“Not I. The utmost I hope is, to save money enough out of my earnings to set up a school someday in a little house rented by myself.”
Alone. But independent. Was that truly all she hoped for? Solitary independence, devoid of love and family? Did she really not crave my love as I craved hers? “A mean nutriment for the spirit to exist on,” I countered, “and sitting in that window seat (you see I know your habits)—”
“You have learned them from the servants,” she interrupted.
“Ah, you think yourself sharp,” I said. Could nothing stir a reaction? Then I had an idea: “Well—perhaps I have: to speak truth, I have an acquaintance with one of them—Mrs. Poole.” I watched her face closely, and she seemed indeed startled—more so, it proved to me that all her suspicions still lay on Grace’s shoulders, that she had learned nothing further of Bertha in my absence. I offered a few good words in poor Grace’s favor, she who had been serving me so well, but Jane was again unmoved.
We continued on like that, I trying to draw her out on the subject of courtship and marriage, she frustrating me at every turn, for she would not admit—even in relative secrecy—that she held any personal interest in her master’s attention to Miss Ingram. The harder I pushed, the more clever and evasive she became.
In the end, I broke before she did. Able to bear it no more, I made as close to a profession of love as I dared, lavishing praise on those qualities in her face and form I was growing to love so well—it was all I could do not to grasp her and pull her close. As her eyes studied mine, I felt myself falling into a kind of dream. If I could have kept that moment forever, I would have.
But I could not, and I gave up. She had won. “Rise, Miss Eyre: leave me; ‘the play is played out,’” I said, and, slowly, I began to uncover my face.
She stared as I did so, comprehending and uncomprehending. “Well, Jane,” I said to her, “do you know me?”
“Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then—”
Back suddenly to some semblance of our former stations, the confessions of the past half hour (such as they were) forgotten, she scolded me for talking nonsense and for trying to draw her into “nonsense” as well. But I knew there had been truth there. I asked her to forgive me, but she would not until she felt clear of her own conscience.
Yet when I asked her for news from the drawing room, hoping to hear my effects on the silly ladies earlier, she confessed instead that a stranger had come, a man from the West Indies named Mason, and—my God!—my heart froze. Not Gerald, true, but Richard Mason—just as bad! That fool, in my own home, talking with all those gossips—what might he have said by now? And what unspeakable events would come trailing after his revelations? It was a blow. Desperation clung to me, and I hardly had strength to stand, but Jane helped me to a chair and I urged her to sit beside me. I held her hand in both of mine and could do nothing more than wish for some quiet place where she and I could dwell forever away from all cares and all disasters.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked after a time. “I’d give my life to serve you.” Ah—now she offers a glimmer of feeling! But my agitation over Richard was too great for me to seize on it. She continued: “Tell me what to do,—I’ll try, at least, to do it.”
For a moment I could think of nothing but Jane—and of Bertha, and of the need, above all else, to keep the knowledge of my shameful secret from destroying the happiness I could just glimpse on the horizon. Then, gathering my wits, I sent Jane into the dining room for a glass of wine and to spy on the group there assembled.
Jane returned shortly with word that the guests were all standing around the buffet cheerful and gay. God give me strength to face whatever comes next… “If all these people came in a body and spat at me, what would you do, Jane?”
“Turn them out of the room, sir, if I could,” she responded. She knew nothing of my sins, knew not why I asked. And yet, she stood by me unquestioning, her loyalty fierce in the face of ruin. I nearly smiled at the thought of little Jane, standing up to them all.
“But if I were to go to them, and they only looked at me coldly, and whispered sneeringly amongst each other, and then dropt off and left me one by one, would you go with them?”
She looked straight at me: “I rather think not, sir; I should have more pleasure in staying with you.”
“You could dare censure for my sake?”
“I could dare it for the sake of any friend who deserved my adherence; as you, I am sure, do.”
Friend. That was more than I had heard from her before, though less than I had allowed myself to dream. But I could not dwell: there was no time to waste. Richard could even now be speaking the words that might bring my world crumbling to my feet. Much as I would have loved to hide away forever with Jane, I urged her to return to the dining room and secretly summon Richard to me.
Chapter 15
Richard Mason at Thornfield-Hall—what is he doing here? Had he, too, been approached by the so-called Gerald Rochester? What, indeed, did he know of Bertha’s child and its fate?
“I’ve come to see my sister,” Richard announced as he entered, surveying the room as if expecting to see Bertha there. “Where is she?” he demanded.
I shook my head. “You can’t see her now. Not at this hour.”
“You keep her in a prison, no doubt! Where is she? I shall go on my own—”
“You will tell me about her son, is what you will do.”
That stopped him.
“Richard, what do you know of his provenance?” I spoke gently, for I did not want to provoke him into silence.
Indeed, he took a step or two toward me, his face darkening. “Your brother…your brother…seduced her.”
I caught my breath on that. So it was true. “And she was…thirteen?”
“A child. A beautiful child.”
“And the infant? What was done with the infant?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him. I only came to see my sister. I’ll wager you have put her into an asylum—against her wishes and my father’s. Against your promises.” He spat this last word at me.
“She is not in an asylum. She is safe and well cared for.”
“Where?”
“What was done with the infant? Who took him? Tell me that and I will tell you of your sister.”
He sighed, still looking aimlessly about the room. “My parents had friends who moved to America,” he said finally. “After the end of the slave trade in the islands, some people moved to the American South, thinking slavery would last longer there. I was only a child, and I don’t know any more than that. But that is nothing to do with me: Tell me of my sister!”
I searched his face, wondering if I could trust him. Still, he had a right, I thought. He had many other flaws, but he truly loved his sister. “She is in care, here, in this house, not in an asylum.”