One evening, at the request of my land agent, I hosted a gathering of landowners for the purpose of discussing how best we might control the poachers who seemed to have overrun the neighborhood. At the end, over glasses of sherry, the conversation turned to lighter topics, and I shared Jane’s portfolio with them, for I was still in thrall with her work. They were suitably impressed, and I confess it gave me more pleasure than perhaps it should have to hear them praise her, and me for having her in my employ. I toasted with them my good fortune in having such a talented governess for my ward, and when my guests took their leave, I sent for Miss Eyre and Adèle, for whom a box from Paris had lately arrived. As soon as they stepped into the room, Adèle ran for the carton, exclaiming: “Ma bo?te! Ma bo?te!”
“Yes—there is your bo?te at last,” I said. I did try to be kind with the child but would often be thrown off course by sudden, unwelcome reminders of Céline. I sent her off to disembowel the package, and I came to myself and glanced around. “Is Miss Eyre there?” I asked, and then I saw her, tucked in a corner, as was her way. “Well, come forward; be seated here.” I pulled a chair closer to my own for her, for I had no intention of being distracted by Adèle. I sent for Mrs. Fairfax to attend to the girl’s joyous chatter, while I conversed with the governess.
It seemed the sort of moment I had enjoyed far too seldom in my life: a moment of relaxation, with the opportunity for true conversation of real depth, with a worthy—or so I hoped—conversationalist. But I could not think what to say. For a time there was only the sound of Adèle’s chatter, and the rain driving against the window pane, and the crackle and hiss of the fire. I grew aware of Miss Eyre’s eyes upon me, as so often I had observed her when she was otherwise occupied. I wondered what she saw there, since I could not remember when I had felt myself truly seen and contemplated in such a way. “You examine me, Miss Eyre: do you think me handsome?” I asked her.
Perhaps I was craving more simple praise, as I had earlier received from my dinner guests. But in that case it was a question foolishly set forth, for her response seemed to surprise us both: “No, sir.”
There is no gracious recovery from such a response, but her honesty startled me—so different from the craven flattery I’d too often heard since I joined society. So I challenged her to announce what specific faults she found in me. It was not so much that I wanted to hear my failings recited—both Bertha and Céline had done that sufficiently—as it was simple curiosity to know how I looked to those lovely eyes. In all, I could not remember the last time I had been spoken to so frankly.
Was I handsome? I knew I was not, no more than she was beautiful. But she was cast in a different mold from the majority, and I found myself eager to hear her assessment, kind or cruel. But now she equivocated, worried no doubt that she had overstepped her bounds. We talked anyway, of other things.
It quickly became evident that, though her mind was sprightly and deft, she held to a moral core that could not be swayed, and was outspoken in its defense, occasionally to the point of insolence. I did not mind—indeed, this only further lit the fires of my curiosity. I discovered that if I played the role of master too broadly, and pushed her too imperiously, she became stubborn and annoyed, so I took care to apologize where I could, to treat her not as an inferior but as a younger, inexperienced equal, for there was something in this Miss Eyre that I could not resist prying into. Then, of course, she began to challenge me, and I found myself engaged in a wide-ranging philosophical debate on my own sins and conscience and truth—strangely enough, one of the most satisfying, provocative, and engaging conversations I had had in many years. This little governess was a rare creature indeed, and I found it impossible to be conventional with her. We talked this way deep into the evening.
Chapter 12
For the first time since Bertha had taken up residence in Thornfield-Hall, I found myself no longer tormented by the idea of remaining within its walls for more than a handful of days. It is not that I forgot Bertha; indeed, I slipped upstairs every day or two to check on her and affirm to myself that Grace Poole had her care well in hand; on that point I was always satisfied, though occasionally Grace appeared somewhat distracted. Bertha continued on as she always had, alternately raving and sleeping. I thought of telling her that her son lived, that he seemed to be thriving and well, but I could not be sure she would have understood me, and the news, to be frank, now brought me little joy. So I said nothing.
No, the change in the oppression I felt at Thornfield came not from Bertha, but from Jane Eyre, the peculiar young governess herself.
The more time I spent with Jane—yes, I had already begun to think of her as Jane, although I knew better than to call her that openly—the more I valued her presence. I spent more time at Thornfield than I had previously, and I had taken to inviting Jane to come to me after tea on the evenings that I was not away with the Ingrams or the others. At those times we read to each other while Adèle played with her dolls nearby, or we chatted lightly, or more often seriously, for she was a serious person, and was well-read and could argue cogently. She seemed to delight in vexing and then pleasing me by turns—it was an unusual arrangement for a master and employee, perhaps, but I had no cause to complain.
I enjoyed Jane’s company immensely, but the more comfortable I became in her presence, the more ominously I felt the weight of Bertha’s presence overhead. I could not imagine what Jane, with her strict moral vision, would think of me if she knew of the inmate on the third floor; I was sure she would not stay one more day in my employ if she were to find out. Yet I believe she sensed I was withholding something, and, further, that she was moved by my burden, despite having no idea what troubled me.
One evening, however, she came dangerously close to finding out. That afternoon, during my usual visit to Bertha, my wife had been more disturbed than usual, begging me to bed her, and when I refused she became violently enraged, her eyes flashing with a dark fury. It made me wonder for a moment if she, too, could sense a change in me, a peace and happiness attributable to another. But, surely, jealousy was now too complex and rational an emotion for this creature in my house, was it not?