As soon as I could after Jane’s return, I sent a message to Everson, asking him to meet me at Carter’s home one evening a few days hence, and I sent another to Carter, requesting him to host a gathering of the three of us. Now that I believed Jane loved me, that I was her “home,” I was determined to free myself of Bertha, not just physically, but legally. I could not dream of dragging Jane into the disgusting situation in which I found myself. I had been tricked into a marriage without knowing my betrothed’s full story, and to bring Jane into an alliance with me would commit the same offense to her.
Since I could not bring myself to tell Jane of Bertha, I would simply rid myself of Bertha before the need arose. There was only one recourse that I could imagine, one that I had once discarded as extremely difficult and unlikely. But I had been young then, and hopeful that life would work out well for me. Now I was more experienced, and more cynical.
Both men were seated before Carter’s fire when I arrived, and they stood to greet me. Carter called for more brandy, and I sat with them.
“You know my wife’s condition,” I began with hesitation, and both men nodded solemnly and leaned forward as I spoke. Carter had more than once urged me to find a more acceptable accommodation for Bertha; he might even know already of Everson’s as-yet-fruitless search for such a place.
“And I am wondering…” I looked expressly at Everson, for he would know the law. “What are the possibilities for divorce?”
Carter sucked in his breath, likely remembering the vehemence with which I had rejected his earlier mention of the same idea.
Everson contemplated my suggestion for a few moments. “It might be done,” he said cautiously. I could feel the weight of years of worry and care begin to shift on my shoulders.
“Might,” he repeated, turning to Carter. “What is her condition?” he asked.
“She is like an animal,” Carter said. “She is healthy and as strong as an ox, but it is not possible to think of her as anything but an insentient creature.”
Everson shook his head at that. “It has been done,” he admitted. “But with difficulty, and I cannot imagine your doing it successfully in this case. One must go before Parliament and swear that she has been caught in flagrante delicto. There must be witnesses, of course. And you cannot have had congress with her since.”
Certainly the last was not a problem, but the former would be, for I did not know if she had ever had congress with any other man after our marriage. I refused to let my hopes fall yet, though I could see how this would end.
“It’s not possible,” Carter said. “No man would have congress with her, for any amount of money. Nor would she allow it; she would tear him apart.”
Everson nodded agreement. “Parliament has gotten quite sticky on the matter. You would not be the first man to try to rid himself of an inconvenient wife.”
“Inconvenient?” Was that the way the law saw it? A mad wife, with whom one could not reason, upon whom a man could not safely turn his back. A woman who must be locked up to keep her from harming herself or others? Inconvenient? I rose, anger flushing my face.
“Sit down, please, Mr. Rochester,” Carter said.
I turned to him.
“Sir, I beg you to be seated. Let us speak rationally.”
But I could not.
“It is complicated—divorce,” Everson said, staring meaningfully at me. “On the other hand, if there existed—”
But I had caught his meaning. “If there are actually documents—proof—that there was a previous marriage…” From the corner of my eye, I saw Carter start at my words: he had no idea what I meant, but for certain Everson did. “Then my marriage to Bertha is null and void.”
“If,” Everson said.
“If,” I repeated. I still did not believe a prior marriage had happened—but what if it had? And if so, Gerald would be the rightful heir. Was this truly something I could even be wishing for?
“You understand what that means?” Everson asked me.
“I do,” I said. “I would lose Thornfield.” But I would gain Jane.
Carter’s face showed genuine surprise, but Everson’s did not; he was too good a solicitor for that.
“I will see what I can discover,” Everson said. “If that is not a possibility, I have little hope for you, for there are only two grounds for a divorce: one is a prior, undissolved marriage, and the other is if a man cannot be assured that his wife’s progeny are his own. As I said, Parliament is well aware of men—and women—manufacturing assignations for the sole purpose of getting a divorce. They would send out their spies, and it is known in the neighborhood that you have been courting Miss Ingram. Your names would be dragged through the mud, and after all that the divorce would not be granted.”
They were thinking of Miss Ingram, but that was not who would suffer. I could not allow Jane’s name to be sullied that way. “There is no hope, then,” I said. None, unless I gave up Thornfield. The idea was still forming in my mind: could I trade one love, one security, for another?
*
I could barely sleep that night, my thoughts roiling, and when I did fall into a fitful slumber, my dreams offered no respite: I was a child, wandering through Thornfield-Hall, crying out for my mother, rushing from room to room but finding her nowhere—neither her nor anyone else—Thornfield itself cold, empty, barren.
And when at last I woke, shaken and stunned from my dreams, I rose and washed and dressed numbly. I made my way to the drawing room, where I sat down on the sofa, facing my mother’s portrait. There she stood, staring down at me. What would she have me do? I tried to order my thoughts, but I could not. Caroline Fairfax Rochester. She had been known for her kindness, Mrs. Fairfax had said—how I wished for her kind hand on my shoulder now, to guide me down the right path.
But I was on my own. I was on my own—except for Jane. It was Jane who grounded me, Jane who knew me to my very soul. It was Jane whom I could never give up—not my life as a landed gentleman, not the Ingrams, not Bertha, not even my ancestral home. If I had to choose, I would let nothing, not even…not even Thornfield itself stand in the way.
Chapter 18
I left for Millcote without even breakfasting, At Gerald’s inn, I pounded on his door until, half-dressed, he opened it. I imagine we both were surprised at this first meeting: I at the way he, even dark haired, resembled my brother, and he, perhaps not even knowing who I was, surely startled at my slightly mad appearance.
“You call yourself ‘Rochester,’” I said, the accusation clear.
“It is my name: Gerald Rochester. And you, I assume, are my uncle.”
I would not acknowledge that. “Why have you come?”
“To see my mother, why else?” It dawned on me that I did not know if he was aware that his mother was my wife.
“Why else?” I repeated. “One does not go to a solicitor if one is merely trying to establish a familial connection.”
He looked me straight in the eye. “But we are connected, are we not?” In a sudden motion, he stepped back from the doorway, saying, “Why don’t you come in?”
I advise you not to speak with him except in my presence. I hesitated just a moment, and then, Everson’s advice be damned, I stepped into the room, and he motioned me to the only chair, while he sat on the unmade bed. “Do you know where your mother is?” I asked.