I must own to a sinking of the heart on receipt of this kindly communication. Of course Edward had done nothing but what was necessary in my illness in writing thus to Mrs. Fairfax, yet I felt a perhaps foolish melancholy that this matter had been taken so firmly out of my hands and Mrs. Poole’s position so speedily and determinedly established.
I took heed, too, of the cautious tone Mrs. Fairfax struck on the subject of Mrs. Poole’s services, for it confirmed my feeling of dread at having her in my house. And still I wondered – why did Edward, whose life had been blighted by the negligence of this woman, allow her now to be so close to us?
Chapter VII
And so the move to Thornfield took place.
One gusty October day, when the leaves were being whirled from the trees in clouds of red, gold and brown, our waggons left Ferndean. But as they rolled the thirty miles to Thornfield I was obliged to remain in my chamber at Ferndean, first listening to the thuds and bumps as my possessions, those objects – chairs, china, my little desk – I had tended so carefully, were carried from the house while downstairs, I knew, Mrs. Poole presided over all. Then came the rolling of the wheels, then silence, an awesome silence, the silence of a house emptied of its furnishings, its inhabitants, its very function.
Upstairs, I sat in my chair alone – my nurse, though still at Ferndean, being elsewhere in the house – gazed over my dearly loved garden, the lawn where leaves now blew and lifted in the wind. The borders were in decline now, and only one rose, always late to blossom, threw out its brightness. Later, Edward would return with the carriage and carry me to Thornfield. Meanwhile I sat waiting, picturing the empty rooms below me, the fragments of the last ten years left behind. I compelled myself to consider with optimism our new life at Thornfield, that more spacious life which was due to my husband and son.
And all the while, in the house was that deep silence, and from without came the sighing of the wind.
Soon enough, my nurse arrived and then came the sound of Edward’s carriage wheels. His face was alight with pleasure when he entered. ‘All goes well at Thornfield,’ he reported. ‘Now what remains is to install the mistress of the house.’ He tenderly wrapped a shawl about me. ‘Already Jonathan is running from room to room, just as once I did, my dearest – just as I did as a boy.’
Edward and the nurse helped me down the stairs. It was a month since I had left my room. Now, below me, I saw the hall, lacking any table, any pictures on the walls, empty and abandoned. Slowly, we left the house, I leaning on Edward’s arm. The front door of Ferndean closed behind us for the last time, and I silently bade farewell to my garden, to the old mulberry tree under which we had sat together summer after summer, to the house itself. The sky overhead was blue, the wind fresh, whirls of leaves came from them like coloured clouds – and we departed for Thornfield Hall.
As Mary and John’s son, Jeremy, who was coming with us to Thornfield, set the horses off, I had a strange sensation, as if I were now without volition, as if I were in a dream. And so we took the road to Thornfield.
Chapter VIII
This strange trance-like state held me as we left our fertile valley and mounted, passing through the reaped fields, where stubble stood in rows, and went on, gently upwards until the vast outlines of the mountains emerged to the right, and the fields became rougher, marked off from each other by stone walls, which carried on, up and up into the mountains.
And so we came to Thornfield, travelling up the drive between the tall elms, and there on its slight elevation lay the great bulk of the house. Outside, the big furniture drays stood ready to leave, their huge horses standing patiently in the traces. Behind the house rooks swirled in the tall elms. The front door stood open.
I felt Edward’s hand in mine as we approached, yet – and I believed it to be a result of my illness and my new exposure to the world – I felt – and how difficult it is to describe such states of mind – as if I, Jane Rochester, were somehow a little removed from the scene. I had left this house in a torment of emotion, as Jane Eyre. I returned as Jane Rochester, mistress of Thornfield and yet I thought I dreamed.
I leaned on my husband’s arm as we passed under the portico and into the wide hall. All was as I had ordained it – the black and gold wallpaper, the pale paint, the portraits of two earlier Rochesters, he in doublet and hose, she in ruff and farthingale, which I had discovered in an attic at Ferndean. All was well done and I might have rejoiced had it not been for Grace Poole standing there in front of me, in a black silk dress, hands respectfully clasped. Bright new keys, the keys to Thornfield, dangled at her waist. Her black hair, streaked with grey, was tidily arranged, her face very pale, her dark eyes stern as ever.
My heart sank. I was so weak, and here in my own hall was Mrs. Poole, full of strength, cold, controlled, almost as if she were mistress of the house, standing ready to greet a guest. She advanced; I shrank against my husband’s shoulder. He felt the movement and said hastily, ‘The journey has tired Mrs. Rochester. We will go straight upstairs, Mrs. Poole.’ She moved back and we progressed towards the great staircase which ran up through the centre of the house.
And so I reached my bedroom at Thornfield, that elegant great chamber in which, had I but known it, alas, I was destined to spend so many weary hours alone during the coming months. But this I could not know, and at that time I was delighted by the sight that met me, once we had climbed the broad treads of the staircase and turned along the gallery. All was exactly as I had hoped. The room stood at the end of the gallery, occupying the corner of the house and having therefore windows on two sides. Those at the rear of the room looked out on to the elms behind the house and then over foothills of green to the mountains behind. On the other side the view was of the walled garden and its trees. That the view included, beyond the far wall of the garden, a portion of the field of thorn trees was a misfortune, but a small one in this light-filled room, with its pale sprigged wallpaper, long brocade curtains and charming furniture. Flowers stood on a table; all had been beautifully arranged.
I was to lie on a couch, placed beneath the far window, for as yet the bedroom furniture from Ferndean, which had stayed in place until I left the house, had not arrived. The drays now leaving Thornfield were to collect it and bring it to the house.
Mrs. Poole, assiduous as ever, was in the doorway, as Edward laid me gently down. ‘Will you take some refreshment, Jane?’ he asked, glancing at the black-clad figure in the door.
I had a little tea and bread and butter, while Edward sat by me on a chair, and we conversed with our usual freedom and confidence.
‘Is all to your liking, Jane?’ he asked, desiring I should share in his joy at the restoration of Thornfield.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said I. ‘All is new, clean and fresh. We have all the advantages of the old Thornfield with many new ones also. Indeed, I have a burning desire to come downstairs now, to examine my domain.’
‘You are whimsical,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Let us take a sounding.’ He turned to my nurse, who stood by. ‘Nurse, what do you think of the suggestion?’ he asked. ‘Is my wife well enough to come downstairs?’
‘I should say no,’ replied the woman. ‘For I fear too much excitement will harm her.’
‘I assure you I shall be more excited if forced to lie here wondering how my plans and stratagems for the house appear in reality,’ said I.
Mrs. Poole had arrived for orders and overheard these words. She now said, ‘I assure you, Mrs. Rochester, that everything below is in perfect order.’
‘I am sure of that, Mrs. Poole,’ I said. ‘But it is the impression, the atmosphere, about which I seek to reassure myself.’
To this she said nothing, but gave me a long, level look. My nurse, meanwhile, was taking my pulse and having done so said doubtfully, ‘You may go downstairs, but you must be carried and restoratives given.’
Mrs. Poole, trying not to frown, said, ‘I will fetch the man from the stables.’
‘Have we no manse
rvant in the house?’ I asked.
‘I did not wish one,’ explained my husband, though to me it seemed strange for a house of such a size to have no male servant living in. However, Jeremy was summoned from the stables, which had been newly rebuilt with good accommodation, and I was carried ceremoniously downstairs to the drawing-room.
This room ran the full length of the house – which, on the ground floor was arranged round the large, square hall with its fireplace and pillars – and was thus some twenty feet long; the dining-room and breakfast-room ran along the back of the house. I had ordained that the salon should be divided by large doors, which could be opened for large entertainment and closed when more intimate surroundings were dictated. I had determined, also, that the old beauties of this room should be preserved, yet enhanced. There were the grand mirrors and imposing chandeliers, the snowy carpets with their pattern of wreathed roses, the pale marble fireplaces and the lamps and other ornaments of ruby, dark green and blue, to add points of intensity to the lightness of the room. This effect was created by three long windows at one side, curtained in pale brocade patterned with stemmed roses.
The effect was, to my eyes, lovelier than I had believed it might be and as for Edward – he stayed in the doorway, drew in the spectacle and embraced me even as I stood there saying, ‘Jane – Oh, my Jane. I knew you for the composer of the charming cottage, Ferndean, but you have now designed an elegant grand salon, fit for a king! How happy we shall be with such a room in which to entertain our friends. Come, let us go to the dining-room and see what splendours you have arranged for us there.’
But I protested I was tired and so I was arranged on the couch near the fireplace, in which a bright fire burned, while Edward went to check that every detail was perfect for when I should be strong enough to see it.
My nurse bustled off to fetch me medicine, declaring this move to have been all but too much for her patient, and I lay there, indeed very tired, yet, in some part of my mind, remembering the old Jane, she whose strength had once supported her though so many trials at Thornfield. But the old Jane had not been a woman expecting to become a mother in spring and that was all the difference.
As I dreamed, suddenly Mrs. Poole was at my side, startling me, ‘Is all to your liking, madam?’ she asked me in that deep voice, almost like a man’s, and I told her, ‘Yes – yes, Mrs. Poole, it is.’
Then Edward was back, exclaiming, ‘Just as it was – the house is exactly as it once was – yet somehow, better. How can this be?’ I smiled a little at that, knowing exactly how such things can be achieved, when a woman has determined they should be.
‘The library will be a sorry sight,’ I told him. ‘For books are something we cannot buy by the yard.’
‘That will be our pleasure during the winter, to select what we should like for our library shelves.’
I smiled, imagining how happy we would be sitting by the fire discussing with delight what books we should select, how keenly we would await their arrival, the pressure of arranging them on their new shelves.
‘You will have much to do, restoring the land to its former state,’ I gently reminded him, for during our absence the fields around Thornfield had been let or left to lie, and I knew from letters I had written at my husband’s behest, while acting as his secretary, that there were difficulties concerning the lead mines which lay in the hills beyond the village and which had been leased to a mining company.
‘That is so,’ he said. ‘And the foxes have taken over. We shall have some good hunting, you may be sure.’
I said nothing, though my heart sank. I dreaded to see Edward riding hard. He had but one hand and though he had learned to control the strongest of horses in ordinary circumstances, the rigours and dangers of the hunt are exceptional and can bring the most capable of riders to grief. Nor was he talking of hunting lowland fields and brooks. At Thornfield the hunt may run uphill, even into the mountains, where there are high cliffs, and mists may come down very suddenly. Yet, of course, I held my peace, remarking only, ‘You will have little time to restock a library then, while you are galloping after foxes.’
‘There will be time,’ he assured me.
Then in came the nurse with my medicine and he said to Mrs. Poole, who was still standing by, ‘And when is, luncheon, pray?’
And so we sat by our fireside at Thornfield talking, and I was content and believed soon I would be stronger – for so the doctor had promised – and that these moments marked the beginning of a new, happy life.
Chapter IX
Indeed, it was not long before I was fairly well again and the nurse sent away. The doctor, though, continued to urge caution and care and I was forced to obey his commands. Gone were the days of early rising, of breakfasting with Edward and Jonathan, and going about my normal duties, for now I had to keep to my room until midday. Gone, too, were the happy walks to school with Jonathan, for as there was no suitable school nearby, and his friendship with Mr. Weatherfield’s sons was so strong, we had decided that for the meanwhile, he would board at the Weatherfields and continue his lessons there.
This separation was very hard on me, yet a mother knows that a boy must go from home early on in order to learn self-reliance and both must endure it. ‘Why,’ said Edward cheerfully, when I mentioned how I should miss my boy, ‘he is seven years old and will be but thirty miles off. I was sent a hundred miles from home, to school, at that age.’
And so it had to be, and perhaps it was best for me to be less of a mother to the boy for a while. There could be no more afternoons in the gardens, for I must rest during those hours, rising only for dinner. I would, though, still have my evenings with Edward yet I knew, my early departure to my room each evening, ordered by the doctor, grieved him for he was forced to spend the later hours of the evening alone.
A Sunday came when I declared we must all go to church. Jonathan was home that weekend, so he, Edward and I took our carriage through a landscape bright and cold. The hayfields on either side of the road to the village were browning, the village itself, as we drove through, was quiet with a Sunday hush. The cottage chimneys smoked.
As we left our carriage outside the church and walked up to the door, others entering the church gazed at us with interest. I leaned on Edward’s arm; Jonathan came behind as we walked up the aisle to take our seats in the high-fronted pew which stood along the side wall of the church at right angles to the altar, opposite the choir stalls on the other side. This was the pew specially retained for the Rochesters, and I was happy that after so long an absence it was reoccupied, and seen to be so. Not since the day when Edward had first tried to marry me had I entered the church. I was surprised to find myself quite calm, for I had not expected to be. But the serenity of the old building, with its air of having been a place of worship for so many hundreds of years, soothed the pain of recollection.
The organ swelled and Mr. Todd entered from the vestry. The congregation, consisting of the more prosperous folk of the neighbourhood stood to sing the opening hymn, ‘A safe stronghold our God is still’.
A safe stronghold. Ah, how glad I was to stand there, loved and secure, with my Edward beside me, he singing the hymn in his strong baritone voice – a safe stronghold indeed.
Then came a little flurry in the congregation. I turned my head; other heads in the rear pews were also turning to look at a figure standing in the church doorway, an unaccompanied lady in black. She stood, tall and erect, the sunlight behind her, apparently unashamed of her lateness. She took one graceful pace forward, intending, I suppose, to sit down quietly at the back in the pew nearest to her. I received the strong impression that this was the lady who had driven her carriage past me on the day I visited Thornfield during the summer. I had only glimpsed her face as she hurtled by, but that pale oval countenance, the prominent nose and general air of command had impressed me strongly. And, since she had moved into Old House, opposite the church, it was natural that she should attend worship here.
These tho
ughts lasted only seconds, but as I turned my gaze from her I observed Edward’s face and was startled. I had unconsciously noted that he had ceased to sing the hymn some moments before, and as I looked at him I saw his head, too, was turned in the direction of the church door and the black-clad lady. His eyes blazed and his pale face was set and rigid, as if he were trying to master some strong emotion. Witnessing that countenance I felt a sudden pang of dread, for that expression belonged to the old days, his days of anger, secrets, pain.
As if drawn to her, my eyes returned to the lady, who was now seated in a pew on the aisle near the door. She was gazing at me – no, past me – I saw. She looked at Edward. And with such a calm, steady, yet unyielding gaze!
Putting his hand to his brow, Edward brushed past me with a muttered apology, descending the two steps leading down from the family pew. He walked, calm of face and steadily, from the church, not looking to right or left as he went. I saw the lady in black looking at him. She turned her head when he arrived at the church door, to watch him go out. And then – he was gone.
This entire episode had taken little more than a minute. During it, the congregation had continued to sing the hymn. I moved towards Jonathan, who was standing a little bewildered at the sudden disappearance of his father. I gave him a reassuring smile and raised my voice again in the hymn, while pointing out for him the place in his hymn book. During this time I struggled to maintain a calm demeanour, for some of the congregation must have undoubtedly observed this strange episode and I did not wish the first visit of the Rochesters to their own parish church to occasion gossip and speculation, nor to unsettle my boy. It was hard, for my mind was full of questions, but I endured the rest of the service, though with scant attention. Had it indeed been the arrival in church of the mysterious lady that had led to Edward’s sudden disappearance? If so, who was she, and what had she to do with my husband? However, I maintained, I hope, my composure, though I could have wished Mr. Todd’s sermon, on Christ’s advice to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, shorter than it was.
Mrs Rochester Page 5