Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  Oh God. Poor, pitiful Bertha, festering in her upstairs chamber: how much of the precipitation of her madness could be laid to Rowland’s abandonment, to the loss of the baby?

  And now her brother was here, eager for a reunion with his sister, and I was aware of the shock he would have in the morning. Although Bertha had been in a poor state the last time he saw her, years ago, she was infinitely worse now. And I didn’t believe Richard had ever visited his own mother, whom, though my heart recoiled in confessing it, Bertha resembled more and more by the year.

  Unable to sleep, I tried distracting myself with happier thoughts: my Gypsy ruse, while not wholly successful, had gone well enough that Jane had declared herself a loyal friend to me, at least, and—as a friend—even offered to lay down her life in my aid. I had also felt the undeniable satisfaction of puncturing Miss Ingram’s haughty confidence. I wondered how long it would take for her interest to wane.

  Eventually, I faded off into sleep.

  * * *

  In the middle of the night, a startling shriek arose: Bertha, screaming into the night. No, I thought, of all nights, not now, not Bertha now. I held my breath and listened but heard nothing more. As I was drifting back to sleep, thinking it must have been some part of a dream, suddenly there came muffled sounds, and shortly afterwards desperate cries: “Help! Help!” And then, “Will no one come?”

  At that I leaped from my bed and began to dress, for I knew it was Richard: despite my warnings he must have gone to his sister in the night. And then came: “Rochester! For God’s sake, come!”

  When I reached the upper chamber, I found Richard clutching his shoulder, his arm dripping blood, and Bertha wielding a blade and struggling against the valiant Grace Poole. I moved to subdue her, wrestling the weapon from her grasp, but at just that moment she broke free and buried her teeth in her brother’s shoulder, growling and shaking her head like a tigress. It was all Grace and I could do to separate them and return Bertha to her chamber. Once there, she still would not calm, so I reached for the bonds we kept for an emergency, and Grace and I bound her as she muttered angrily. Satisfied that my wife was under control, I left that inner room.

  In the outer room, Richard had collapsed, blood soaked and moaning, into a chair. I thought his wounds, though many and bleeding profusely, were not life threatening, and at that moment I began to hear voices below—it was just as I had feared: my guests had been aroused by the blood-curdling cries. With a glare, I forbade Richard from making a noise until I could return, for I had more important things to attend to.

  As I ran back down the stairs I could hear Colonel Dent shouting, “Where the devil is Rochester?”

  “Here!” I called, doing my best to sound unruffled. “Be composed, all of you: I’m coming.” I reached the gallery to see them all there, candles in hand, clustered together in their nightclothes.

  Miss Ingram ran to me and clutched at my arm. “What awful event has taken place?” she asked. “Speak! Let us know the worst at once!” At the same time, the Eshton girls rushed over and clung to me as if their lives depended on it.

  I forced a laugh. “But don’t pull me down or strangle me.” My head spinning, I settled on poor Grace again as my scapegoat, since the company had seen me arrive from the third floor.

  “All’s right!—all’s right!” I shouted so that everyone could hear. “A servant has had a nightmare; that is all.” I explained her away as an excitable, nervous person, troubled by a nightmare and an overactive imagination. I did my best to coax the group back to their beds, bargaining that Miss Ingram’s pride would override her affection for drama, and prevent further excitement. She cast me a knowing look, plainly suspicious of my feeble explanation; I suppose I could not fault her for that, since only hours earlier the old Gypsy had given her plenty of reason to doubt the word of her dashing Mr. Rochester. But I had neither time nor inclination to play her games tonight, and I was grateful that she said nothing as the others, even Jane, returned once more to their rooms.

  As soon as they had all dispersed, I returned to Richard, who was sprawled in the chair where I had left him. He seemed in a stupor of some sort, but whether it was a faint from loss of blood or an overabundance of fear I did not know. I tore his shirt away to take stock of his wounds, shuddering at the horror of the bites, but I cannot say I was surprised, for I had seen Bertha in acts of savagery and destruction before, and I could no longer put anything past her.

  I tried using shreds of Richard’s own shirt to stanch the bleeding, but it would not be stopped, and then I dipped the cloth into a basin of water and tried washing the blood away, but he had begun to bleed so rapidly that I could not keep up with it. Thanks to my time at Black Hill, I was quickly able to fashion a tourniquet and stop most of the bleeding, but I also knew it was dangerous to keep the device in place too long. It was becoming clearer that he needed more help than I could give.

  I took off my shoes and, before leaving, bent close to the half-conscious Richard. “I will return with help,” I said.

  I intended to send Sam for Mr. Carter, but as I began to cross the second-floor hall toward the stairs up to the servants’ quarters on the opposite end, I saw in the darkened far end Blanche Ingram at the door of her room, candlestick in hand, as if waiting for me to return. No—I could not risk getting caught by her, of all people. But where to turn now? Richard’s condition would become serious if he lost much more blood.

  Hidden in the shadows, I looked desperately about: the schoolroom was across from me, and the room where Adèle slept beside her nurse—Sophie might help, but I could not risk waking the child; beyond that was the room the Eshton girls shared. And next to me: Jane’s room.

  Jane: the last person I could risk learning my secret. Besides, as I knew from her first meeting with Mesrour, she had no facility with horses—I could not send her on a dark ride alone to Carter’s house. No, Jane was out of the question.

  But as I hovered in the hall, wracking my brain for an answer, another low, desperate moan erupted from the wounded man upstairs. I had to act swiftly, or I might have a dead man on my hands. Even in my panic, I understood that Jane was exactly the sort of steadfast, coolheaded person I needed beside me in this emergency; I knew she, more than anyone, could be trusted to do what I asked of her.

  Well, she had said, had she not, that she would risk danger for me, as a friend? I would have to test that now. I would have to leave her with Richard and make the ride to fetch Carter myself. Without giving my doubts time to surface, I stepped closer to her door and tapped softly.

  “Am I wanted?” I heard from inside. She was awake. My heart warmed at her voice, though a part of me had hoped I could still have spared her, and myself, the dreadful task ahead.

  “Are you up?” I asked softly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And dressed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come out, then, quietly, without a light, please.” The door opened slowly. “I want you,” I whispered. “Come this way: take your time, and make no noise.” I took her hand and led her to the hidden door, but as we reached the third floor, I had a thought. “Have you a sponge in your room?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you any salts—volatile salts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go back and fetch both,” I whispered, and I handed her a candle and she hurried back the way we had come. Even if Blanche were still holding vigil, I figured, she would think nothing of seeing the governess alone at the far end of the hall.

  Meanwhile, I stepped into the room and confronted a whimpering Richard. “Someone is coming to sit with you,” I said. “It is no one of import—just the governess. But on pain of death, you will say nothing to her, nothing about your wounds, nothing about your sister, nothing at all. If you want to live, you will obey me on that, no matter what.”

  Frightened by my words, he nodded silently. I hoped he would obey. I hoped I could keep Jane from learning about Bertha, keep her suspicions on G
race Poole. I hoped I wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

  I hurried down the steps to wait for Jane. It was only moments until she returned, and she followed me wordlessly to the door of Bertha’s apartment, where I tried to prepare her for what she would see inside. “You don’t turn sick at the sight of blood?”

  “I think I shall not,” she responded. “I have never been tried yet.”

  “Just give me your hand,” I said. “It will not do to risk a fainting fit.”

  She placed her small hand in mine. It was warm and steady, like Jane herself. Though I dreaded the consequences of what I was about to do, at the same time I felt some peace, for, standing there beside her, I could not at that moment have wanted a better companion.

  As we entered the outer chamber, I saw Jane’s eyes wandering over it. The door to Bertha’s chamber was open slightly, and from behind it came an animalistic snarling. Leaving Jane, I walked quickly into the room, where Grace was attempting to soothe Bertha as she lay bound on the bed. Bertha gave a loud, wild laugh at my entrance. With as fierce a gaze as I could muster I made it clear to Grace that she must keep Bertha contained—and quiet—at all costs, and administered a dose of sedative to ensure it. Under no circumstances was Bertha to be allowed anywhere near Jane. I locked the door behind me when I left.

  “Here, Jane!” I said, moving to the chair where Richard had collapsed. I held the candle over him so that she could see who he was and that he had been wounded. What remained of his shirt was soaked in blood. True to her word, she remained calm and clearheaded.

  I handed her the candle, and together we bathed his wounds and revived him with the salts, until he opened his eyes and groaned. “Is there immediate danger?” he asked in a weak voice. What a coward, I thought. I assured him he was fine and that I was about to fetch the doctor.

  “Jane,” I said to her, “I shall have to leave you in this room with this gentleman, for an hour, or perhaps two hours.” I tried to sound confident; I was removing the tourniquet as I spoke. And I was determined to leave no detail to chance, give the two of them no reason to speak a question or command between them. “You will sponge the blood as I do when it returns; if he feels faint, you will put the glass of water on that stand to his lips, and your salts to his nose. You will not speak to him on any pretext—and—Richard—it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her: open your lips—agitate yourself—and I’ll not answer for the consequences.”

  With that I gave the bloody sponge to Jane and watched her take up the task I’d given her. “Remember!—No conversation,” I said, and I left them there.

  What else could I have done? Should I have let him die for his own foolishness, to protect my secrets? And yet: to think of Jane sitting there, mere yards from Bertha—was I myself a madman?

  Thank God, Miss Ingram appeared to have given up on me. I dressed swiftly for the journey and raced to the stables for Mesrour. Pilot barked once to be allowed to come, but I quieted him with a word and made off in a state of both panic and exhilaration.

  Though it was hours before dawn, I found Carter attending a dying patient, and despite that I sent in a message that my own errand was a matter of life and death, I still had to wait until he felt he could leave the suffering woman. In the meantime, I rounded up a post chaise for the surgeon and finally we were off, I still on Mesrour and urging the driver to whip his horses to a faster pace. It was one of the longest rides of my life; and I confess it was the uncertainty about Jane in that dark chamber alone for hours with Richard—so close to Bertha herself—that made my blood run cold.

  Dawn was just announcing itself when we arrived. The driver waited below while I hurried Carter through the silent Hall.

  “Now, Carter,” I said as we entered the chamber, “be on the alert: I give you but half an hour for dressing the wound, fastening the bandages, getting the patient downstairs and all.” As I spoke, I could not bear to look at Jane, dreading to think what she might have learned in my absence.

  “But is he fit to move, sir?” Carter asked, bending over for a closer look.

  “No doubt of it; it is nothing serious: he is nervous, his spirits must be kept up. Come, set to work.” I pulled back the curtain and drew up the Holland blind, letting in more light. Then I turned to Richard. “Now, my good fellow, how are you?” I asked him, feigning cheer.

  “She’s done for me, I fear.”

  “Not a whit!—courage! You’ve lost a little blood; that’s all. Carter, assure him there’s no danger.”

  “I can do that conscientiously,” said Carter, who had already undone the bandages; but in the next moment he discovered the torn flesh where Bertha’s teeth had been, and he frowned at me.

  “She bit me,” Richard murmured. “She worried me like a tigress—”

  I hurried to stop him from saying too much. “You should not have yielded,” I said impatiently. “You should have grappled with her at once.” She had seemed so quiet, he replied; and he had wanted to see her, had believed he could do her good. His weakness made me furious; not only had he not trusted my word about her condition, but he had explicitly disobeyed my orders, and now was insisting on discussing it in front of Jane. I tried to soften my tone, to cover my own panic and fury, to keep Richard calm and Jane disinterested. But I needed him out of my house as swiftly as possible, before my guests awoke—and before Jane heard another word.

  As Carter finished the shoulder dressing and turned his attention to the other bite marks on Richard’s arm, the latter whimpered: “She sucked the blood: she said she’d drain my heart.” Yes, I thought, now you see how she has been draining mine.

  I turned away in disgust. “Come, be silent, Richard.” I spoke as soothingly as I could. “Never mind her gibberish: don’t repeat it.”

  “I wish I could forget it,” was the answer.

  As did I. As did all of us, I was sure, including staunch Jane, to whom I now turned, having thought to send her down to my room for a clean shirt for Richard, so that I could have a word with him in private. I thanked Carter for his willingness to leave a deathbed for this tragic scene, and to Richard I issued the threat that, should the governess or any others in the house learn of Bertha’s presence, his sister would be sent away to a harsh asylum, far from my protection. I knew Richard would not want Bertha to end her days in such a place, and I hoped the threat would be enough to silence him.

  Jane returned in only a few moments.

  “Was anybody stirring below when you went down, Jane?” I asked her.

  “No, sir,” she responded. “All was very still.”

  Carter and I helped Richard into the clean shirt and his own waistcoat, while sweet Jane ran several more silent errands up and down the stairs in her velvet slippers. I administered to Richard a small draught of a medication I had gotten once in Italy, which would soothe pain and give strength. It was potent, though short-lived, and just the thing to get him down the stairs and into the coach.

  Jane led the way, keeping a lookout as we escaped down the back stairs. “Take care of him,” I said to Carter as we helped Richard into the coach, “and keep him at your house till he is quite well: I shall ride over in a day or two to see how he gets on. Richard, how is it with you?”

  “The fresh air revives me,” he said, his voice weak. Then he said, “Fairfax…”

  “Well, what is it?” I said, impatient for the coach to be gone. Jane was still standing nearby, listening, and I was afraid for what Richard might say.

  “Let her be taken care of; let her be treated as tenderly as may be; let her—” And he burst into tears. Enough, I thought. See how he suffers after only one night, while I—I have had her on my soul for nigh on fifteen years!

  I signaled the driver to be gone and he cracked the whip and the coach started off. I barred the yard gates behind them, wishing to God that Bertha could be gone from my life.

  * * *

  Once they had left, I could not bear to reenter that cursed Hall, and started toward
the orchard, needing solace from the burdens of the night. I had hoped that Jane might walk with me, but when I turned I saw her retreating instead to the house. I softly called her back, and together we strolled down the walk, inclosed by the boxwood hedge, a private island for the two of us, full of flowers coming into bloom. I was feeling more acutely than ever the pain of Thornfield’s accursedness, yet there is something about trees—about an orchard—that is calming to the soul. I bent and plucked the first rose of the season and offered it to Jane. It was slim enough thanks for all she had done in the night, and our eyes rose together toward the sky and the sun, appearing in the east.

  “You have passed a strange night, Jane,” I said to her. Much as I feared what truths she might have learned in my absence, it was better that I know them now. “Were you afraid when I left you alone with Mason?”

  “I was afraid of someone coming out of the inner room.”

  “But I had fastened the door—I had the key in my pocket: I should have been a careless shepherd if I had left a lamb—my pet lamb—so near a wolf’s den, unguarded: you were safe.” My pet lamb: it was the first endearment I had allowed myself to speak to her, and, I confess, I wanted her to notice it. It seemed an innocent and mild enough evocation of my feelings—though the term did little justice to the strength of character I had witnessed in the night.

  Her words interrupted my thoughts. “Will Grace Poole live here still, sir?”

  Ah, so she did still believe Grace to be the monster. I was glad of it, may Grace forgive me; and I would let her continue to believe that. It moved me to hear Jane so concerned for my well-being, and after the traumas of the night, I wanted, for just a moment, to bare my soul to her sympathies. But all I could do was allude to the precariousness of my daily life, the crater crust on which I stood, capable of spewing fire at any moment.