In Paris, there had been no need for me to return to England. Ames was a fine and trustworthy agent, and Grace Poole had never given reason for concern. I had long since given up hope of any reversal in Bertha’s condition, and because I had been unable to locate any further information on her son, it was enough now to know simply that she was safe and secure and receiving adequate care. She had even almost grown to appreciate Grace—as much as she could appreciate anything or anyone—and after the first few weeks she no longer tried to attack her caretaker, although she still could not be trusted to wander at will through Thornfield-Hall. But because she had always preferred dark and inclosed places, the third-floor apartment, with its hidden entrance, was a perfect sanctuary. No one came, save Grace, to disturb or anger her.
In early summer, however, I made a hurried trip back to Thornfield because Ames had written that Munroe had given notice. It came as no surprise, for without the master in residence, there was little need for a butler. There was still the cook, Mary, and her husband, John, who did whatever was required; and Leah, the parlor maid; and young Sam, the footman. All that was needed in addition was a housekeeper. I could have left the responsibility for hiring such a person to Ames, but the situation at Thornfield was delicate, and the personality of the housekeeper was crucial, so I returned, telling Céline I might be gone for a week or more.
Because Thornfield was rather remote, and a madwoman residing there made the place seem even more daunting, Ames had suggested that we not inform the new housekeeper of Bertha’s presence. How can we not? I wondered. The housekeeper has the run of the Hall, and the responsibility for it; how can she not know of its peculiar inhabitant?
But when I arrived, I discovered that Ames, who had lived in the neighborhood his entire life and knew nearly everyone, already had a plan. First, he voiced a strong concern that keeping servants would always be a problem, unless Bertha’s presence was a carefully guarded secret. He revealed to me that a distant relation lived nearby, a discreet and respected widow, Mrs. Fairfax by name.
The name caught me straightaway. “Fairfax?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” he said. “She would have been married to your mother’s second cousin. Caroline Fairfax Rochester, your mother was.”
The revelation stunned me. I had not known until then the provenance of my second name. “I was named for her,” I said. “Did you know my mother?”
“I never met her,” he said, “though I saw her a time or two when I was a boy. A lovely woman. And this Mrs. Fairfax is a widow of great reputation but with very little to live on. It would be of benefit to you both.”
“But she would be my relation! And you propose I not tell her of my wife? How could I do that?”
“You simply tell her—or I will, if you prefer—that Grace tends to private concerns of yours and is not to be interfered with. Stranger situations than that have happened in great houses such as Thornfield-Hall.”
“But—” I could not think what to say, except that it felt unseemly to keep such secrets.
“She is a proper woman and would be just right for what you require. There is no need for her to know all your family secrets,” he countered.
Perhaps I had become jaded in Paris, where, in the circles in which I lived, secrets more often than not were willfully flaunted. Every man, it seemed, had a mistress, and his wife, if he had one, ignored that blatant fact; and every woman, married or not, had her own dalliances, which were common knowledge to all.
Yet in England secrets are held close to the breast—the more dangerous the secret, the closer it is held. One may call such a state hypocrisy, and perhaps it is. But: “Hypocrisy is an homage vice pays to virtue,” La Rochefoucauld wrote, and there are few secrets as dangerous—or as shameful—as a mad wife.
Ames arranged for Mrs. Fairfax to come for an interview the very next day, and she seemed to me indeed the very epitome of rectitude and discretion. I could immediately see that she might well have balked at the knowledge of Bertha in the hidden apartment, as well as at the idea of working for a man who would keep his wife in such a state, especially while he lived like a will-o’-the-wisp abroad, and I was certainly of no mind to explain in detail my history or my choices.
I confidently offered her the job, but before our interview ended, I could not resist asking her if she had known my mother.
“Not well,” she answered, “for Mr. Fairfax and I married late, and your mother died young. But she was beautiful, an elegant lady, well regarded and the darling of the county. Yes, it was a pity she died so young that you never knew her.”
“But what was she like?” I pressed.
“As I say,” she replied, “I did not know her well; I only saw her a time or two. But I do know this: she was kind, and it was her kindness that made her beloved.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fairfax,” I said, and she nodded to me and tightened her bonnet and left. But I hung on to those words and played them again in my head: She was kind.
*
After a disastrous and heartrending visit to Bertha, in which I perceived that her decline had become even more pronounced, I felt I was ready to fully commit myself to the new, happy life I had found in Paris. I could not wait to return to Paris, to Céline’s apartment, where, I imagined, she would fly into my arms and smother me with kisses. I spent nearly all my time on the return journey imagining the scene, working out the most romantic things to say. We would continue to live in Paris, where Céline had her dancing and her admirers, and I would, if necessary, return to England now and then. Perhaps the time would come when we could, as a change, go to Thornfield as well. Yes, I am ashamed to say, I imagined that too, though Bertha was of a hearty constitution and could go on for decades. Decades—God, I thought, have mercy.
The coach horses could not travel fast enough, the ferry could not cut through the water fast enough, the horse I hired at the dockside could not gallop fast enough, to return me to my Céline. Evening was falling when I arrived at her apartment, where I was stunned by its silence, its emptiness. Even Annick, her maid, was not there. I hoped Céline would be returning soon, but of course life for Céline began in late afternoon and ended only when the last establishments closed, at three or four o’clock in the morning. There was no telling whom she was with.
After a few impatient moments, I laid my card on her toilette table and left the apartment and wandered the streets in a daze of disappointment. Where was she? I told myself she could be at tea or having her hair done, clinging desperately to the idea that she was mine, as I was already hers. As I walked, I found myself growing more and more anxious, angry even, that she had not been there waiting for me. Foolish man that I was, I still desired the world to revolve around me and my wishes.