed the company and made my way to bed.

  It seemed strange at the time—much less so now—but in the ensuing days I was always aware of Miss Eyre. Much as my own business pulled at my attention, nonetheless it was as if that small brown presence carried a magnetic charge within her that attracted the iron within me. Sometimes, when she and Adèle were in the garden or walking through the orchard, examining the trees for signs of new life, I lingered near the window of the library or my bedchamber and watched them. Slowly my ankle healed, and more and more often I found reasons to pass near the nursery door, that I might hear the lessons in progress. Her voice was low and calm, and even Adèle, who was always fluttering about like a butterfly, sat still and quiet as Miss Eyre taught her. She did not make the lessons a game, as Mr. Lincoln had, but she did know how to engage the mind of a child of Adèle’s upbringing: she spoke of fairies and goblins and quoted poetry and drew sketches of mystical beings. There was nothing at all in her voice to suggest the drama and emotion in her drawings. It beguiled me to listen to that quiet voice, so confident, so calm. I took pains to conceal her growing power over my attention when I met her in the gallery or on the staircase, which appeared successful since she seemed completely oblivious to my distraction and maintained her reserve. At other times I tried to draw her out, asking more than once to see her entire portfolio, which would not release its hold on my imagination. But she remained reserved with me. I remembered something Mr. Landes had said: One must keep one’s inferiors at a distance, or else one will lose all authority, and I guessed that perhaps someone might have given a reverse admonition to Miss Eyre.

  * * *

  One evening, at the request of my land agent, I hosted a gathering of landowners for the purpose of discussing how best we might control the poachers who seemed to have overrun the neighborhood. At the end, over glasses of sherry, the conversation turned to lighter topics, and I shared Jane’s portfolio with them, for I was still in thrall with her work. They were suitably impressed, and I confess it gave me more pleasure than perhaps it should have to hear them praise her, and me for having her in my employ. I toasted with them my good fortune in having such a talented governess for my ward, and when my guests took their leave, I sent for Miss Eyre
and Adèle, for whom a box from Paris had lately arrived. As soon as they stepped into the room, Adèle ran for the carton, exclaiming: “Ma boîte! Ma boîte!”

  “Yes—there is your boîte at last,” I said. I did try to be kind with the child but would often be thrown off course by sudden, unwelcome reminders of Céline. I sent her off to disembowel the package, and I came to myself and glanced around. “Is Miss Eyre there?” I asked, and then I saw her, tucked in a corner, as was her way. “Well, come forward; be seated here.” I pulled a chair closer to my own for her, for I had no intention of being distracted by Adèle. I sent for Mrs. Fairfax to attend to the girl’s joyous chatter, while I conversed with the governess.

  It seemed the sort of moment I had enjoyed far too seldom in my life: a moment of relaxation, with the opportunity for true conversation of real depth, with a worthy—or so I hoped—conversationalist. But I could not think what to say. For a time there was only the sound of Adèle’s chatter, and the rain driving against the window pane, and the crackle and hiss of the fire. I grew aware of Miss Eyre’s eyes upon me, as so often I had observed her when she was otherwise occupied. I wondered what she saw there, since I could not remember when I had felt myself truly seen and contemplated in such a way. “You examine me, Miss Eyre: do you think me handsome?” I asked her.

  Perhaps I was craving more simple praise, as I had earlier received from my dinner guests. But in that case it was a question foolishly set forth, for her response seemed to surprise us both: “No, sir.”

  There is no gracious recovery from such a response, but her honesty startled me—so different from the craven flattery I’d too often heard since I joined society. So I challenged her to announce what specific faults she found in me. It was not so much that I wanted to hear my failings recited—both Bertha and Céline had done that sufficiently—as it was simple curiosity to know how I looked to those lovely eyes. In all, I could not remember the last time I had been spoken to so frankly.