‘I do recall insisting on a just distribution of my uncle’s legacy, St. John,’ said I.
‘So then,’ he persisted, ‘the money was divided into four equal portions, you taking a fourth of what had been left you, Diana, Mary and myself taking the remainder. And now, I must tell you we tricked you, for we did not use the money. We retained it; we invested it and said nothing and there it lies for you, if you need it, principal and interest – you may take either or both.’
‘No, St. John, no. A gift is a gift and not for returning.’
‘Come, Jane,’ he said earnestly. ‘I am quite as prosperous as a clergyman has any right to be. Diana and Mary are married and provided for. As for you, you wish to help the people of Hay, and – let me be quite honest with you – I am disconcerted by what Sugden says about heavy withdrawals of money from the estate. We know already of a claim upon your husband by the Masons. If there is aught amiss with Mr. Rochester’s finances, you may be assured that I, Diana and Mary will not see you suffer.’
‘I am sure there is nothing wrong,’ I said.
Chapter XXV
Next day two loaded waggons came from Millcote, and Mrs. Sugden went early to the village to arrange the distribution of goods. In the afternoon I went down to make sure all was well and to visit some of the sick. Now, at least, all Hay’s chimneys smoked; laundry was boiling outside, in cauldrons; a man dug his garden with a new spade; a group of children were playing in the street.
I went to the house of the woman who had taken the fever after childbirth. The first thing I saw, on entering that sad one-roomed cottage, was a bunch of yellow jasmine on the pallet where the sick woman lay; the second was a pot of broth heating on the fire; and the third, in a dim corner of the room, was a dark-clad woman pouring something from a phial. I knew her, knew her well, and was chilled. ‘Mrs. Poole!’ I called out. ‘What do you here?’
She turned, a beaker in her hand. ‘The woman requires nursing,’ she said. ‘Madame Roland heard you had been in Hay and declared you were right to have gone, and that if I wished I might also go to help. She herself is too fearful, but she has supplied money. In her youth her family was made prosperous by slaves, she said, which she now thought wrong, but many of those slaves were treated no worse than the people of Hay.’ She went to the woman and gave her a drink from the beaker. ‘Head up, Mary, drink. Fight, have nothing to fear. Your neighbour is guarding the children, your man is helping dig a garden plot. And here is Mrs. Rochester, come to see how you are.’
‘Do not trouble to say anything,’ said I. ‘Lie still and rest.’ A useless order, for the poor woman was unable to do anything else. She lay on her bed, her face pinched and her eyes bright with fever.
Who would have thought that Grace Poole and I would have found ourselves standing side by side by the bed of a sick woman, both feeling the same sensation of pity for the poor sufferer, who, we both knew, had almost no prospect of recovery? But we tended her as best we could.
Then Mrs. Poole said to me, in a low voice, ‘This is not the time, I know it, but I must speak to you. I know you hate me, yet I must still speak. You are not a foolish woman, Mrs. Rochester, so you understand already, deny it as you will, that there is something wrong with your husband’s account of his first wife’s death. Who should know it better than I, who was trapped in that room with her on the night of the fire?
‘Will you tell me how it was on that night?’ I said softly.
‘Yes,’ she said, I will. Know then that when I smelled smoke and began to feel the heat of the fire, I searched high and low with increasing desperation to find the key to our rooms. I had not got it, nor had Bertha; nor was it to be found anywhere else in our small apartments. Yet the door was locked – locked, madam – and the key gone. Who had it? Who had locked the door?
‘As the smoke thickened I saw no chance for us but the roof, so I assisted Bertha through the window and she, strangely calm, got herself up on to the parapet of the roof. I could hear the sounds of fire below; the smoke grew even thicker and I saw to my great alarm that flames were beginning to lick up from below through the floorboards under the window, my only way of escape.
‘I had almost given myself up for lost when the door opened with a crash and Mr. Rochester stood there, silhouetted, flames behind him. And in his hand he had the key, madam! He had the key!’
I could say nothing. I stood in that windowless cottage, the stertorous breathing of the dying woman in my ears. This could not be the truth – could not.
Mrs. Poole said, her tone less harsh than customarily, ‘I escaped, madam, down the staircase, which was in flames – my clothes were alight when I ran from the house.
‘Meanwhile, Mr. Rochester must have burst through the window and gone up on the roof to try to save his unfortunate wife. Madame Roland thinks he made no such attempt that, in fact, he pushed her to her death. But I am not so persuaded. If he planned to burn his wife to death, he was very close to achieving his ends, so why did he risk his life by entering a burning building and climbing on to the roof, where she was trapped, in order to save her? You may say he came back to save me, but would a man prepared to burn his wife to death scruple to burn another person with her?
‘No – there is another explanation, I think, but I cannot tell what it is. I cannot tell what happened on that night. But there has been an attempt to kill you, madam, by tampering with your horse’s saddle,’ she continued earnestly. ‘Mrs. Rochester, we stand by the bedside of a woman who may not be much longer for the world. Standing here in the face of death, I would not deceive you, nor could I forgive myself if I did not warn you. Go. For your safety – leave Thornfield. Leave at once.’
The sick woman on the bed gave a groan and begin indeed now to embark on the journey carrying her from this world. We did what we could to relieve her sufferings until, at last, those sufferings ended – and she was gone. Then we commended her to the care of neighbours waiting outside, and left the cottage. I extended my hand to Mrs. Poole, who shook it gravely, and we parted, without another word.
I said nothing of this to St. John, for I was shocked and confused. I did not know what to believe of Mrs. Poole’s account of the fire, yet it seemed candid enough. She had even confessed to being uncertain herself about what exactly had occurred. She had most earnestly advised me to leave Thornfield, yet could I believe this was disinterested or might it be yet another act of malice – her own and Madame Roland’s plot to separate me from my husband?
However, I had little time to contemplate the matter, for in the ensuing week the sickness reached its greatest height in the village, and all the hours my health would permit were spent in Hay. Mrs. Poole was ever there, providing help and assistance. I learned, if not to trust Grace Poole completely, at least to trust her more. And still there was no word from London.
Chapter XXVI
I will return to Lady Norton’s account of Edward’s visit to London.
Edward still said nothing to Blanche of Céline, but one night she saw them together, Adèle, Céline and Edward, in a restaurant to which she, her husband and a small party of friends had gone after the theatre.
‘Hardly had we taken our seats,’ Blanche told me, ‘when Lady Jago grasped my arm and whispered, “See – over there – in the alcove!” There was a recess at the back of the long dining-room, a kind of den, papered in dark red. On the table was a shaded gilt lamp, which lit up the lovely faces of Céline and her daughter and Rochester’s saturnine visage. Quite a vision, dear Jane,’ Blanche laughed. ‘I assure you it was like some scene from mythology – Pan with nymphs, or something of that kind.
‘They were so engrossed, my dear, Madame Varens leaning forward, looking intently into Rochester’s eyes, he all attention, the lovely Adèle laughing. I do not think they noticed us at all. We pretended to ignore them, though we were agog, my dear, quite agog, as you will imagine.
‘Not long after, when I glanced over, they were gone. They had not left by the main entrance or t
hey would have passed us. They must have been allowed out by some secret door at the back of the restaurant, so as not to be remarked by the other diners, I surmised. I thought it odd – so odd that I did not mention, next day, having seen them. Nor did I ever find out if Rochester had seen our party there that night. But such beauty they had, my dear, such enchantment.’
At Thornfield I knew little beauty and less enchantment at that time. Christmas was but two weeks off, and no word had come from Edward as to the arrangements. It began to seem he would not return to Thornfield for Christmas. We had never before been apart on that day of celebrations and the prospect of his absence filled me with melancholy.
St. John, I think, understood this and therefore, without asking questions as to any plan which might have been made, suggested my cousins Diana and Mary and their husbands be invited for the holiday. I seized gratefully on this idea, for if Edward were not to return their company would be most pleasant for myself and Jonathan. Indeed, the prospect of the two of us, mother and son, alone and melancholy at Christmas, was a sad one.
And so invitations were sent. But only days later, as I sat at breakfast with St. John, a letter at last came from Edward in London.
‘My dearest Jane,’ he wrote, and even those first words caused my heart to leap within me, caused me to hope that he had begun to feel his old love for me. As I read on, that hope became certainty and I rejoiced. ‘I have been long,’ he wrote, ‘all too long, in town and yearn to be back at Thornfield with you. Now, dearest heart, will you forgive a miserable exile and then forgive again, for I have invited for the holiday Sir George Lynn as well as some new acquaintances, of whom I am sure you will approve, Lord and Lady Jago and their son Henry. The Nortons also have said they will be happy to be with us for a while at that time, so we shall be quite a party coming down. I propose also that there should be a ball at Thornfield, to take place after the Boxing Day meet, which will depart from Thornfield this year as it always used to. I believe we owe it to ourselves and to Thornfield to celebrate our return with some pomp and ceremony.
‘I know you are not one for such things but you deserve some society after having been alone so long, with your neglectful husband away. I know that at present you are not always strong and there will be preparations to be made, so I have taken the step of writing to Mrs. Poole to come and help. Adèle has told me she is at Madame Roland’s. Mrs. Poole is not a bad woman, Jane – though Madame Roland most certainly is, and Mrs. Poole should remain no longer under her roof. At all events, her assistance will take from your shoulders some of the burden of the preparations suitable for our guests and – dare I say it, Janet, my little democrat? – suited to our dignity. Thus, preparations can be made without trying your strength too far.
The talk in town, dearest, is of how much you have done to help in the village during the sickness. Those of us who have estates in the north have been much concerned by news of widespread disease and it has been a joy to know, and have it known, that at Hay my own lady has been at work to relieve the suffering.
‘I break off now for this note must go straight away. I am not sure of the precise time of my arrival but will send later to inform you.
‘Jane, my love, I believe fortune smiles at last. I long to see you and tell you all the news – which at present I have no time to do.
‘I am yours, my darling, now and ever – eternally.’ And below these words he had signed his dear name.
My overriding sensation was one of joy. The affectionate tone of this letter, his generous acknowledgement of what I had done – all relieved my mind of the anxiety which had so long possessed it. I put the letter down, blissfully happy and said, ‘Oh, St. John, Edward returns for Christmas. He will be here soon.’
‘I am very pleased, Jane,’ he said gravely.
‘He brings a party from London and requires me to make arrangements for a ball – Oh, St. John, he is coming home!’
‘I am pleased for you, Jane,’ said he again. But I noted some restraint in his tone. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘it is plain that with the many other guests and their servants, and with all the careful plans which must be made, I, Diana and Mary and their husbands will be an additional burden to you. What would have been a pleasant but tranquil occasion becomes suddenly a most exciting affair and for that, I suspect, you do not need five more guests. So I will return to Gateshead, where I stay with Diana, within a few days.’
‘No, St. John,’ I cried. ‘I have been so looking forward to spending the holiday with you all.’
He gave me a wry look. ‘Jane – when you have paused for perhaps two minutes to reflect on the capacity of your house, the nature of the supplies you will need and the breadth of the arrangements you must make at comparatively short notice, I think you will agree with me. Let us settle that I, Diana and Captain Fitzjames, Mary and Mr. Wharton will come to you in the New Year. We shall be sure our visit will that way be a pleasure, not a burden.’
It was true that our Christmas party as constituted would number over a dozen, and there would be other guests, no doubt, on Christmas Day and many more for the ball. Yet Thornfield was a large house and there was ample room – as was well understood by St. John. But I sensed he had no great wish to spend Christmas in the house with Edward, for they had parted on bad terms and Edward, in his letter, had made no mention of St. John, nor sent him any message.
I hesitated, whereupon St. John concluded vigorously, ‘I must say, too, I am not sure that the Fitzjameses and the Whartons would welcome being flung suddenly into a large assembly of the kind Edward will bring from London. If you are going to become so very grand, Jane, you must introduce your country cousins to your high-up guests little by little, so that we may slowly accustom ourselves to their grandeur. I’m afraid if we had to meet such a party we might be quite put out of countenance.’
I did not, to tell the truth, believe any of my cousins would feel out of place among Edward’s London friends but St. John had spoken forcefully so I accepted his diplomatic refusal as truth. Sir John’s only encounter with my husband had been unpleasant, he, conciliatory and Edward, angry. I could not press him to join the party for the festivities.
And alas, I fear that at that time my delight at the prospect of my husband’s return, and my contemplation of the great preparations required to provide fit hospitality for a large company, led me to express far less gratitude and affection to St. John than was his due – and more than his due.
He stayed two days longer and as he was on the point of departure thrust into my hands a packet, smiled and said, ‘Here, madam, is your school.’
‘Why, Cousin,’ said I in amazement, ‘what is this?’ Opening the packet, I found it to contain the purchased lease of one of the two large empty houses at the edge of Hay, together with details of all the repairs St. John had ordered to make the building fit and comfortable for its purpose.
Overwhelmed with affection and gratitude, I was near to weeping as he left. I believe I saw a tear, also, in his eye. He pressed my hands, saying, ‘Farewell, Jane, and remember if you have need of us, your cousins, at any time, we will not fail you.’
‘We will meet very soon,’ I replied. He turned then, and left me.
As the sound of his horse’s hooves faded I felt heavy-hearted, for I had become accustomed to the gentle and unfailing comfort of St. John’s presence and now there was no one with whom to share my days. I sustained myself, however, with the thought that the coming weeks would be full of occupation. In Hay, though the fever had passed, it had left much distress in its wake – and at Thornfield preparations for the Christmas entertainments must be speedily made.
St. John had not been gone an hour when Mrs. Poole arrived. She stood in the hall clutching her bag and looking at me doubtfully. ‘Mr. Rochester wrote asking me to return to the house to help with a party for Christmas. And I gather there is to be a ball, also. I have taken the liberty of bringing my things, but should you wish me to go, I will.’
I w
as not sure of her, felt no warmth for her, but, knowing I required her assistance, said, ‘Will you stay, Mrs. Poole? There is much to do here.’
The sympathy we had experienced by the bedside of the dying woman had gone. Once again I and this woman were beneath the same roof, and I think neither of us took much pleasure in it.
She looked at me coldly. ‘I would as soon not be employed where I am not wanted, Mrs. Rochester,’ she told me.
‘Mrs. Poole, Mr. Rochester has re-appointed you and I am content with that. There is no time for argument. We need more servants, maids and men. I do not think we will find them in Hay. Will you go to Millcote and see if you can find suitable persons there?’
‘Very well,’ she said, and, turning, silently took her bag upstairs.
The next week was bright but frosty. There was snow on the mountains and, below, the ground was icy. Nevertheless in mid-morning one day the first carriage, containing Edward and Adèle, rolled up and stopped before the house. Edward descended, hastened to where I stood waiting and embraced me almost more warmly than was suitable on such an occasion.
He said in my ear, ‘Oh Jane, my Jane. How glad I am to be home at last.’ I gazed joyfully up at him. His face held all his old vivid affection. Truly, he had come home.
Then came Adèle with an outstretched hand and a smile less than warm. ‘Step-mama, is all ready for the ball?’ were her first words.
‘Youth, youth,’ murmured Edward to me and I smiled.
‘Here they come!’ cried Adèle. ‘We left London in convoy, like an army.’
And like an army they were. Sir George Lynn and Blanche and Stanley Norton descended from the second carriage wreathed in smiles, anticipating pleasure to come, and minutes later from the third stepped Lord and Lady Jago, she slender and fashionable, he bluff and firm of countenance, bearing a mark of authority about him, for the Jagos were great land-owners, and Lord Jago was high in the government. Also in their carriage was their son Hal, a young man little more than twenty years old, pale, languid and, it seemed to me, as sophisticated as a man twice his age. He glanced up at Thornfield, surveying the house as if he planned to buy it, and I heard him observe to Adèle, ‘A fine place, but a very poor location.’ Behind the guests came their servants and baggage in two more carriages.
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