She was leaving me after all: perhaps not immediately, but she was already making plans. It wasn’t Bertha who was driving her away, but Blanche, and at my own stupid hand! I was desperate, and furious at myself. I swore I’d solve this, but for now, I most urgently needed assurance of her return. For that, I managed to get her to promise not to seek a new position on her own, saying that I would find one that would suit her, for I had no intention of ever letting her go. In return, she made me promise to allow Adèle and herself both to be safe out of the house before my bride entered it, and I pledged my word on that.
As the conversation drew to a close, I could not bear to say good-bye, and told her so, hoping to draw her into a confession of fondness that I might cling to during her absence. “How do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane? Teach me; I’m not quite up to it.” Not up to it: I had spent my life losing those I cared about.
“They say, Farewell; or any other form they prefer.”
“Then say it.”
“Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present.” There it was again, that calm coldness. How easy farewells seemed for her!
“What must I say?” My back was against the door; I could have taken her in my arms and prevented her from escaping.
“The same, if you like, sir.”
“Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present: is that all?”
“Yes.”
“It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I should like something else: a little addition to the rite. If one shook hands, for instance; but no,—that would not content me either.” Could I goad her into embracing me? But she stood in front of me determined and steady. “So you’ll do no more than say farewell, Jane?”
“It is enough, sir.”
Did she truly not understand what I was asking? Well, whether she did or not, I had to face the fact that, once more, she had bested me at my own game. Another battle lost, and I could think of nothing more to say, and so I opened the door and left.
I rose early the next morning and watched from my bedroom window as the coach rolled down the drive, and I stayed there until long after it was out of sight.
*
Before the others awoke, I rode to Carter’s home, where he was tending to Richard Mason, who lay, still weak, in bed. “It was a fearful night,” Richard moaned when he saw me. “I could never have anticipated my own sister would come at me with such vengeance.”
“In her mind, she is not your sister,” Carter reminded him, as he helped him to a draught, which Richard drank deeply. A few moments later, he was snoring lightly, and Carter turned to me. “How did she get a blade?”
“She is locked up all day, day after day,” I said. “She has more than enough time to fashion a weapon from some stray object—a spoon, for example.”
“Perhaps you need a better caretaker, or more of them,” Carter said. “Grace Poole is fine, but perhaps she is not enough—”
It was not the first time I had wondered about that. “One Grace Poole can be explained,” I said. “More climbing those stairs every day would arouse suspicions that must not be aroused.”
Carter looked at me seriously. “Perhaps it is time to make it known who resides in that apartment,” he said. “People are apt to be kinder than one imagines.”
To Carter it seemed simple, but he had no idea about Jane, or my hopes for a future with her. And yet—perhaps he was right on one count: the situation with Bertha must change, and change now.
As I rode home, a plan began to take shape: I would see Everson about finding a new place to house Bertha, discreetly. The location must be far enough away to allay suspicion, yet close enough for me to visit occasionally; but that was the easy part. Finding a place with light and fresh air, yet without windows that could be broken, would be much harder. It was not something one did in a week or two, or even a month, perhaps, but I vowed to begin immediately, during Jane’s absence, so that I could begin to press my case to Jane without the specter of Bertha lingering over us both.
Chapter 17
The following days were a most anxious time: Jane had promised she would return, and, as well, that she would let me find her a new position. I wanted to trust her, and she was not one to renege on a promise. But what if something fell into her lap? Surely governess positions were not so common that she could afford to refuse. She had no idea that the whole thing was a charade, that I would never marry Miss Ingram, that Thornfield would be Jane’s home for as long as she wanted it.
As soon as Jane left, it seemed to me that the life had gone out of Thornfield-Hall, and perhaps it had gone out for my guests as well, for with only a few words on my part, they decamped that very same day, leaving Thornfield-Hall quiet and me at a loose end.
In those first days without Jane, both Adèle and I were wholly out of sorts. I bought her trinkets when I could and tasked Sophie with taking the child on walks and little adventures on the estate grounds to keep her mind and heart occupied, while I tried amusing myself with rides across the moors on Mesrour, as Pilot bounded along beside.
Once I crossed paths with Miss Ingram, who archly told me she had more pressing things to do than to join me in a ride. It was clear that the Gypsy’s hints had taken root and I was evidently not deemed an eligible suitor. Oddly, I was discomfited in this result, though I had planned it myself. I had once assumed the choice between Miss Ingram and Jane was mine alone to make; now I had closed a door and there would be no going back. Though I felt some satisfaction in giving up what I had once possessed, it was worth nothing—I was worth nothing—if I did not have Jane. But upon her return, I vowed, that would change.
In the meantime, Thornfield without Jane was barren. She wrote to Mrs. Fairfax with news of her aunt, which the housekeeper kindly shared with me, and it became clear that the visit was going to last much longer than Jane had originally implied. It was irrational, perhaps, but I began to worry again that she was gone for good. I could not simply remain in place, waiting anxiously for her return, so after consulting with Ames about issues on the estate, I packed a bag and left.
I headed immediately for London. I’d told Mrs. Fairfax I was going to buy a new carriage—which indeed I did, imagining Jane riding home on our wedding day—but I had also heard that a daughter of the Gateshead Reeds, a Miss Georgiana, had been much admired in London society a few seasons back, and, with veiled questions, I sought out what news I could of her family. Did she have a cousin Jane Eyre, in truth? And what was the standing of the family? I wondered. Would they cause trouble for me if I tried to marry Jane without first ridding myself of Bertha, if the secret got out? Unfortunately, I did not learn much—Georgiana was beautiful and selfish, it seemed, and the whole family had suffered much at the recent death of her brother, John. No one had heard of a cousin.