I left her to Grace’s calming influence and fled to the lawn, where I found Adèle and Pilot playing, with Jane watchful nearby. Jane agreed to stroll with me and, driven perhaps by a need to confess—even if I could not speak the true weight on my mind—I unburdened myself to her about Adèle’s history and my relationship with Céline. It offered me an unfamiliar but refreshing feeling of relief.
The whole time, Jane walked beside me in silence, her eyes on my face as I spoke, offering neither absolution nor censure. But at one point during our walk I made the mistake of looking up at the house, where, despite that the windows in Bertha’s room were far above her head, I swore I could feel my mad wife staring down at Jane and me.
Guilt and worry tumbled through my head as I tried to sleep that night, tortured by a nagging regret over how despicable my life had often been, especially to imagine, now, how it appeared to Jane’s steady, righteous eyes. Finally, I took a small portion of the draught that Mr. Carter had left for me when I had sprained my ankle, and at last I fell into a heavy sleep.
Hours later I was roused by the sensation of drowning in a deep well. I struggled to gain the surface, only to discover that I was in my own bed, entangled by the sodden bedcovers. “Is there a flood?” I cried out.
“No, sir,” came Jane’s voice, sounding as ethereal as it had on the causeway; “but there has been a fire: get up.”
Still half-asleep, I imagined elves, witches, even demons as I rose from the bed, and looking about, I finally grasped the truth: someone had set fire to my bedclothes, and it was Jane herself who had saved me, pouring water from my ewer and hers to stanch the flames. It did not take much more for me to understand who must have been the culprit.
Leaving Jane safe and warm in my room, and entreating her to send no further alarm in the household, I took the candle she had provided me and rushed up the staircase to Bertha’s apartment. I had thought to confront her—give release to my fury and fears that she had endangered me and the rest of the household, including Jane—but as I flung open the door I found my wife struggling fiercely against Grace Poole. I managed to pry Bertha’s fingers from Grace’s throat and, with no other solution at hand, captured her in my own arms. I swallowed my anger and murmured soothing words until she quieted and could be put to bed. She demanded that I lie with her, that I “be a man,” but it was all I could do to remain calm, not to scream at her. As soon as I could I left her there, locking the door behind me.
In the front chamber, Grace was holding a cloth to the sore flesh of her neck. “She has been disturbed all day, since you left,” she said. “She insists someone has invaded her house. But I thought she had calmed—”
I interrupted her. “See that it does not happen again.”
“Of course.” She nodded.
“It cannot happen again.”
She stepped back as if I had struck her. “I understand,” she said. I thought I smelled alcohol on her breath.
“Were you drinking?”
She paused. “Just my mug of porter.”
I felt my anger spiking once again, but I tamped it down. Surely, Grace’s life here was difficult—shut into this apartment with a madwoman—but Grace had come into it with her eyes open, knowing the ways of the mad, understanding what it would be. And now this carelessness, her drinking, had moments ago nearly cost me my life. I could not allow it. And yet, I reminded myself, even as Bertha had worsened, Grace had never asked to be relieved. Her life had been a hard one, and this was most likely not the worst of it. I sighed. “Make sure it is never more than one,” I said, and left that wretched place.
I paused on the stairs, wondering if I must bring Jane into my confidence—reveal Bertha to her. And if I did? She would leave my employ immediately. Her moral conscience would never allow her to work for a man who kept his wife secured upstairs like that. I would lose this ray of light that had so recently come to shine on my life at Thornfield. No, I could not risk that.
When I returned to my chamber, Jane was still there, as I had ordered her, sitting in the dark, probably terrified, but safe. She confirmed, to my relief, that she had seen nothing; for some reason she seemed to think it had been Grace Poole’s doing. Well, I thought, there could be worse explanations.
“Good night, then, sir,” she said, and started to leave.
“What!” I said, for I was reluctant to let her go without some assurance that nothing between us had been jeopardized by Bertha’s evil act. “Are you quitting me already: and in that way?”
“You said I might go, sir,” she responded.
“But not without taking leave; not without a word or two of acknowledgment and goodwill: not, in short, in that brief, dry fashion. Why, you have saved my life!—snatched me from a horrible and excruciating death!—and you walk past me as if we were mutual strangers! At least shake hands.” Obediently, she put her small hand in mine and I covered it with my other hand. If we could have, I would have stood there the rest of the night, her hand in mine, her eyes on my face. I was barely able to speak to her then, though I know I said more of what I owed her, and, too soon, she fled when we heard Mrs. Fairfax stirring.
She had saved my life in more ways than she knew. I would keep Bertha a secret from her, no matter what. I would do whatever I must to not lose Jane Eyre.
Chapter 13
I slept only fitfully for the remainder of the night, and rose from my couch before the servants began their work. Immediately I climbed to Bertha’s hidden apartment and let myself in. Grace was dozing in her chair, but I could hear Bertha pacing and mumbling in the adjoining chamber. Soon after dawn, I knew, she would fall into sleep and Grace would take her daily respite away from that terrible place. I shook Grace awake, and she startled in agitation, as if she expected to see Bertha bearing down on her at any moment.
“A word, Grace,” I said.
“Sir?”
“Take this,” I said, handing her the rest of the sedative that Carter had given me. “Give this to my wife in her usual cup of tea if she seems to you unusually disturbed. It will not make an addict of her if you give her the correct amount. I will get more from Mr. Carter, and perhaps I shall have a stronger lock installed on the door.” I studied the two windows high on the wall—they were indeed too high to see out of…unless… “Have you ever seen her pull a chair over and look out those windows?”
“No, sir, I have not, but it is not impossible. I sometimes must leave, for food or to empty chamber pots.”