Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  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.

&
nbsp; 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.

  Chapter 14

  The next few days continued in a similar vein: the assembled guests entertained themselves in one way and then another, the younger group flirting ridiculously—Miss Ingram and I among them. I hesitate to confess that some cruel part of me enjoyed tormenting Miss Ingram in this way, drawing her on with my pretended affections, whose hollowness she was too self-absorbed to perceive. I could never have treated a true heart in this way, but the Janus-faced Miss Ingram—who had served up her own fair share of duplicitous praise and gossip even within my own hearing—deserved little better. I looked forward to the day she would learn I had chosen the unassuming Jane over her haughty excesses.

  But regardless of what I did or said, Jane sat quietly, stoically, in the corner. It soon became clear that she would not be provoked this way. If I wanted a reaction, I must force an engagement. As my guests prattled on around me, I scoured my mind for every battle plan I had learned at Mr. Lincoln’s table, seeking perfect deception and surprise. At last, I landed on the great genius himself: William Shakespeare. Like Hamlet, I would prepare a play to catch my mark.

  One evening, as if it had suddenly occurred to me, I suggested a game of charades. I did offhandedly suggest Jane join my party, but she, as I knew she would, chose to remain an observer, sitting quietly, reacting to nothing, yet watching us all with her uncompromising eye.

  The first portrayal was my suggestion, and it was the easiest and the most daring: a marriage scene, with myself as the bridegroom and Blanche as the bride. I confess to a measure of mischief, knowing that the scene would excite Miss Ingram every bit as much as I intended to provoke Jane. The second scene was more obscure, but still I hoped that “Eliezer and Rebecca at the well” might open Jane’s mind to the possibility of love from an unexpected source. The opposing party did not correctly guess the scene, but I felt sure Jane had.

  The third scene was guessed immediately and correctly as “Bridewell,” and that completed the theme. As I was being complimented on my acting, I loudly reminded Miss Ingram that she was now my wife, for we had been married an hour since. Secretly I watched Jane’s face in these moments, hoping that her reaction would reveal her thoughts. I had no doubt that she had seen and heard enough of Miss Ingram by then to know how inferior a specimen she was, that Thornfield-Hall would be a miserable place with Blanche as its mistress. And yet, Jane did not react.

  What was I to do? Had I been wrong to think that in her heart Jane returned my interest, that I had charmed and intrigued her the same way she had me?

  I will admit that it required a sleepless night before I understood how unfeeling I had been. How could I fairly have expected her to speak her mind in front of the whole company, this plain, polite little creature who held her emotions so thoroughly in check? Of course she would not have spoken. Clearly I needed both to increase the urgency for her, to drive her to confess, but also to do so in private. I set to thinking.

  One morning, I managed to absent myself on the excuse of business in Millcote. The ladies were talking of going to Hay Common to visit the Gypsy camp, while I slipped upstairs to pay my usual visit to Bertha and Grace Poole, keen to assure myself there would be no more surprises while my guests were at Thornfield. Before I left, I begged of Grace some old ragged gowns and shawls of Bertha’s, which would suit me nicely, as Bertha was as tall and large as most grown men. I made a few more stops on the road to Millcote and then took a room at the inn. Though I entered that room as a landed gentleman, after a careful toilette I emerged and slipped down the back stairs, unnoticed, as an elderly Gypsy woman.

  That evening I appeared at Thornfield’s kitchen door, got up in my disguise. The performance was not difficult for me, after my theater days at Trinity College, where I was inevitably cast as the ugly character, the witch, or the depraved person. One of the village women hired as cook’s assistant for the duration stared at me unblinking. It was no trick to fool her, for she was not so very used to seeing the master of the house, but when Leah came to the door as well and tried to shoo me away, I knew I would succeed. “I only want to visit the guests who are here,” I croaked at her. “I only want to tell a fortune or two.”

  “They are busy in their own pursuits; they have no need for the likes of you,” she responded, moving to close the door against me. (There was a strange freedom, I found, in being treated thus—it had been many years since I had felt what it was like to be an inferior, not a master.)

  But I pushed myself into the kitchen, hobbled to the chimney corner, and sat down before anyone could stop me. “I need to rest myself,” I wheezed. “I have come a long way on this dark night.”

  The kitchen workers crowded around me, full of conjecture. “Can she really tell fortunes?” one said. “I’d ’ave mine told,” said another. “Get on with ’er,” said another. “She only wants to scope the place for the plate there might be.”

  “This foretelling must be spoken and heard. Your guests will be pleased with what I have to say,” I said

  In a moment Mrs
. Fairfax entered to see what the disturbance was. She bent to me, and briefly I worried she would see through the disguise, but she did not. Poor Mrs. Fairfax, she knew only how to be kind, and she could not think of a way to dislodge me from my position; but just then Sam returned with the news that the guests would indeed see the Gypsy in the drawing room.

  “Oh no,” I said. “Not in a cluster like a vulgar herd. Each one should have her own chance in a private room, for I may say things they won’t want shared.” I told him to bring only the young and single ladies.

  Sam left again and soon returned with word that the ladies would see me, one by one, in the library, as I had demanded. I made a great show of indignation at the treatment I had received and also a show of confusion over the location of the library.

  I knew Miss Ingram would be the first to appear, for she would not want anyone else to have the first look at the old Gypsy. As she entered the room, I motioned to a chair in front of me and begged “milady” to sit down. I set my face in shadow, for although even Mrs. Fairfax had not known me, I could not risk being found out.

  “Let me see your palm,” I said in my rasping voice. She opened her hand for me but flinched as I reached for it. She would not let me touch it.

  “Do you fear me, miss?”

  Her face remained rigid. “Of course not!”

  “You have great hopes for marriage. To be mistress of this great house,” I said.