My father had an eye for every governess we ever had. I could not shake the comment. As my time at the Leas lengthened, my opinion of Miss Ingram soured and my respect for Jane grew. But how true were my feelings? Did I find her appealing only for her dependence? No, decidedly not—she was hardly of a dependent spirit, whether or not she accepted a salary. But I could see how it would look if I seemed to favor Jane—to Jane first of all, but also to Miss Ingram and all the rest as well. Even to Mrs. Fairfax, no doubt. I, the master of the house, exacting pleasure from an underling—that’s how it would appear, and how many times had that happened? I thought back to Jamaica, where many men owned girls and they so often took advantage of the fact. Had not I myself, at the age of fifteen, tried to claim the affections of a girl in the mill’s employ? No. If there were to be anything between me and Jane Eyre, I would have to convince her to come to me. I must reveal to her my affections without expressing them directly; show her how she suited me far better than any other; then extend my hand and wait for her to take it. For this now seemed immutable: she must make the movement—I could not.
I could almost laugh at the irony: I had spent years in Europe, hoping for a woman who would suit me. Now here I was, faced with one woman who suited me better than any ever had, but whom society would not accept as my equal; and another woman who pleased society to no end but not me; and still a third woman with whom no one cared to spend two minutes unless paid handsomely for the duty. And it was this last to whom I was married. Oh, God in heaven. Jane was my only hope for relief, for regeneration.
But how to manage it? How to convince Jane, first of all, that I preferred her company above these others’, that I was not merely dallying with her as a man in my position might? How to break through that composure and provoke a reaction that would allow her to reveal what she thought of me, she who guarded herself so closely?
*
As I contemplated all that, the days flew by; there were riding parties and excursions and picnics and every evening a dance or an entertainment of one sort or another. Though it did not give me quite as much pleasure as it once would have, I enjoyed showing off Mesrour to Miss Ingram, who did at first seem to be suitably impressed. She admired his size and his vigor but seized immediately on the fact that, as I had been warned, he was not a good jumper. “You should have taken me to see him before you made the purchase,” she scolded me. “I would have told you he wasn’t suitable.”
“Well,” I responded, “he’s suitable for me.”
“Really, Rochester,” was all she said.
I did try to flirt when the occasion called for it, but my heart wasn’t in it. In the rare moments that we were alone together, Miss Ingram asked me about Thornfield—she seemed already to know the extent of its acreage, but she was curious about the number of cottagers and the amount of land under cultivation and the number of servants I kept in the house, all of which she approached in such circuitous ways that I believe she thought I would not notice her interest. I was reminded again of Rowland and his calculations and was surprised this had not struck me before.
I was reminded of someone else as well, a figure even more loathsome in my life than my callous brother. I watched Miss Ingram make her grand entrances, determined to be admired in all things: the best markswoman, riding the finest horse, dressed in the most beautiful clothes, noted as the best dancer, the best singer, the best pianist. The others, I noticed, always made way for her to go first. It was that familiar determination to be the envy of everyone present that completely, irredeemably finished her for me, and after that I knew I must withdraw myself from her inner circle. That was the easy part; the other—provoking Jane to act—was much more difficult, but perhaps, I realized, I could use one to accomplish the other.
I waited until after dinner to broach the subject. Miss Ingram had been at my side all evening. Sitting in the Eshtons’ drawing room, listening to Miss Ingram play the piano, I thought again of Jane, of her amusing lack of skill at that instrument, but also her lack of embarrassment about it. It was time for me to return to Thornfield: I yearned to see Jane again, and I worried over Bertha. I knew I would receive word from Thornfield if another event occurred, but I also knew I could not afford to wait for that to happen. I needed to be on hand, I told myself. I needed to make sure that all was still well. And I could not keep Gerald Rochester out of my mind. Someday he would appear, I was sure, and I could not leave those at Thornfield, who knew nothing of him, to deal with him alone.
When Miss Ingram finished her piece, I vigorously applauded, and before anyone else could say anything, I rose. “Miss Ingram, perhaps you don’t know that I purchased a new pianoforte when I returned from Jamaica. While I have dabbled at playing on it, I would like nothing more than to have you christen it properly. Why don’t we all”—I cast my gaze around the room to include all present—“why don’t we all move on to Thornfield-Hall, where it has been many years since a party of this significance has entered our gates.” How could they decline such an invitation? As I expected, Miss Ingram was the first to gush her enthusiasm, and the next morning I sent a message to Mrs. Fairfax to prepare for our arrival.
*
I may have fled like a coward from Thornfield, but a fortnight later I returned like a king, and what a procession we must have seemed as we rode up the drive to Thornfield-Hall: the carriages polished and shined, the coach horses trotting briskly with braided manes and ribboned tails, and the rest of us on horseback leading the way, with Miss Ingram and I in front, she resplendent in purple with a matching purple veil surrounding her black curls, and I sitting proudly on Mesrour. I only hoped Adèle might have dragged Jane to the window to watch our approach.
I did not see Jane the day we arrived, nor did I expect to. She would have, as a matter of course, kept Adèle and herself invisible to the company unless they were summoned. But I did catch Mrs. Fairfax to ask if all had gone well in my absence, eager for assurance that Bertha had remained safe in the chambers.
“All was tranquil, Mr. Rochester,” she responded.
“Nothing unexpected occurred?”
“No, sir, except for a man who came looking for you, shortly after you left.”
I drew a quick breath. “Did he leave a name?”
“I asked his name, but all he said was that he was a relative, on the Rochester side. And he did not say what he wanted—only to speak with you.”
“It was only you who spoke to him?”
“Yes. A handsome man, I must say.”
“Did he say…that he would return?”