“Oh yes, indeed. And as he claimed a relation, I told him he would be welcome anytime.”
I paused, unsure how to instruct her without showing my alarm, and finally I turned away.
*
The first dinner at a hosting house is always a magnificent affair, and Thornfield’s was no different. The polished lustres gleamed, the plates sparkled in the candlelight, village men hired for the duration as footmen stood proud and straight in their finery, and the food was excellent. Mrs. Fairfax had, in all ways, done a superb job. The party lasted well into the night, and I wondered if we were keeping Jane from her slumber. I would be sure to have her in attendance tomorrow.
The next day an excursion was planned to an ancient stone circle, famous in the neighborhood. Before we left, when Mrs. Fairfax was making sure everything was in readiness, I stopped her for a moment, asking after Adèle and Miss Eyre.
“Oh, sir,” she said, “you should have seen Adèle last evening! She was dressed to the nines, hoping to be invited downstairs.”
“Well then,” I said, “have Miss Eyre bring her to the drawing room this evening after dinner.”
“Mr. Rochester, sir, I don’t know about that. Miss Eyre is not so used to…to…such company. I can’t imagine she would like appearing before so gay a party—all those strangers.”
“Nonsense!” I replied. Though Mrs. Fairfax spoke the truth, I would hear nothing of it. “If she objects,” I added, “tell her I will come and fetch her myself in return for her rebellion!” Jane must attend the gatherings; there could be no discussion. She held the most essential role in my play.
And come she did, but hidden in a corner, nearly behind some window draperies, while Adèle allowed herself to be petted by the ladies. Jane was working on some handwork, and I could tell that she chose not to look at me unless she felt sure I was occupied elsewhere. So, for my part, I stood beside the mantelpiece, watching the scene before me: Lord Ingram flirting with Amy Eshton; the other men gathered in a corner talking politics or rent-rolls no doubt; Adèle vying for attention from whoever would give it; Louisa Eshton sitting with one of the Lynn brothers, who was trying to speak French to Adèle; Mrs. Dent acting the grandmother she someday would be; and Lady Ingram, haughty and proud, sitting on the settee and nodding in conversation with her daughter Blanche, who seemed to be just waiting for me to approach. Of all of them, it was only Jane Eyre, sitting patiently in a corner, whom I did not watch; yet it was she on whom every fiber of my attention was focused.
And yet, to my shame, I knew the evening was painful for her, especially when Miss Ingram and her mother began an overloud and odious dissertation on children and, more to the point, their governesses, indirectly pointing their blunt conversational daggers at Jane herself. Ted Ingram, of course, could not refrain from adding his bit, making the conversation even more distasteful. While my first instinct was to protect Jane, I suppressed it: Jane had a sturdy sense of self and did not need my protection. Instead, I chose to let my distinguished guests parade in front of her their grotesque opinions and smallness of mind, showing at each turn how unworthy they were compared to the steadfast little governess in their midst.
It was Miss Ingram herself who changed the subject, for she, so unlike Jane, reveled in attention. Shooing Louisa Eshton away and seating herself at the piano, she called for me to sing with her, and I fell into her game—a game she believed she was winning, even as I mocked her with overwrought obedience and excessive praise. She, so used to being spoiled, thought it genuine emotion, I am sure. How I wanted to sit with Jane one day and laugh at Miss Ingram, the same way Miss Ingram had mocked the vicar and his wife so mercilessly, though on second thought, I could not imagine Jane laughing at anyone’s frailties. But Jane could see, I was sure, the artifice beneath nearly everything Miss Ingram said or did: the way that woman treated Adèle, the absence of any originality of mind and the shallowness of conversation, no matter how showy she was in presenting herself. It would be immediately clear to Jane that she was far better suited as a companion to me than Miss Ingram would ever be.
I moved away from the piano when I had finished in a sign that I had had enough, and as the talk turned to something entirely different, I noticed Jane attempting to make a quiet exit. I followed and caught her just as she was about to mount the staircase.
“Miss Eyre,” I said gently, “how do you do?”
“I am very well, sir,” she responded.
“Why did you not come and speak to me in the room?”
She replied, as I could have known she would, that she did not wish to disturb me when I seemed otherwise engaged. I longed to hear her say she had missed me, but she did not; I pointed out that she looked pale, yet she would not confess to jealousy, too polite to give any reaction at all to the odious scenes played out before her that evening. As ever, she kept her own counsel. I tried to urge her to return with me to the drawing room, but I saw that the thought of it nearly drew tears to her eyes. Aha—there was feeling in there for me after all. I did not wish her to suffer, only to allow that I belonged with her, not with Blanche Ingram. But this evening I had pushed her too far already, I saw, and regretted it.
“Well, tonight, I excuse you,” I told her, “but understand that so long as my visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing room every evening; it is my wish; don’t neglect it. Now go, and send Sophie for Adèle…Good night, my—” I swallowed that final word and fled, having nearly played my whole hand at once.
Chapter 14
The next few days continued in a similar vein: the assembled guests entertained themselves in one way and then another, the younger group flirting ridiculously—Miss Ingram and I among them. I hesitate to confess that some cruel part of me enjoyed tormenting Miss Ingram in this way, drawing her on with my pretended affections, whose hollowness she was too self-absorbed to perceive. I could never have treated a true heart in this way, but the Janus-faced Miss Ingram—who had served up her own fair share of duplicitous praise and gossip even within my own hearing—deserved little better. I looked forward to the day she would learn I had chosen the unassuming Jane over her haughty excesses.