Mrs Rochester

by Hilary Bailey

  Adèle stood at the window, looking out towards the garden wall. She sighed, ‘There’s little to do here. The weather is very poor.’

  ‘It will be so for some months. I fear we must make the best of it.’

  ‘I am not sure my resources are equal to that,’ she replied. ‘I wonder that yours are. I wonder you do not ask Papa to take you to London. But then, of course, you are not well.’ Her voice expressed some discontent for, as far as she was concerned, I suppose, my frailty was the barrier between herself and the pleasures and stimulus of London life.

  ‘Lady Norton travels to London next week,’ she informed me disconsolately. ‘I had thought perhaps she would suggest I went with them, since I believe she has some affection for me and the Nortons have no children of their own. I fancy it would be beneficial to me to see something of the world. But Lady Norton said nothing, and when I suggested to Papa he might hint about it on my behalf he said he could not. Why is that, do you think?’

  ‘I have no idea. He does not like to ask favours.’

  She looked at me hard. ‘Perhaps you might write and suggest the plan to Lady Norton. You have an interest in the plan, for you do not want me here.’

  ‘Of course I want you here,’ said I. ‘Why should you think I do not? My only concern is that you should amuse yourself and use your time profitably.’

  ‘Around the hovels of the lead-miners?’ she mocked. ‘No, Jane – you do not want me here. Had you desired me to live with you and Papa, you would not have kept me away at school. Did it not occur to you I would have preferred to be at home with Papa?’

  ‘I selected the schools with the greatest care. I dreaded to think you might experience the sadness of my own early years. I do not think you suffered.’

  ‘There was nothing wrong at the schools,’ she declared, ‘other than that they were schools. Why did I have to be sent away?’

  ‘Your father—’

  ‘My father. No – you,’ she declared passionately, ‘you decided. You wanted my Papa all to yourself. That is why I was sent away from him.’

  ‘Adèle,’ said I, ‘your father, at first was very ill. He was blind, maimed and, I must tell you, was in such a state of despair he did not care whether he lived or died. He needed all my care. He desired all my care. It was not I who sent you away but he; and I did not dispute the decision for at that time it was a grave necessity or, perhaps, you would have found yourself without any father at all – he might have died. You must understand that.’

  ‘And after that, it seems the necessity became desirable. I could have come back when he was better but no, by then you had Jonathan – your child. There was no room for me.’

  This argument, and it was no less than that, was not an encouraging start to our relationship. It seemed Adèle felt very bitterly about her years of education away from home. Yet it was true that at first she could not have stayed in a home so uncomfortable and anxious, with a sick, blind man and his young wife, desperate only for his welfare.

  What she did not know – and I could scarcely tell her – was that I had supported, even encouraged, Edward’s desire to keep her away at school. I felt very deeply that she must be armed for an uncertain future – with attainments developed to their uttermost. For Adèle was not acknowledged as Rochester’s daughter, and how was this young woman without name or fortune to maintain herself, if not by her own talents? For though she called Edward ‘Papa’, he did not call her ‘Daughter’. Others might name her ‘Miss Rochester’ – they had no other title to give her – yet she had no real right to bear that name when only half acknowledged by her father. Her future was unsure. I had not the heart to point out these harsh truths to her, though. Perhaps she understood her situation; perhaps she did not. At all events, the matter was for Edward to decide.

  ‘You did not want me. There was no room for me here,’ she said again.

  I felt her pain, for how often had I felt the same agony of rejection, from childhood on, and known there was no place, no security for me, anywhere. I bent my head. ‘I am sorry, if you thought that,’ I said.

  ‘You should be. You should be sorry,’ she was exclaiming, just as Edward came into the room. Even as the door opened she ceased to speak, and within seconds her manner had changed completely; the very position of her body became easier and more fluid, her angry expression disappeared and was replaced immediately by one of sweetness and submission. For this I was grateful, as I did not wish Edward to be disturbed in his home by arguing females. There is nothing worse for any man, whoever he may be, than long-running subterranean womanly warfare inside his own walls. Yet with a chill I saw confirmed my supposition that during the years in which I had seen little of her Adèle had become a consummate little actress and arch-dissembler.

  Edward did not sit down. He said, ‘Well, Jane, I’ve done with the worst of my papers and should like a stroll, if you will take one with me.’

  I stood up to get my cloak and Adèle followed me. ‘Mrs. Poole,’ she said, ‘fetch our cloaks, if you please. We are going for a walk.’

  Edward, I believe, wished to be alone with me and did not intend Adèle to come with us. But there seemed no choice but to submit to her presence and so we went, all three, out into the grounds. We looked into the garden, where work proceeded; then Adèle expressed herself as eager for a brisk walk up the thorn field and into the open country. ‘To blow the cobwebs away,’ she said gaily.

  I was hesitant about this. I did not feel strong enough as yet and feared that, if Edward agreed to her suggestion, the result would be my returning to the house and their going on together, which was, I believe, what she intended. Happily, Edward rejected the idea, telling her, ‘You may take your march, but Jane is not well enough.’ However, she would not leave us, and after turning and going back to look at the elms about the house we returned.

  Over lunch I attempted to raise the question of Adèle’s future, for the prospect of haying her about the house, unoccupied, for some indefinite length of time was hard to contemplate. I said, ‘Adèle, it will be very dull for you here. Is there some course of study you would like to pursue? We might get a music teacher for you.’

  Her response was unenthusiastic. ‘Oh. I have had enough of lessons,’ she said, and Edward added, ‘It is probably time for Adèle to be at home, learning some of the domestic arts. She must discover how to manage a house, and who better, Jane, than you to instruct her?’

  ‘I shall so enjoy that,’ she smiled. ‘Perhaps this afternoon we should pay some calls.’ She meant us, I think, to call at Raybeck Hall, in order to renew her campaign to persuade Lady Norton to take her to London.

  Before I could respond, though, Edward answered, saying, in some irritation, ‘Call on whom, pray? I hate to see women running all over the neighbourhood, back and forth, calling on each other. Of all the futile and profitless occupations the world can offer this custom of roving the countryside, banging at each other’s doors, is the most useless. I will not have my household disturbed by this to-ing and fro-ing, nor my horses worn out carrying my womenfolk to gossip in other people’s houses. Let women occupy themselves at home and keep to their own firesides – that is best.’

  ‘Conversation is not gossip, Papa,’ Adèle murmured.

  ‘There is a fine, if not indistinguishable, line between one and the other where ladies are concerned,’ he assured her. It was plain he had made up his mind and would not change it.

  Adèle cast down her eyes. ‘Oh, Papa – but I expect you are right.’

  Edward left the table, saying he had more work to do. I thought I had better begin to follow his suggestion that I instruct Adèle in the domestic arts. ‘Will you come down to the Sugdens’ with me, Adèle? Mrs. Sugden, you see, is in charge of the home-farm dairy, which I have not yet seen.’

  ‘Pooh,’ said Adèle, ‘cows – and cheese.’ Her glance struck the window on which there were raindrops. ‘It is raining again. Is Papa genuinely opposed to calling on the neighbours?’
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  ‘The question barely arose at Ferndean, we lived so quietly. I believe at first some ladies called, but Edward was ill and demanded all my care. And I later avoided that kind of society, having no great taste for it myself.’

  ‘You were not brought up to it, I suppose,’ she said coolly and drifted a weary eye round the salon and then on to the prospect from the windows.

  I stood up. ‘I will go to the dairy, Adèle. I would prefer it if you came with me, but if you will not, I shall not force you to do so.’

  ‘You could not,’ she said. ‘I am not your pupil now.’

  I said no more, but stood up and left the room, in no happy frame of mind.

  And so, leaving her behind, I went to the Sugdens’ – they lived in a house on Rochester land a little out of Hay – and was shown round Mrs. Sugden’s clean dairy. I made fresh orders for deliveries of milk, butter and cheese and Mrs. Sugden offered tea, which I insisted we took in the kitchen, where we might be comfortable. I raised the topic of conditions in Hay.

  The lead-miners have the worst of it,’ she told me, ‘but all will require fuel and bedding to get them through the winter. It is sad the weaving is unprofitable since the big wool mills opened up in the towns. And, madam, with the estate having been left alone so long, there has been little work there, either. The strong, or those in most despair, have drifted off. There will be great want in Hay, this winter.’

  ‘The women may require wool and flannel for the making of clothes, I would think.’

  She laughed. ‘No, madam, for alas, they cannot sew. They could weave, for that was for their trade, but they cannot sew.’

  ‘Perhaps that could be remedied,’ I said. ‘But meanwhile I understand there is feeling against the Rochesters in the village.’

  She was a sensible and direct woman, but my question embarrassed her. ‘There’s all too often something festering below the surface in country neighbourhoods,’ she said. ‘Together you and Mr. Rochester will set it right, I’m sure.’

  On my return to Thornfield, I went upstairs to rest, and I considered again the necessity for a school at Hay, where boys and girls could learn to read and write and the girls might learn sewing, cooking and other domestic skills.

  When I came down to dinner I found Adèle again curled up on the study window-seat, while Edward worked at his papers. I told him dinner was ready, but he said he would have none, and Adèle and I ate alone, saying little. Sometimes I would find her eyes on me, brooding, but she told me nothing of her thoughts.

  Chapter XX

  Winter was setting in. At Ferndean, time, summer and winter alike, had passed swiftly in a mixture of activity and repose, but I began to find the short, drab days at Thornfield wearisome, the nights sad and long, the more so when Edward was away from me.

  One evening, late, I went, in wrapper and nightgown, to his room, to talk and laugh with him, as we had once used to try to re-establish our old natural, friendly communion. Outside his bedroom door, as ever, lay vast Pilot, my old Pilot, but he did not move aside as I approached the door and even, as I leaned over him to put my hand to the doorknob, growled at me. ‘Now, Pilot!’ I said in astonishment and he growled again. ‘Pilot,’ I exclaimed, ‘move!’ But he would not stir from Edward’s threshold.

  Edward opened the door, in his robe, pen in hand. ‘What’s to do?’ he asked, laughing at me as I stood behind the great dog, who had now risen to his feet.

  ‘Pilot has decided not to let me in,’ I explained.

  ‘That is because you are too infrequent a visitor,’ he told me, drawing me into the room. It was lit by one lamp. I sat down by the fire, he opposite, the dog between us, on the rug. He said, ‘It will be agreeable to have one of our old conversations for I am dull and lonely.’ He yawned. ‘Excuse me. Tell me the truth. Do you regret this move to Thornfield?’

  ‘I sometimes regret Ferndean.’

  ‘We were closer at Ferndean,’ he mused. ‘Here, I seem beset by problems. I have no time – I am distracted, Jane. I know my mood is sometimes – not good.’

  ‘Oh Edward,’ I said, crossing to him, ‘let me help you.’

  I was standing in front of him. He took my hand, murmuring, ‘If you could, if only you could. Sometimes, Jane, I wish to go away, as far as I can from here.’

  ‘Then if you wish it, let us leave, at least for a while.’

  ‘How can we do that?’ he said. ‘You are specifically instructed to stay quiet. And would you leave Jonathan?’

  ‘Jonathan could come with us wherever we went, and if we cannot leave now, for my health’s sake, surely we can make our plans.’

  ‘Sadly, the thought of waiting many months to make a journey and then setting forth with an entourage appeals little,’ he said, grimly. Seeing my unhappy expression, he relented, saying, ‘Well perhaps – perhaps – in future. And to turn to the present and pleasant thing I have got you a horse, a pretty but plump mare. Her name is Ruby. Sugden brings her tomorrow.’

  I kissed him. ‘Edward – you are too good, too good.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘You must have your exercise but you must promise me you will take short rides, and only when the weather is good. Now sit down, calm yourself, talk to me and enliven me for I know I am a bear. A bear,’ he repeated and his head sank on to his breast.

  And so I did. I tried to speak to him of many things, but his mood had become gloomy; his replies were terse and without animation. For my own part, I felt the ease and confidence between us less than it had been, and I knew well, talk as I might, the moment must soon come when I would have to return to my own room and our conversation would end, the union of the moment cease. Nor could I forget those matters which confronted us but which were not to be discussed; I saw this from Edward’s manner: he required distraction from care, not the raising of unpleasant and disturbing topics.

  So I spoke of Jonathan’s progress with Mr. Weatherfield, the plans for his next visit home, the garden, the library; but I could not help enumerating silently those issues before us still ignored and unresolved. Adèle’s future was unsettled, the folk of Hay at odds with Thornfield Hall. Above all, Madame Roland was still in Hay and no one looking at that cold, angry face, the face of an avenging angel, could believe she did not threaten us. She would do all the harm and spread all the scandal she could.

  Before my eyes hovered the image of the miniature of Céline which Edward had kept in the drawer containing his gun, and which had now vanished. Perhaps, because of these concerns, my manner was less calm, less easy, than it might have been.

  Wishing to relieve the inevitable melancholy of dark winter days I asked, ‘Would you enjoy it if I invited my cousins Diana and Mary on a visit?’ for I knew he liked both of them and their husbands and Diana’s husband, Captain Fitzjames, in particular.

  But he shook his head. ‘Forgive me – I am in no mood for company.’

  ‘Perhaps you are tired. You have been busy in your study all day. It will take time, no doubt, to make sure all is as it should be at Thornfield.’ And as I stood to leave him, I thought I heard him say, his head still bowed on his breast, Time. Yes. It will take time.’

  I kissed him but he scarcely responded to my kiss and I returned to my room gravely concerned. I had been constrained to visit him; he would not come to me; his endearments had been forced. He was unhappy, my poor husband, and I, now, little less so.

  Once again, as after I had discovered Céline’s picture in his drawer, I was forced to wonder if Edward’s affection for me was less than it had been, and found myself looking into the void, that cold and empty universe, I would be left to inhabit if he no longer loved me.

  Yet next day dawned bright and the world seemed somehow restored to me. Over breakfast, Edward said, ‘Well, Jane, there is a treat in store for you.’ He stood up and went into the hall, whence he returned with a scarf which he, laughing, placed ceremoniously over my eyes. And then he led me to the stables, while Adèle, behind us, chattered excitedly.

 
Once in the stable-yard, Edward led me to a certain spot where he unveiled me – and there, before me, was Jeremy, holding a brown cob mare, my Ruby, plump and, I thought, as close to smiling as a horse can be. She wore a lady’s saddle of fine leather. I am nervous in general of horses, but from the first moment I set eyes on my Ruby I loved her. I ran to her, saying to Edward, ‘Thank you – oh, thank you.’

  ‘Small enough for my little wife,’ said Edward, ‘and sweet-natured enough, too.’

  Nothing would do for me, or him, but a ride straight away. I ran upstairs to change. Edward, meanwhile, mounted his big grey and when I came down we set off through the stables, over the paddock and past the trees to where the ground began to rise gently upwards.

  We rode slowly, for I am no horsewoman, over a rough stone-walled field.

  ‘Edward, I cannot thank you enough. You have given me my freedom.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Jane, you must be careful,’ he said

  The sky was overcast, the wind somewhat boisterous, but together we had a splendid ride along the hillside, taking our midday meal of bread and cheese in a farm kitchen and then we mounted up again and rode on, close and loving.

  Towards the middle of the afternoon we found ourselves close to Raybeck Hall. ‘Dare we conclude our ride by a visit to the Nortons?’ wondered my husband.

  ‘Oh Edward,’ I reproached him, ‘dishevelled as I am? I am in no fit state.’

  He contemplated me and said, ‘No. You are bright-eyed and smiling, and your cheeks bear a tender flush and – oh, my Jane, you have never looked prettier.’ He seemed almost sad as he gazed at me.

  We went on for a few paces. ‘Well, then,’ said I, and to cheer him only, for I had no great wish to call on Blanche Norton, ‘I am so encouraged by your flattery that I agree. Let us go to Raybeck.’

  ‘I would not object to having a few words with Sir Stanley,’ Edward admitted. ‘There is the small matter of a boundary in question and I would rather settle it soon, in a friendly manner, than start the lawyers working on it.’