John Eyre Page 15

  Until then, I pray that your days are brighter than mine, and your dreams sweeter.

  Your loving friend,

  Bertha

  Krepostta Nosht-Vŭlk

  Senniskali, Bulgaria

  Wednesday, 29 March 1843

  My Dear Blanche, —

  I don’t know if you will ever receive this letter. The last one I wrote is still stored away in a locked drawer of my desk, awaiting the moment Mr. Poole can again journey into Varna. As yet there has been no opportunity, and I fear there may not be one anytime soon. Relations with my husband have rapidly broken down. The cause of it: his continued insistence that I sign over my property to him, and my own stubborn refusal to do so.

  Last night things came to an unfortunate head. As we were seated in the drawing room, I at the piano and Mrs. Wren at her embroidery, Mr. Rochester once again began to harangue me about signing those dratted papers. It prompted me to lose my temper in a fashion I hadn’t permitted myself to do before. I told him that, if he was that set on owning an English estate outright, he should buy one of his own. Something newer and grander, with all the modern amenities. He certainly has the means to do so.

  “It isn’t so easy for a man such as I am to relocate himself to England,” Mr. Rochester replied. “Besides which, I wouldn’t like a new house. My family is an ancient one. Our bloodline stretches back, unbroken, for centuries. Your Thornfield Hall appeals to my sense of history. It is old and isolated. A place where one can have privacy. I would see my name on the deed before we take up residence. Otherwise, I cannot trust that I will be safe.”

  Here, I think there was some confusion in the translation. Mr. Rochester’s English is generally very good, but he does at times say things that, I assume, mean something quite different in the original Bulgarian. This talk of “safety” and the difficulties of a man like him relocating to England made no sense to me at all.

  Then again, perhaps the difficulty of understanding lies with me? Perhaps it’s my own indignation at being pushed to sign something I can’t read, and that my solicitor hasn’t yet read, that makes me unable to sympathize? It certainly provoked me to address him rather sharply. I informed him that Thornfield was safe enough, and that no signature of mine would make it more so. “If you cannot understand that,” I said, “you understand nothing.”

  At that, Mrs. Wren fairly leapt out of her seat, crying, “You will not speak to him with such disrespect!”

  I was stunned by her rebuke, as you can imagine. Stunned, and really quite enraged. I’m almost ashamed to think of it now, but my temper roared to life. “How dare you?” I snapped back at her (or something to that effect). “Do you think to come between a man and his wife? I am mistress of this house, not you. I shall speak to my husband however I please.”

  Mrs. Wren’s nostrils flared. She cast aside her sewing and turned to Mr. Rochester, appealing to him to intervene on her behalf. He silenced her with a wave of his hand, his gaze fixed on mine with a burning intensity. He asked me again if I would sign the papers.

  In truth, I had been beginning to soften on the matter. To accept that I was, perhaps, being unreasonable. But in the heat of the argument, my annoyance got the better of me. I said that I would not sign them, and that that was my final word on the subject.

  “Then I will know how to act,” he replied.

  That was only yesterday evening. Today he sleeps. I should be sleeping, too, but my anxiety woke me not long after sunrise. Some devil provoked me to try the door connecting our two rooms. As expected, it was locked. I shook it a little, my frustration building, as I reflected on all that I’ve had to put up with—all the sacrifices I’ve made—since first meeting Mrs. Wren and Mr. Rochester in Cairo.

  In my youth, bouts of temper were easily dispelled by a bruising ride or a round of target practice with my rifle or my bow and arrows. Here, such activities are denied to me. The only outlet available is a brisk walk. And so I went to the main door of my chamber, intending to rouse Mr. Poole to escort me down to the village. However, when I tried the door, I found it bolted against me.

  Rage overcame my senses. What manner of man was my husband that he would dare to lock me inside of my room like a recalcitrant child? I shook the bolt and beat on the door with my fists, calling for my maid, for Mr. Poole, for anyone who would listen. When that failed, I returned to the door that connected my room to Mr. Rochester’s. I made such a commotion then, with my pounding and shouting, that it would surely have woken the dead. But my husband made no reply to me. Indeed, my calls were met with unbroken silence.

  In a tempest of anger, I paced my room, wringing my hands. I don’t mind telling you, Blanche, that as the reality of my situation sank in, I began to panic a little. For the first time, I viewed the incidents of the last several months with a dispassionate eye. My marriage. The journey to Senniskali. My husband’s nighttime existence. And the constant presence of his sister, Mrs. Wren. It was no longer romantic. No longer a grand adventure. I felt a fool to have ever believed it was.

  So great was my distress that—with no food or drink to sustain me, no hot cup of sugared tea to calm my nerves—I was quite tempted to resort to the only means I had at my disposal to bring myself under some semblance of control. Stored at the back of the bottommost shelf of my wardrobe, hidden behind a collection of old lavender sachets, were the two phials of laudanum remaining from Mr. Poole’s injury. The ones given to me by the peasant woman in the village.

  But if relief can only come at the expense of my alertness, then I must shun it. Better to remain on my guard than to drug myself into lassitude. If I sleep, I must be prepared to wake at the sound of a pin drop, ready to respond to the faintest whisper.

  It’s broad daylight outside, just approaching noon. A weariness has settled into my bones. The natural result of an upsetting event. I recall feeling similarly fatigued after Mama’s death. I return to my bed now, wary of the sunset but resolved to hold firm against my husband and his sister. They will yet learn that my will is as strong as their own.

  Your faithful friend,

  Bertha

  Krepostta Nosht-Vŭlk

  Senniskali, Bulgaria

  Friday, 31 March 1843

  Blanche, —

  I fear this may be the final letter I am able to write to you. The others are still secured in my desk drawer, this one shortly to join them. Mr. Poole will have to take them to Varna together, if he takes them at all. You may wonder why he wouldn’t do so. The answer is simple: I have not seen Mr. Poole in days.

  Once, I wrote to you that I was a veritable prisoner here, owing to the secluded position of the estate. Now, I find that I have become a prisoner in fact. But I mustn’t get ahead of myself. I must start at the beginning else you won’t understand. Perhaps you still won’t. Perhaps you’ll think I’ve at last gone mad. And you may be right. I shall leave you to judge based on the events I now transcribe:

  After returning to my bed yesterday, I fell into a restless sleep. Hours later, as sunlight gave way to darkness, I woke to find Mr. Rochester looming over me. This was not a new occurrence. During the early days of our marriage, he often came to me in this manner, waking me with a kiss or a pleasurable embrace. But you must believe that this time was different. He had a look about him that had nothing to do with passion. Quite the reverse. I had the distinct sense that he meant to do me some violence.

  I was up and out of my bed in an instant, drawing on my dressing gown. I asked what he meant by locking me in my room and demanded to know where my servants were. His reply was nothing like I’d anticipated. He claimed that he hadn’t locked me in my room at all. That he’d had no awareness of my captivity. Indeed, he blamed the whole of it on Mrs. Wren!

  Appalled, and a little doubtful, I asked where Mrs. Wren was now, only to be informed that she’d finally left Nosht-Vŭlk. He said she was returning to her own home, a great distance awa
y, and that I shouldn’t expect to see her again. At this news I must confess I felt a sense of relief. Even at her most amiable, Mrs. Wren was still a third party in my new marriage. An oft-unwelcome appendage, who didn’t scruple to exercise what she believed to be her superior claim on my husband’s affections. Since marrying him, I’d frequently wished her gone.

  Yet how could I rejoice at this turn of events?

  “That doesn’t explain where my servants are,” I said. “Or where you were. Why you didn’t wake when I called out for help.”

  He approached me, then, something almost hypnotic in his gaze and manner. I was struck again by how handsome he was. How very stimulating to all of my senses.

  I reminded myself that this was no unfeeling monster. This was my husband. The man with whom I’d shared more intimacy than anyone else on earth. What devil drove me to be so unbending toward him? It shouldn’t matter that his infernal documents were written in a foreign language. I was his wife. I should trust him enough to sign them.

  But when it came to the point, I couldn’t bring myself to trust him. Not implicitly. Fanciful or no, I couldn’t dismiss the feeling that he wished me ill.

  He told me that the servants had accompanied Mrs. Wren to Varna, and would return within the week. As for Mr. Poole, Mr. Rochester said that he’d sent him away with Mrs. Wren as well in order to give the two of us a chance to “come to terms.”

  I knew then that he meant to force me into compliance. Why else would he have been standing over my bed in such a threatening manner? Why else would he have sent away Mr. Poole? I told him as much, giving voice to all of my suspicions.

  “You know nothing of the threat I pose, my dear,” he said. “But you will soon understand.”

  He continued toward me. My heart, at this point, was beating as swiftly as a hummingbird’s. I had to stop myself from cringing, lest he discern the extent of my fear. For all his eccentricities, I didn’t think my husband a wife beater, but in moments such as these, who can say what lengths a man will go to in order to get his way?

  I told him that he had no right to send Mr. Poole away. That he was a faithful servant who only ever did what he was told.

  “What you tell him,” Mr. Rochester returned. “Am I not master in my own home?”

  I said that he was, but reminded him that a wife was not without some authority.

  “Your English law says differently,” he replied. “You have told me so yourself. By virtue of marrying you, I have become lord of all you possess.”

  He had at this point backed me into a darkened corner. He stood over me, using every ounce of his masculine superiority—his height, his weight, and his build—to make me cower. To illustrate the fact of my physical weakness. My feeble femininity.

  “We have pretended to be equals long enough,” he said. “It has bred only discontent. Henceforward, you shall be an obedient wife.”

  In other circumstances, his words would have kindled my anger, but in this bizarre world in which I now found myself, his delusions of male dominance were the least of my concerns. I was far more troubled by his waxen pallor and the hungry look on his face. The sun had set, and I had yet to light a lamp, but I must tell you, Blanche, in the dim glow of twilight that shone through the high window of my bedchamber, Mr. Rochester’s eyes looked as red as blood.

  “The papers are on your desk. A mere formality. If you love me, Bertha, you will sign them. It is the only hope for you.”

  At that, he placed a hand upon the back of my bare neck. His flesh was cold to the touch. Colder still when his strong fingers closed and bodily turned me toward the papers. There was a moment when I feared he would crush my throat. Instead, he shoved me into the low chair in front of my desk and forced a quill into my resisting hand.

  “Sign them,” he commanded. “Do it now.”

  God forgive me, Blanche, but I did sign them—a stack of papers in a language I could neither read, nor understand. At the very least, I have signed away Thornfield, but I fear I have relinquished even more. All of my fortune, even that portion inherited from Mama that was left to me alone and should have been untouchable.

  I trembled at what he might do next, but after my signature was affixed to the final document, Mr. Rochester’s entire behavior changed. He once again adopted that old-world manner he’d used to woo me in Cairo and Athens. Pressing a kiss to my forehead, and collecting the documents, he took his leave of me as silkily as a courtier.

  As he departed, I called out to him, telling him that I wanted to go home. He stopped in the doorway, but he did not turn around. He said that he would be visiting his solicitor in the morning, after which he would see to our passage. He promised we would leave without delay. And then he was gone, closing my chamber door behind him.

  I ran to it and tested the lock. Thank heaven he hadn’t bolted the door. I was free to come and go as I chose. But at what cost?

  This letter may never reach you, and if it does, perhaps you will think I have been headstrong and foolish. That I have provoked Mr. Rochester unnecessarily, and have deserved the physical manifestations of his anger. You always did believe a husband was a godly figure, the head of the family, and natural superior to his wife. But Mr. Rochester is not your vicar. He is a different kind of man. Sometimes, I wonder…

  But I must end this now, before he returns. I pray I will find a servant in the house who will take it, along with the rest of my letters, to be posted. With Mr. Poole gone, so much is left to chance. Goodbye.

  Your loving,

  Bertha

  Thornfield Hall

  Yorkshire, England

  March 1844

  Nearly two weeks passed with no news of Mrs. Rochester. John was beginning to become accustomed to her absence.

  Or so he told himself.

  The truth was, as focused as he was on his duties, a small part of him was always alert for the sound of carriage wheels rattling in the drive, or for the arrival of the post, forever imagining that she might have sent a letter announcing her imminent return.

  But Mrs. Rochester sent no letter. No message of any kind.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she went straight back to the Continent,” Mr. Fairfax said one morning at breakfast, “and we didn’t see her again for a year or more.”

  John lowered his fork to his plate, the sausage speared on its tines left uneaten. “Would she quit Thornfield in such an abrupt manner?”

  “What’s that?” Mr. Fairfax tilted his ear toward John.

  John repeated his question.

  “Oh, she might do, at that,” Mr. Fairfax said. “I wouldn’t put it past the mistress. You know how the gentry can be, craving excitement and the company of other fashionable people. She’s never enjoyed the pace of life in this part of the country. She’d rather be abroad. And there’s nothing to keep her at Thornfield, is there?”

  Hearing this, John was conscious of an odd chill at his heart. For the briefest moment he permitted himself to feel it in full measure—that sickening sense of disappointment at learning he might never see her again. Not for a year or more.

  And then he marshaled his wits.

  There was no reason Mrs. Rochester’s movements should be of any concern to him. No reason, save one. Or, more precisely, two.

  “What about Stephen and Peter?” he asked. “Surely she must return for their sake.”

  Mr. Fairfax continued eating his breakfast, seemingly oblivious to John’s concerns. “I wouldn’t depend upon it. Not when she has you to trust to their care.”

  John’s spirits sank. “Yes. Of course.”

  For the remainder of the week, he threw himself into his work. When he wasn’t tutoring the boys, he was sketching and painting, or tiring himself out with long walks over the grounds. It was a melancholy period during which he did his best to keep up the appearance of an even temper, if only for the boys’
sake.

  The two of them were the brightest portion of his days. Brighter still as the second week of Mrs. Rochester’s absence came to a close. On two successive nights, he’d heard them whispering to each other in the nursery, the sibilant sound of their voices drifting through John’s wall in an unintelligible hiss. It unnerved him, just as it had the first time he’d heard it.

  And then it inspired him.

  On the following day, after they’d spent a successful hour at their sums, he summoned them to the piano that stood in the corner of the library. Music lessons weren’t uncommon. He’d made several futile attempts at teaching them their scales. But this time, he didn’t urge them to sit down in front of the piano and place their fingers on the keys. He sat down himself and began to play.

  Stephen and Peter stood over him as John executed the beginning chords of a melody. It wasn’t Mozart. And it certainly wasn’t a religious hymn. But it was cheerful and bright. An old children’s lullaby that had, about five years ago, been set to music.

  “Today,” John said. “We’re going to sing.”

  At least, he was going sing.

  He cast a glance at the door of the library, grateful—for the first time—that Mrs. Rochester wasn’t in residence. He was no trained vocalist. No talented baritone to entertain guests at a party or engage in a pleasing duet with a lady.

  But the boys wouldn’t care about that.

  Clearing his throat, John sang the first words of the lullaby in time with the music:

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

  How I wonder what you are.

  Up above the world so high,

  Like a diamond in the sky.

  He played the melody with a flourish, adding a few extra notes and chords. His former piano master at the charitable school would have struck his hands with a ruler for such absurdity. It wasn’t proper and correct. It was fun. Foolery.

  “Sing, boys,” he said. “Like this…” He vocalized the notes without words—rather like a child sounding out their vowels—before singing the next verse: