Charles Thornfield
Laughing at the depth of this miscalculation, I forced myself to eat food which turned to cinders on my tongue, washing all down with half the bottle of wine and a larger dose of laudanum than I had taken since my London days, for my head felt as if a glowing poker had struck it.
It was not, I ought to clarify, troubling to me that Jack Ghosh was no longer numbered among the living; he had hurt a little girl I had grown to love, and in any case, he had not precisely inspired esteem during our brief acquaintance. No, he could rot for all I cared, and he would, too—but he had smashed my dam and now the seawater was up to my neck.
I could live a complete lie, I comprehended as I sorted through the knotted threads of dread in my chest; I could not live a partial one.
Already, falling in love with Charles Thornfield had meant dropping truths in his path like so many bread crumbs, and though he may have approved my stabbing Jack Ghosh, however could I justify four previous killings? The number was outrageous. I could neither lie, nor could I confess; and I could neither pull down his walls without candour nor risk baring my hollowed heart.
When Jane Eyre understands that she must depart from Mr. Rochester or else become his mistress and not his wife, her eyes remain entirely dry, and her former fiancé surmises that her heart must have been weeping blood before he begs her to stay. I admire this passage for a number of reasons—not merely because it is beautiful, but because I can be moved by it even when recalling my own experience of leaving Highgate House, and my reasons for doing so, and want to shake the other Jane’s damn fool head off for leaving a gentleman who loved her so, and was remorseful for his error. For I understood that night—not with a dry eye, either—that as much as I had come to adore Sahjara and esteem Mr. Singh, I could not love Mr. Thornfield every livelong day without having him.
I could have lived off my fingers in his white hair, or my brow against his collarbone, or the whole expanse of our bared skin nestled together in sleep, or my lips against his rugged temple. I had done far worse things for love than entwine fingers or kiss the nape of a neck, had I not? The prospect of total famine, however, dying of thirst and nothing betwixt me and the glass of water resting on the table—I cannot imagine that anyone could have done it.
Very well, I determined around midnight, my eyes crimson and my head pounding. You will live as you used to, and life is a tenuous thing after all, so one day inevitably the hurt will stop.
There was still the matter of Highgate House, however, so I located the fateful letter from London and opened it with shaking fingers.
SNEEVES, SWANSEA, AND TURNER
No. 29C Lisle Street,
Westminster
Dear Miss Steele,
Though you addressed your letter to Mr. Swansea, that gentleman passed away six years hence, necessitating my own return from abroad; thus, know that it is Mr. Cyrus Sneeves who addresses you. If you are able to call upon me at the above address, I believe I can make your position clear to you; in fact, I consider it my duty to do so, as I may have an unexpected opportunity to right a wrong which I had begun to consider permanent.
I regret the loss of my partner but rejoice in the fact your appeal found me. Forgive my reticence but the matter is of such delicacy that to confide it to ink and paper would be unforgivable. There even exist solicitors who abhor scandal, if you can credit me, and I number myself among them.
Humbly,
Cyrus Sneeves, Esq.
My blood seemed to thin as a weightless excitement filled me.
No longer did I delude myself that I could usurp Highgate House from people I had grown to love; but if the property were clearly mine, perhaps I should not have to pen gallows ballads, or perhaps I could pen them from the relative luxury of a small Chelsea flat. I should not ask Mr. Thornfield for any staff or horses: merely enough of an allowance that I might live well, and my other expenses should be supplied by my writing. Mr. Thornfield had, after all, given a thousand pounds each to the white servants who had left his employ; surely I, a woman for whom he harboured a slight attachment, could request assistance when Highgate House was legally mine?
And think that twice yearly—no, once a month, you might insist upon once a month—a cheque would be delivered to Mr. Sneeves and perhaps a letter with it! If you had his letters, you could have as much of him as here at Highgate House.