All Hallows at Eyre Hall: The Breathtaking Sequel to Jane Eyre (The Eyre Hall Trilogy Book 1)

by Luccia Gray

  The master was a ratty old toad, and the place was in the middle of nowhere, but the mistress was as kind as cream, I ate well, slept warm, and usually got Sunday afternoon off. I’d been there six years, but I wasn’t staying there forever. I knew that one day I’d be famous enough to get a job on the stage. I sneaked in to see Hamlet once as a boy, by a travelling actor’s group. I knew then I’d be a player. I’d always wanted to avenge the death of my father by the bitch of my mother. He was the character I wanted to play.

  Mrs. Leah was not amused when she came in and caught me in the act. She told me I’d get myself into trouble for nosing about other folks lives ‘cause they was important people. What did I care? I was going to London to be an actor, as soon as I’d gathered up enough chink.

  ***

  Chapter II Adele's Letters

  I flew to the window to see why Flossy was howling so peculiarly, and caught a glimpse of coach wheels grinding the muddy gravel as a carriage drove away. I had not heard it arrive, so engrossed was I with the letter I had received from Mr. Greenwood earlier in the morning. I wondered who had come. It was not Dr. Carter’s car, nor Mr. Wood, the curate’s, nor anyone I knew. Life at Eyre Hall was so boring of late. We did not often receive visitors now that Monsieur was so ill, and Jane was preoccupied with bookkeeping and lost in her own private thoughts. I had found my escape route in my eloquent and affectionate correspondent, the man I had fallen in love with, after exchanging eight passionate letters and two books of poems.

  I wanted to reply immediately to his last letter, but I decided it was time to read it to Jane and tell her about my secret suitor. I dashed out of the room, clasping the letter in one hand and holding my skirt up in the other, as it brushed down the staircase. My goodness! I would have to send for some more dresses and sashes from London before my journey! I almost tripped down the polished stairs with excitement at the thought of finally meeting Mr. Greenwood face to face! I couldn’t wait to tell Jane. I started screaming “Jane!” halfway down the second staircase, and I saw her rush out of the drawing room with her hand against her breast, looking deathly pale.

  “Adele? What is the matter?”

  “Jane! I have received a letter from Mr. Greenwood!”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Yes! He’s coming! He’s coming to visit! He wants to meet me! And you and Mr. Rochester of course! He wants to take me to Venice with him! Perhaps he wants to marry me!”

  I heard Jane say, “Dear God!” before collapsing with a loud thump near the staircase in the hallway. I screamed her name so loudly that everyone rushed up from downstairs.

  “Bring the salts from her dressing table!” shouted Leah, and I saw Michael turn deathly pale and then he whispered in my ear, “I’ll get Dr. Carter,” before running out the front door.

  “Get water girls!” added Cook, breathless and unable to rush back down the stairs.

  Christy flew up to the bedroom while Beth rushed back down to the kitchen.

  “Pick her up and bring her into the drawing room, Simon,” ordered Leah. Simon obeyed clumsily and I heard her shout angrily, “Be careful Simon, she’s not a sack of flour!”

  ***

  Leah, always shouting at me. I was doing me best! I laid her on the fancy couch, accidentally bumping her head on the headrest, and Cook waved her dirty apron against her face while first Christy and then Beth brought the water and salts. The salts did the trick. She coughed and opened her eyes. I smiled, thinking of my interpretation at the inn on my next night off.

  “My dearest Jane! My darling! Are you all right? What has happened?” fussed Miss Adele, like a flustered chicken with her curls and ribbons dangling around her flushed face. The mistress insisted she was all right and told us to go back to our chores, so we did, except Miss Adele, who stayed with her in the drawing room.

  ***

  “Jane, if you’re feeling better, can I read you the letter from Mr. Greenwood? I’m sure it will cheer you up!”

  I had inadvertently crushed the letter in my hand, so I straightened it out and laid it on the tea table before us.

  “Why not?” Jane said wearily.

  It was a strange answer coming from Jane, as if she didn’t care. She had always been so interested and comforting, as I had confided some aspects of my correspondence with my poet. Jane had always been sympathetic to my suitors, although she later confessed she never liked any of them, once our brief courtships had terminated. When I asked her why she had not told me before, she always said I had to realise what they were really like and make my own decisions. Several, such as Mr. Percy and Mr. Brook, had been Monsieur’s local friends, in an effort no doubt to humour him and take me away from Eyre Hall, but I had seen through their intentions easily. I had met a French Count while in Monsieur’s villa in the south of France, but he lost interest once he came to Eyre Hall and learnt I was not the heiress he had imagined. Monsieur had provisioned a splendid dowry, but I was not officially a Rochester, and the count was disappointed.

  My father never forgave my mother’s infidelities. He brought me to England as his ward, but I was never acknowledged as his daughter. The count made me understand this circumstance would make it difficult for me to find a suitable husband. I was distraught at first, until Jane’s baby died at birth and she became so ill I had to look after John, and I had no more time to worry about suitors.

  The years passed and Monsieur’s friends were all too old, or too boring, or wanted to live in the distant New Territories, so I lost hope in finding a husband until I received a letter from my mother, Céline Varens, whom Monsieur had told me was dead. I was devastated by the news, but also excited. My mother wanted me to visit her in Venice, so I prayed every night that God should allow me to make the journey, and God did answer my prayers one afternoon, as I sat reading the Monthly Magazine in the drawing room. It was love at first sight.

  Mrs. Greenwood was a famous poet, whose sonnets I had read many times. When I saw Mr. Greenwood’s poignant picture by her grave in Italy, I fell in love with the sad widower and decided to gain his acquaintance. He had returned to England some months after his wife’s death, so although he was still in mourning, he was almost free to commence another relationship.

  He replied to my first letter by sending me a signed copy of his poems, which I read immediately. I wrote back at once to inform him of my delight in reading them. He replied with a poem entitled Imaginary Angel, as he had no clue as to my appearance, so I sent him a second letter with a small portrait of myself. He then sent me another poem called Angel Discovered. As a result, our letters became more passionate until he told me we could wait no longer and implored me to agree to a meeting, so I invited him to Eyre Hall, and he agreed to come! However, I had not told Jane anything about his visit, and, although I was upset that she did not seem the least bit interested in his letter, I started reading in the hope that it would liven her spirits.

  My Dearest Miss Varens,

  I must thank you for your earnest and affectionate letter, which was a joy to receive coming home last night from a tedious day's business in London. I most heartily and fervently reciprocate your interest and affection. Your letters are among the few which I most care to receive and best love.

  I have received your invitation with the utmost pleasure and believe me I fully intend to come to you. I should come as you suggested, next week. You wonder in your letter if I should be displeased at leaving such a major city as London, and I must reply that nothing excites me more than the anticipation of meeting you, at last. I would gladly spend a week walking away from London to gaze upon your face and hear your voice for the first time.

  I dined yesterday with the editors of the Monthly Magazine, which is to publish my latest poems, inspired completely by the portrait you so kindly sent in your last letter, Mon Ange. They were impressed by the poems, but moreover, by your exquisite visage. My darling, you are already loved and known in London.

  Last week I was at an Italian Opera at Dr
ury Lane, where the greatest artists of the moment sang beautifully, but all I could think of was your face and your endearing words. You are constantly in my mind and in my heart to such an extent that, in spite of the cool weather, I walked home feeling a burning warmth that accompanied me through the freezing night. I dearly wish that in the very near future we shall go to the opera together in the land where it first flourished and listen together in the most beautiful city in the world.

  I am heartily pleased you enjoyed the poems I sent you, and that you set so much store by my humble dedication. A poem is a small token compared to the works of art that you truly deserve. I wish I could draw fine paintings to express my feelings, so the walls of London would be covered with my admiration for you.

  I cannot tell you how grieved I was to know you are suffering with Mr. Rochester’s deteriorating health, and I wish him a prompt recovery. I am anxious to meet Mrs. Rochester, famous in London as a respected novelist and gracious lady.

  I hope to have the immense pleasure and undeserved honour of meeting you very soon.

  God bless you and yours, your faithful and affectionate admirer,

  Mr. William Greenwood.

  “It is a lovely letter, Adele. Mr. Greenwood is a very courteous gentleman, and he writes charmingly.”

  “He’s a great poet Jane, and he’s a widower. I’m sure I love him.”

  “Be careful, Adele. You’re so impulsive, my dear. You don’t know him. I mean, you haven’t met him yet.”

  “I do know him, Jane. We’ve been exchanging letters for months!”

  “Months?”

  “Jane, please forgive me for not confiding in you. He has sent me a letter a week for two months.”

  “So you have eight letters?”

  “And four sonnets. He has dedicated them to me. I am his muse, Jane. He hadn’t written anything for months after his wife died, and I have given him the inspiration he needed. He needs me!”

  “And you have written to him, too I suppose?” I nodded. “How many letters?”

  “Many.” I knew Jane would be displeased when she heard the truth.

  “More than eight?”

  “Yes. Please don’t be angry with me, Jane. I only want to be happy.”

  “I want you to be happy too, Adele, but you can’t throw yourself at him in this manner.”

  Jane was still lying on her couch, and I sat beside her with my head beside hers. She stroked my hair softly, and I closed my eyes and remembered how she had been like a mother to me, when I was a lonely child in sombre Thornfield Hall. She taught me how to speak English, like an English lady, how to play the piano, and draw. When I was a boisterous, spoilt child, she was always patient in spite of my lack of enthusiasm for learning, and my slow progress. When she married Monsieur, she made sure I completed my education at a pleasant boarding school, and then a finishing school in Belgium, and, when I became an adult, she was always caring and attentive to my needs. She was less communicative lately, no doubt worried about our future after Monsieur’s death.

  “I sent him poems, too,” I added timidly, afraid of more reproaches.

  “You write poems now, Adele?”

  “I started writing poems three months ago, when I received the letter from my mother. I was so depressed, and when I told Mr. Greenwood, he told me to write about my feelings. He sent me his late wife’s poems and told me to read them and try and do the same. So I did, and I sent him my poems.”

  “How did you become acquainted with him?”

  “I read about him in one of your literary magazines, and when Mr. Cooper came from London to visit you, I asked him to deliver my first letter to Mr. Greenwood personally. Shortly after, he sent me a copy of his poems by post. I fell in love with them, I mean, with him.”

  “I have heard of Mr. Greenwood. Tell me about him.”

  “Mr. William Greenwood was born in London. His mother was a music teacher, and his father was a prosperous banker. He was educated at home and has read all the classics. He’s frightfully clever! He published his first book of poems in his early twenties. He corresponded with the poetess Ellen Berry, and they eloped to Italy.”

  “Goodness! Why did they do that?”

  “Well, it seems her father was opposed to their marriage because his family was not wealthy enough, or perhaps he thought a poet would not be a suitable husband. They both continued to write poetry, and their reputation grew after publishing many more books. They were married almost twenty years. When Ellen died six months ago, she was buried in Venice, and he returned to England.”

  “Did they have any children?”

  “They had a son, a young man, Dante, who is a painter and still lives in Venice.”

  “He seems an honest person, although eloping with his wife was rather daring and most inconsiderate to her family.”

  “It was the only way, Jane. Sometimes transgressions are inevitable in search of love and happiness.”

  “Perhaps.” She became introspective again, her look far away beyond the clouds.

  “He knows you.”

  “I’m sure he does not.”

  “He has written to me about you. He read your novel and thinks it is a very respectable work.”

  “Does he?” She shrugged.

  “He told me Daphne is the ideal companion every man would want to have, intelligent, loyal and honest. She was the only person who stood by Leonard, when everyone else thought he had killed his wife. He considers she is an example to all women.”

  “I wrote it a long time ago. I’m not sure if I agree with that description anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I do not think Leonard is as innocent as Daphne thought, and as most readers seem to think. Perhaps he really did kill his wife, after all, and Daphne just helped him conceal the crime.”

  “Surely not!”

  “Who knows? I’m not sure anymore.”

  “But you wrote it, you must know what really happened!”

  “I’m afraid characters in novels are like children; you bring them up and you think you know them, but they develop a life of their own, a life you cannot control.”

  “You are speaking very strangely, Jane. Surely a writer controls his characters, just like God controls the world?”

  “Perhaps that is what happened to God. He gave us too much free will, and we turned into something he did not expect, and it is too late now to remedy the situation.”

  “Jane, you are talking in riddles. I do not understand you. I hope Dr. Carter is not long in coming.”

  She did not reply. Her eyes wandered out of the window and up to the steel sky, as if she were watching something. Could she be losing her mind again?

  “Mr. Greenwood considers you should write another novel. Why have you not written any more, Jane?”

  “I have other, more important business to attend to now: the Sunday school, the parish schools, my husband, my son, Eyre Hall and the estate, among others.”

  She answered my question, but she was not with me, she was in her own ethereal world, into which nobody could enter.

  “Jane, are you upset I invited Mr. Greenwood to Eyre Hall without conferring with you first?”

  She finally turned back to me. “This is your house, also, Adele, but I am disappointed that you did not mention your correspondence or your plans. I did not expect secrets from you, too.”

  “Forgive me, Jane. I do so want to meet my mother. I had thought she was dead, and the idea of meeting her has become an obsession. I need to know who she is, but I have never travelled to Italy and I cannot go alone. When Mr. Greenwood told me he had a house in Venice and would gladly be my companion, I was so excited, I dared not tell anyone in case the spell should break. Jane, don’t you see? He will take me to Italy.”

  “I do not object to his invitation, but you cannot go to Italy with him alone.”

  “Susan! Can Susan come with me?”

  “Susan? Why Susan?”

  “Susan is so kind, polit
e, and well-spoken. I would feel more comfortable if she came.”

  “It could be possible, but I will have to find another teacher. Adele, vex me not now, dear. I cannot plan too far ahead at present. There is a heavy load on my mind.”

  “Tell me your worries.”

  “Not now, Adele.”

  “De la discussion jaillit la lumière, n’est ce pas, Jane?"

  “Perhaps. It’s a long and old story...”

  “Was it the visitor who just left? Who is he?”

  “Not now, Adele. I will tell you, and you will meet him in due time. Do not worry about it at present. Let’s talk about other more exciting events. You must humour me and answer a question now. How did you send and receive the letters without anyone knowing?”

  “Michael helped me.”

  She gasped and jumped up from the couch. “Michael? Michael helped you to hide correspondence from me?”

  “Don’t be angry with him, Jane. I made him promise not to tell anyone. He helped me write the poems, too.”

  “Michael writes poems?”

  “No, at least I don’t know. He’s very clever, you know. He helped me with some words. He’s very good with words.”

  She moved to the window, putting both hands on the casements as if she wanted to press the panes out into the garden.

  “It makes sense, Michael reads a great deal.”

  “Where is Susan? I haven’t seen her today.”

  “She is at Sunday school this morning covering for Miss Brookwell, who had to nurse her ailing mother. She is a wonderful girl. I have no doubts she will be a great teacher.”

  “I think Michael would be a great teacher, too. He’s wasting his time here as a valet. He could do so much more, although it is nice to have such a handsome and intelligent servant, much better than that dreadful idiot Simon!”