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

by Luccia Gray

  “Why do you importune me thus, Jane?”

  “Why does it displease you, Edward?”

  “Because I am sick and dying. Is that a good reason, Jane? Or do you want another reason?”

  “Another, I’m afraid.” She pronounced the words far too softly. I could tell she was enraged.

  “Speak, Jane. I’m not in the mood for games.”

  “Mr. Mason called today.”

  “Mason? That devil! What did he want?”

  “He wants you to meet someone.”

  “Never!”

  “You know who the person is, then?”

  She was watching me like a hawk, waiting for a reply. I thought she understood that woman and her brother were conniving sorcerers. They had conspired to ruin my life, our life together.

  “She is nothing to me,” I sighed.

  “Are you sure?” she replied softly, almost inaudibly.

  “Absolutely. There is no doubt about it, Jane. I swear...”

  “Stop!” she interrupted me viciously. “Be careful what you say. There may not be time to confess on this occasion.”

  She couldn’t consider herself innocent of what happened at Thornfield. She had led me mischievously. She had teased me with her presence, her witty tongue, and tantalised me with her elf-like, ethereal beauty. I had breathed Jane Eyre, had seen through her eyes, had done what she wanted me to do, had told her only what she wanted to hear. She hadn’t wanted to know about a ghost of the past. She had known there was someone in the attic, all the servants had known, but she hadn’t been interested. She, too, looked the other way. I writhed in my bed. What was she thinking while she observed me so piercingly, so mercilessly? Whatever I had done was for her, to be with her, to make her happy, and this was how I was to be repaid?

  “Would you speak to me like this, because I am old and sick?”

  “You know that is not true. I nursed you back to life after the accident, and I will nurse you now, as long as you need me.”

  “Come to me, Jane, you are still my angel. I have never loved anyone except you, never. Everything I have is yours. I have bequeathed everything I have to you. You will be my sole heiress until John is thirty, and even then you will retain a life interest in Eyre Hall.”

  “I thank you earnestly for the wonderful years we have spent together, and for all the love you gave me once, and in honour of that love, which I also professed to you, I will stay by your side to the end of your days. But you know after all that has happened, I can no longer love you as I once did, as you would like me to. Remember, you stopped loving me first Edward.”

  How could Jane be so heartless and indifferent to my supplications?

  “I need to speak to you frankly, Edward. The matter is urgent and important. The child is in England, at the Rochester Arms. Mason has come to claim her dowry. He wants to find a husband for her. She wishes to settle down in England.”

  “Never!”

  “And one more thing, he wants the generous donation to St. Mary’s Convent to be recommenced. What were you thinking of when you told me I need not continue sending the money?”

  “I didn’t think it would matter after so many years. I thought she might be wed already… I thought she had died, I thought...”

  “You thought… Why did you lie to me?”

  “I did not lie to you. I tell you I have nothing to do with that creature! Ignore his intimidation, Jane. You were never one to shy away from a problem.”

  “This is not a problem. There are people involved. People I love dearly. He has threatened to speak.”

  “Bastard! It is a lie. He has no proof.”

  “But she is Bertha’s daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Born while you were married?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is there to prove?”

  “I tell you I am not the father.”

  “Perhaps you speak the truth.”

  “I never lied! I protected you from the truth, Jane! I wanted to protect you from her!”

  “You were not successful, because she is here, breathing, walking, eating, speaking, and just two miles away from us.”

  “I tell you she is not my daughter!”

  “But she was born while you were legally married to her mother. Surely you are then responsible. Bertha was your wife and under your care due to her illness.”

  “I will not take responsibility for her lascivious nature. You don't know what she tried to do to me in Coulibri. She and her slave, Christine, worked their heathen magic on me. They tried to destroy my soul!”

  “Maybe, but as I remember, she was a prisoner under lock and key in Thornfield.”

  “She found her way out on occasions, as you yourself witnessed the night she tried to burn me. You told me yourself you heard her cries in the attic and saw her shadows in the corridors.”

  “And you all lied to me then. You told me it was Grace Poole, who happened to be her incompetent carer.”

  “Everybody knew, but no one dared speak. You must have known, deep down, that she was there all along. Tell me you knew, Jane.”

  “I did not know you were married, or I should have left Thornfield the day I met you and fell in love.”

  “Jane, we were meant to be together. Don’t let her come between us once more. I tell you, I promise you, I am not the father of that creature.”

  “Then it was a guest at your house? Someone who had easy access to her room? And permission to enter and force her?”

  “I’m sure there was no force. She complied. It was in her nature.”

  “You must know who could have visited her in her jail. He must take responsibility for his actions.”

  “Frankly, I didn't care then, and I care even less now.”

  “The damage must be repaired. The rumour will not be spread.”

  “I am past caring about rumours.”

  “It will ruin your son’s reputation.”

  “He has enough money not to worry about that.”

  “His engagement to Miss Elizabeth Harwood may be affected.”

  “He will find another suitable wife. He is a good catch.”

  “But she is Judge Harwood’s daughter, and he will help him in his Parliamentary career.”

  “He needn’t work. In fact, he shouldn’t work. He is a gentleman. No one in my family has ever worked. He has land and property. He is a Rochester; we do not need to work. We have tenants and income from the colonies, and fortune. Surely you must know that by now, Jane?”

  “But he wants to work. He wants to do a service to society, to improve the quality of our lives.”

  “Those are the insane revolutionary ideas you have put into his head. It will do him good to forget about working in London. He belongs here, at Eyre Hall. He must manage the Rochester land and properties.”

  “I don’t want him to ignore his ancestral heritage and obligations. He can do both. He is a very intelligent, hardworking and capable young man.”

  “He will have to live with gossip and scandal; all the Rochesters have.”

  “You don’t care when the scandal explodes, because it will no longer affect you. Think of your son, Edward. Think of me. I have endured enough gossip and pain on your behalf. Your first wife, her death, your London life and friends, your solitary visits to Ferndean and the Ingrams, now this other daughter, and God knows what else. I have a feeling there is more you must yet confess to before you are taken by our Lord.”

  “You exaggerate, madam.”

  “You are selfish, sir.”

  “I am tired of this conversation. I need my rest. Leave.”

  “As you wish, but she will dine here on All Hallows, and you will come down to dinner to meet her.”

  “I shall not.”

  “Everyone believes you are her kind benefactor and uncle.”

  “Leave!”

  “Unless of course you tell me the man who is responsible for her existence, you will be held responsible for your actions or carelessnes
s with your first wife’s wellbeing.”

  “Get out, I said!”

  “I will carry your burden once more, but you will carry it too, while you are still among us. Good morning, Edward.”

  “Out!”

  She walked towards the door coolly and turned back to me as she pulled the handle towards her.

  “Simon will bring up your lunch shortly, and I will come back to see you later. Please think about what I have told you.”

  The devil in her smiled for the first time since she had entered my chamber. I had thought she was different, but she was like the others, deceitful and cunning. I would never have believed that she could be so satanical. My beautiful, pure Jane. My angel. How dare she speak to me in that manner? Where was my darling? Where was the innocent, helpless, and charming little elf I fell in love with twenty-three years ago?

  Our relationship had gone through many phases. We were happily married at first, as she nursed me back to health after the fire. She was my arms, my legs, my eyes, my very self extended. My eyesight improved in the only available eye left, which enabled me to go about my life in an almost autonomous manner. I also gradually recovered the strength in my limbs. In spite of the pain in my leg, causing my unbecoming limp, I could walk independently and fairly long distances. My arms regained enough strength to carry a walking stick or even a bag, if needed. I felt myself again, or almost. Jane at my side, at every second, was my greatest aid and incentive. We were in love and able to show it freely for the first time. I could hardly keep my hands away from her, chasing her around the gardens, the bedroom, or wherever we were. She told me that I should be calmer, but I only wanted to feel her and be with her every second of the day, and she acquiesced most of the time.

  Our blissful honeymoon lasted longer than I had expected, but it ended the day she discovered she was with child. I thought things would improve after the child was born, but, inexplicably, matters worsened. After the baby’s birth twenty-one years ago, she always had other, more important things to do. First it was the baby, who cried all day long. She moved to another chamber; it was impossible to sleep with its cat-like screeching, which protracted into the night. Then during the day, she was always busy with it. I pleaded for her to get a wet nurse, but she wouldn’t have it. Damned stubborn witch that she was, she said it was a degrading and oppressive way to treat women. And I reminded her that it also allowed them to feed their own unfortunate offspring, and do something useful in life.

  When she was pregnant again, God knows how for little time did she spend in my bed, I was most annoyed. I was sure of the consequences. I wouldn’t have it. I prayed every day that she would miscarry, and she did, the first time. After that she returned to my bed regularly, and I understood that it had been my greatest blessing. John was no longer breast feeding and she was mine again, as she had been before. I would say even more mine than before; a lust had worked up in her, which was as unusual as it was gratifying to me. It lasted three short months until she became pregnant again.

  She seemed to know, as much as I did, that a little roughness might disintegrate the creature, so she left my chamber once more for the nine months of the pregnancy. Being the witch that she was, she knew immediately the child was conceived and refused to return to my bed, as was her duty. I realised then that she had been seducing me for an ulterior motive; another pregnancy had been her objective all the time. How stupid of me not to realise she was using me for her own benefit once more, that every time we lay together, her frenzied limbs were entwining me for the devious purpose of conceiving another son. I felt betrayed.

  Another two years of deprivation was far more than I was prepared to accept. I made sure she would be suitably punished. This time she did not miscarry, however the child, a skinny, ghostly looking female creature, was stillborn. That was her punishment, and my victory. No breast-feeding and no child meant she would return to my bed and entice me once more. No matter how hard she tried, she would have no more children. Her fate and theirs had been decided.

  Unpredictable as the human mind is, I could not have foreseen what would ensue. How feeble women are, and how easy it is to sway their mental balance will never cease to amaze me. At first, I thought I would have to have another attic built to accommodate her madness. Fortunately Carter advised caution and suggested it was something called ‘post-natal depression’, and that we should be patient. Doctors will invent anything to swindle money out of gullible patients. I told him I didn’t care what it was called, or what caused it; either she recovered her former self, or he could find somewhere else to hide her away. I would no longer accept mad women under my roof.

  Fortunately the good doctor came up with a small miracle called laudanum. It did the trick. She seemed to eat less and grow more agitated at times, but she was cheerful most of the day. She even returned to my bed, much more compliant and submissively than ever before. Another benefit was that she rarely argued anymore. In fact, she spoke little. It was as if her mind had clouded up somewhat, freeing her from the inner demons, which undoubtedly came from thinking too much about what could have been, but would never be. Those were a happy two years. I made sure she was regularly purged with a vinegar solution, so if she ever was with child, nothing would come of it. Adele looked after John most of the time (Jane wouldn’t have a governess anywhere near the house), and Leah took care of the running of the house, proving to be just as loyal as Mrs. Fairfax had been.

  Every morning I would wake up late to the feel of her soft sinful flesh, smothered by her iniquitous hair, inebriated by her briny fruitful vine, and besotted by the spell she had cast on me. After a hearty breakfast, we would take long walks with Piper. Pilot had died due to an unfortunate fight with a fox. Once more we would spend hours just stroking each other’s hair, caressing each other’s faces, and sometimes even rolling on the damp meadows, if the weather permitted. After a light lunch we would retire once more to our chambers and indulge in each other. Often she was too tired to respond or resist, so I was able to indulge at my leisure. She never complained that I wanted her too much, and I wanted her so much. I needed her so much.

  No woman had ever loved me with such honest and disinterested devotion as Jane. I have no recollection of my mother, having died when I was in my infancy. My father attended to my elder brother, who was exactly what he expected in a son. He was tall, fair and blue-eyed like my mother, cheerful yet sober, always more docile and refined. I grew up as an ugly duckling and second best, short-tempered and dark like my father, having to suffer the humiliation of exile and marriage to a Creole heiress.

  I had thought Bertha, my future wife, was English, like her brother and father. Her mother, Mrs. Annette Mason, had been clever enough to procure two English husbands for herself. Mr. Cosway, Bertha’s father, was the first, and Mr. Mason, Richard’s father, was the second. So when I arrived in Jamaica, I learned Bertha was Richard’s half-sister, his father’s second wife’s spawn. Richard’s father had been generous enough to honour Bertha and her mother with his surname, but in spite of her two English surnames, Bertha née Cosway, later Mason, was Creole, like her mother. They were a race apart, retaining their singular half-breed features and minds. In spite of their pathetic attempts to become English, their mongrel madness and beauty was passed on like a curse, to all women. My Jane was a different woman, a pure, entirely English breed of serene beauty and quiet strength. I have had many women in my life, but I have never loved any other woman as I have loved Jane Eyre.

  In the afternoons, after napping, she would go down to the drawing room and sit at her desk and write. She told me she was writing a book. I thought it was a playful, useless thing to do, and it only took up a few hours in the evenings. It also kept her away from John. She had been too obsessed with him. Mothers should not spend too much time with their male offspring, or they soften their minds, and their spirits become feminised, idle, and oversensitive. More writing also led to less speaking, which meant she was no longer so inclined to argue wit
h me.

  When I saw an absent look cover her visage and asked what she was thinking of, she would say she was pondering upon her book. I humoured her. One day she said she had finished it and asked me if I wanted to read it. I saw no harm in it, so I did. It was indeed a beautiful book. It was a love story, the story of her love for me.

  The novel really began with the moment we met and finished when we married and had our first son. I asked her to change a few things. She resisted at first, but I easily convinced her that my honourable motives should be clearly explained, lest I should come across as a heartless materialist. I reminded her that my childhood had also been harsh, and when I returned from Spanish Town to Thornfield I was alone in the world. My family had died, my wife had gone mad. I had no one except Mrs. Fairfax, whom she guessed was my aunt, having married my mother’s brother.

  I reminded her that I had cared for Bertha while everyone else had abandoned her, including her own family. I suggested she clarify how I had become a better person after the accident and our reunion. The ending should be as positive as possible, showing the best of me and our marriage. She agreed, and my appreciation was right, it became very successful. Fortunately she published under a pseudonym, James Elliot, and we were not often molested by the press. She always hated London or being in the public eye. I saw to it that most people in London knew my wife had written a very descriptive biography of me, but she was rarely willing to speak about it publicly or accompany me to London. I even led some to believe I might have been the writer myself, due to its bold and manly roughness and language. This I naturally did to protect her from curious intruders.

  She wanted to write another novel about workhouses, governesses, orphans and the like, which I strongly discouraged. A certain Mr. Dickens was doing enough of that in a most vulgar way, and I did not want my wife pursuing such liberal endeavours.

  In the evenings, after dinner, Adele and John would join us for a while. Jane would play the piano or draw. I would read or listen to her play, sometimes I would sing, as I had done in my youth. Later, in our chamber, I would tease her with her nightly dose of laudanum, giving her each drop individually, asking for my reward in so doing, until I was satisfied with her pleading and submission. Sometimes, if I were pleased enough, or if she begged enough, I added some more drops to ensure a good night’s sleep. On other nights I would give her less, so that she awoke in the night, restless and disarmingly lascivious until she got everything she needed from me. She enjoyed those memorable nights far more than I did, seeming insatiable at times.