Mrs. Fairfax, sensing the tension, chattered on and on about this and that until I was driven to distraction, and I asked her to ring for the tea, as much to employ her with other thoughts as from my own hunger. As Miss Eyre served me my tea, Adèle spoke up—in French—asking if I had brought a gift for Miss Eyre. Of course I had not—but the child had not yet begged for her own present, I realized, a bit of good manners for which I was wont to give Miss Eyre the credit, although at the same time I knew that it had been only Adèle’s way of hinting for her own present. Did she think I was so stupid as to not recognize the ploy? She remained so much her mother’s child—and it annoyed me, too, that she still spoke in French, despite clear instructions to use English.
Ignoring my gruffness, Miss Eyre, for her part, assured me that she had not had much experience with presents, nor did she expect any from me. I turned my attention fully to her as she spoke, and studied her. She did not wince from my gaze, nor, to my surprise, did she give any hint of having met me the previous evening. I had thought to apologize for my rudeness but saw immediately that there was no need—in her eyes there had been no insult. Her face was mild, but her eyes—a color between hazel and green—stayed steadily on mine: deferential, but with that same uncanny self-possession. I went on to nudge her on the issue of gifts, mostly to see how she would respond.
She replied with answers that intrigued me, for they were honest and thoughtful, and yet she almost seemed to be parrying with me, as if it were a kind of game. I looked closely at her: this interesting little woman. She was dressed as plain as a Quaker, save for a very small pearl brooch; her brown hair was braided and bound up neatly at the back of her head.
I took my tea in silence, trying to understand what kind of woman had entered my home, and when I had finished, I urged her to join me closer to the fire for I was curious to learn more of her.
I could see that she was used to carefully parsing her words, which I took to mean that she had not had a particularly pleasant upbringing, and that she had learned to guard herself. And yet, she had no artifice; she was plainspoken and earnest. It came as no surprise when she told me that she was an orphan, brought up in a charity school, where food was rationed and lives were Spartan.
The physical poverty had clearly not impoverished her mind, however, for there were depths there that intrigued me. In talking with her I was gripped by a warmth I had not known for a very long time.
Feeling my spirits returning, I bantered with her a bit, teasing her for causing my injury like the sprite she was. While she kept pace with me, much to poor Mrs. Fairfax’s confusion and dismay, Miss Eyre did not tease back, and I reminded myself that a governess is closer to a servant than to a guest.
Clearly Miss Eyre’s physical tastes were not extravagant, and I wondered what other gifts she might possess. I asked her to play for me, which she did, serviceably if not particularly well—her modesty in that area was fully earned. But I knew there was another realm in which she rightfully excelled: “Adèle showed me some sketches this morning,” I said, then provoked her with the suggestion that a master had helped her.
“No, indeed!” came the reply, and I had to suppress a smile at such sharp pride in one so delicate. I asked her to fetch her portfolio so I could see more, insisting that she vouchsafe it all as her own hand. She did so, in her quiet and unassuming way, but she was staunch in her determination; obviously she could not easily be intimidated.
When she brought the pictures, I looked at them once more, this time not so hurriedly. I had trouble focusing on them and relating them to the artist herself, for the emotion in them did not seem to match this tidy little governess. At last I pulled out three of the most arresting. They were peculiar and striking indeed, each a tragic human figure set against a fierce landscape. In the first one, the figure was clearly dead, a corpse in the water. She insisted that she had pulled the scenes entirely from her own imagination, which surprised me both for the clarity of their evocations, and for the desolation they appeared to contain. What a strange life she must have led thus far, this orphan governess! Where had she gotten her ideas, I asked her. “Out of that head I see now on your shoulders?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied stoutly.
“Has it other furniture of the same kind within?” I asked, eager suddenly to know more of her.
“I should think it may have: I should hope—better.” In response to more of my questions, she explained each drawing graciously and without self-consciousness.
As she spoke, I found myself thinking of Touch, whose imagination held that same vividness and darkness—but when I challenged her she said she had indeed been happy in her painting, only frustrated not to bring more of the reality of her vision to the page.
I took far more time with her than I had anticipated, and soon it was late. The pain in my ankle, the provocative paintings, the memories of Touch, this pale, steadfast paintress—all these overwhelmed me, and I dismissed the company and made my way to bed.
It seemed strange at the time—much less so now—but in the ensuing days I was always aware of Miss Eyre. Much as my own business pulled at my attention, nonetheless it was as if that small brown presence carried a magnetic charge within her that attracted the iron within me. Sometimes, when she and Adèle were in the garden or walking through the orchard, examining the trees for signs of new life, I lingered near the window of the library or my bedchamber and watched them. Slowly my ankle healed, and more and more often I found reasons to pass near the nursery door, that I might hear the lessons in progress. Her voice was low and calm, and even Adèle, who was always fluttering about like a butterfly, sat still and quiet as Miss Eyre taught her. She did not make the lessons a game, as Mr. Lincoln had, but she did know how to engage the mind of a child of Adèle’s upbringing: she spoke of fairies and goblins and quoted poetry and drew sketches of mystical beings. There was nothing at all in her voice to suggest the drama and emotion in her drawings. It beguiled me to listen to that quiet voice, so confident, so calm. I took pains to conceal her growing power over my attention when I met her in the gallery or on the staircase, which appeared successful since she seemed completely oblivious to my distraction and maintained her reserve. At other times I tried to draw her out, asking more than once to see her entire portfolio, which would not release its hold on my imagination. But she remained reserved with me. I remembered something Mr. Landes had said: One must keep one’s inferiors at a distance, or else one will lose all authority, and I guessed that perhaps someone might have given a reverse admonition to Miss Eyre.
*