Perhaps the most touching passages in Jane Eyre are those after she discovers she loves Mr. Rochester and before she discovers he loves her in return. There is little unwieldy pretension and still less saccharine sentiment; she simply loves him, as I loved Mr. Thornfield, and is woeful because one cannot uproot love any easier than one can force it to flourish.
I wrestled with the identical problem, although my tactics during this period would have positively curled Miss Eyre’s hair.
A week later I was out of the wheelchair with my ankle tightly wrapped, my knee quite healed, limping gamely, and Mr. Thornfield must have supposed himself haunted by a familiar when my mobility was restored. I took his elbow when he asked me if I cared for a walk; I drew my fingertip down the silver cuff he wore; I shone in every way I knew how, and lastly, I told him the truth.
Truth in my case must needs have been partial, but I thrilled at each new self-exposure.
“Sahjara lived with my father’s sister in Cornwall when she emigrated, until Sardar and I arrived early this year,” he answered my question after a curried fish supper.
“I hated my aunt.” My nerves whistled in high alarm, but I soldiered on. “She called me cruel names and snubbed my mother perennially.”
Mr. Thornfield scowled around his cigar. “If she had such poor taste as that, failing to hate her should have been shirking, Jane.”
Further examples abound; for instance, Mr. Thornfield and I often granted Sahjara’s wish that we might all go riding together, precious windswept occasions on which water sprang to my eyes at the keen wind and the joy of galloping over hillsides; and on the first of these rides, I made the acquaintance of Mr. Thornfield’s horse—a great rusty-black stallion.
“I just adore him, I can’t help it,” Sahjara crooned, pressing the flat of her hand up the beast’s nose.
“I assume he is called Falstaff because he is so funny and charming?” I asked, smiling.
Mr. Thornfield coughed dryly, his breath clouding in the cold. “He is called Falstaff because given the choice, he would eat oats and sugar until his belly exploded and he was strewn all over Christendom.”
I laughed, as did Sahjara, and Mr. Thornfield shot me another of his queer appraising glances, the ones which sent liquid warmth pooling through my torso.
“There were times when the comfort of communing with horses was all I had,” I admitted.
“I think the same was true of me, before. I can’t remember. Oh, Charles, say you’ll give Nalin to Miss Stone—she’s better on her than anyone!” Sahjara entreated.
Mr. Thornfield tugged at her cloak’s collar until it lay flat. “Young Marvel, ordinarily I should have to box your ears for squandering my assets and forgetting Miss Stone is not in a position to keep her own horses.” He glanced at me. “But supposing that I can retain the honour of feeding and sheltering duties, Jane should consider Nalin entirely her own.”
Can I be blamed for strewing my secrets like seeds when they blossomed into such kindly responses? A fortnight had been expended on the practise before I began to run dry of tasteful confessions, and then, reader, I invented them like the lying devil I am.
“I should like to read the Guru Granth Sahib,” I declared. “It would explain so much about your character.” Mr. Thornfield sat writing a letter in his study as I watched him, pretending to be reading Balzac.
“There is neither an adequate explanation for my character, nor a copy of the Guru in the English language.” He dipped his pen without raising his head. “Apply to Sardar, he can recite damned impressive heaps of the stuff.”
“I shall. I can’t give any credence to the Bible because so many villains quote it.”
This was not true; I simply wished for something freshly shocking to tell him. Though the Bible dictated my mother and I would be listening to each other’s skin crackling for eternity, and my former headmaster had been cruelty incarnate even as he called upon God’s Name, I thought many of its teachings beautiful.
Mr. Thornfield’s eyes narrowed in amusement. “Never read the thing, though Sardar has lobbed plentiful passages at me—my parents are more for cheap novels when they can get ’em. Whale blubber and seal pelts and nor’easters. Damsels, you understand.” He coughed charmingly. “Heaving bosoms.”
“There are plentiful bloody bits, and even some sensuous parts, I suppose,” I said idly, passing fingers along my hairline. “Song of Solomon is about a pair of lovers. ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!’ It’s quite salacious material.”
“I’ve heard better. Now kindly shut your head whilst I finish congratulating my father on his latest swindle.”