Authors: Eve Marie Mont
A Breath of Eyre (10 page)
“Is it too late to turn your life around?” I asked, meeting his eyes.
“I could reform, but since happiness has been irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life, and I will get it, cost what it may.” For a moment, I felt certain he was going to cast me out of the room like he had the other night, so I rose from my chair.
“Where are you going?” he said, clearly displeased.
“To put Adèle to bed. It’s past her bedtime.”
He brusquely gestured for me to sit back down, but I remained standing. “You are afraid of me now,” he said.
“I am confused by you, sir. Not afraid.”
“You are shy and reserved with me, unsure yet of my character. I think you will learn to be natural with me in time. I see you as a curious sort of bird in a cage, a vivid, restless captive. Were you free, you would soar cloud high like the bird from your story.” I smiled at him softly, then said good night. Pilot followed me out of the room, and I suspected Rochester’s eyes did as well.
As I lay in bed, I began wondering how Mr. Rochester felt about me. Despite his initial gruffness, I could feel him softening toward me. He seemed to enjoy our little chats, and I had to admit, they were growing on me, too. I got the sense that perhaps we were more alike than at first we seemed—two lost souls trapped in a gloomy mansion together—one haunted by a past he could not relinquish, the other haunted by a past she could not remember.
C
HAPTER
11
HAPTER
11
T
hat night as I lay in bed dissecting my feelings for Mr. Rochester, I heard a noise above me and sat upright. I wished I had kept my candle burning; the night was so dark. But soon after, the sound died. I tried to sleep again, but my heart was racing. The clock down the hall struck two. Just then it seemed as if someone rattled the doorknob.
hat night as I lay in bed dissecting my feelings for Mr. Rochester, I heard a noise above me and sat upright. I wished I had kept my candle burning; the night was so dark. But soon after, the sound died. I tried to sleep again, but my heart was racing. The clock down the hall struck two. Just then it seemed as if someone rattled the doorknob.
“Who’s there?” I said. Silence.
All at once I remembered it might be Pilot and sighed in relief. I crept out of bed and went to the door, but when I opened it, the hall was empty. I forced myself to lie down again and began to feel the pull of sleep when I heard a demonic laugh—low and deep—and seemingly coming from the keyhole of my door. Before long, steps retreated up the hallway and toward the third-story staircase. I heard a door open and close, then all was quiet again.
I had heard that same laughter on my first day here, when Mrs. Fairfax had taken me on a tour of the house. She had blamed a servant named Grace Poole. Thinking it impossible to stay by myself any longer, I put on a shawl and went to get Mrs. Fairfax. I opened the door with a trembling hand, surprised to find the air in the hallway filled with smoke. Something creaked down the hall—it seemed to be Mr. Rochester’s door. Smoke was rushing out from it in a cloud. I ran down and opened the door, immediately choking from the fumes. The stench of burning fabric filled the air. The curtains were on fire, tongues of flame were darting toward the bed, and Mr. Rochester lay stretched motionless, in a deep sleep.
“Wake up! Wake up!” I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned; the smoke had stupefied him. I rushed to his basin filled with water, heaved it up, and drenched the burning side of the bed. Though it was dark, I knew Rochester had woken because I heard him cursing under his breath when he found himself lying in a pool of water. “What the—!”
“Sir, there’s been a fire. Get up. You’re soaked.”
“Is that Jane Eyre?” he demanded. “What have you done with me? Have you plotted to drown me?”
“Somebody has plotted something. Get up.”
Following this, I snatched a rug from the hallway, and Mr. Rochester and I used it to beat back the flames until we finally succeeded in extinguishing the fire.
In the moonlight, I could see him standing beside the bed surveying the damage, half the mattress blackened and scorched, the sheets drenched. “What happened? Who did this?”
I briefly told him what I knew—the strange laugh, the steps ascending to the third story, the smoke in the hallway, the smell of fire that had brought me to his room. He listened very gravely.
“Remain where you are till I return,” he said. “Be as still as a mouse. I must pay a visit to the third story. Don’t move, remember, or call anyone.”
I was confused but did what he asked. A very long time elapsed as I listened for some noise but heard nothing. It was cold in the room, and I was growing weary. I was at the point of leaving when a light gleamed on the wall, and I heard footsteps in the hall.
He entered the room, finally, looking pale and sad. “I have found it all out,” he said, setting a lit candle down on the washstand. “It is as I thought.”
“How?” He made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, looking at the ground. “There is a woman who sews here,” I said, “called Grace Poole. Was it her?”
He nodded gravely. “Just so. Grace Poole—you have guessed it. Meantime, I am glad that you are the only person, besides myself, acquainted with the precise details of tonight’s incident. Say nothing about it. Now return to your own room. I shall do very well on the sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It is near four, and in two hours the servants will be up.”
“Good night, then,” I said, turning to go.
“What!” he said. “Are you quitting me already, and in that way?”
“You said I should go.”
“But not without taking leave. Not without a word or two of acknowledgment and goodwill. 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.” He held out his hand, and I gave him mine. He took it first in one, them in both his own. “You have saved my life. I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt.” He gazed at me in the dim light, and I felt a flush of warmth from his intense stare. “I knew,” he said, “you would do me good in some way, at some time. I saw it in your eyes when I first met you.”
Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his eyes. For a moment, I thought he might kiss me, and the prospect made me blush and pull away. Still he held on to my hand. At last he relaxed his fingers, and I turned and fled the room. Back in my chamber, I lay in bed but never thought of sleep. I could still feel the warmth of his fingers on my palm.
I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester the next day. I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to meet his eyes. Something had transpired between us last night, that much was certain. During the early part of the morning, I waited to see him. But the morning passed as usual, and nothing happened to interrupt the quiet course of Adèle’s studies.
Soon after breakfast, I heard some of the servants in Mr. Rochester’s room, exclaiming about the danger of leaving candles burning at bedtime and lamenting the condition of his bedclothes. No one suspected I’d had any hand in his rescue.
When I passed his room later that afternoon, I saw that everything had been restored to complete order. I peered in to see if perhaps Mr. Rochester was there, but instead, I saw a woman sitting on a chair by the bedside, sewing rings to new curtains. Grace Poole.
What was she doing here? If she had tried to kill Rochester last night, why wouldn’t he have fired her on the spot, or better yet, dragged her out of the house himself? Here she sat with total impunity, quietly intent on her sewing.
“Good afternoon, Grace,” I said.
“Good afternoon,” she replied.
“I see you’ve set everything back to normal.” She only nodded. “Can I ask you a question? Did you happen to hear a strange laugh in the middle of the night?”
“No, miss,” she said. “Did you?”
“Yes,” I said, irritated by her show of innocence.
“And you did not think of opening your door and looking out into the gallery?” she asked. She appeared to be cross-questioning me.
“No,” I said. “I bolted my door.”
“It would be wise to do so from now on,” she said without looking up from her sewing.
“I thought I heard footsteps. On the third floor. In the middle of the night.” Still she said nothing. “The footsteps came down the stairs and stopped right outside my door. Are you sure it wasn’t you?”
“There are many servants who sleep on the third floor,” she said. “Perhaps one of them had a nightmare.” I could tell I wasn’t going to get anywhere with her.
Feeling frustrated and a little afraid of her, I left and went down to the parlor to find Mrs. Fairfax, who was busy preparing Adèle’s dinner. She greeted me and gazed out the window. “It is fair today,” she said. “Mr. Rochester has a favorable day for his journey.”
“Journey? Is Mr. Rochester going somewhere?” I said, not attempting to conceal the disappointment in my voice.
“He is gone already, to Mr. Eshton’s place ten miles on the other side of Millcote. I believe there is a party assembled there.”
“Do you expect him back tonight?”
“No, nor tomorrow either. I should think he is very likely to stay a week or more. Mr. Rochester is so talented and so lively in society, that I believe he is a general favorite—the ladies are very fond of him. Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters are very elegant young ladies, and there are the Honorable Blanche and Mary Ingram—most beautiful women, I suppose. Last time they were here, Miss Ingram was considered the belle of the evening.”
“Miss Ingram?”
“A fine woman, well endowed with a fine bust, a long graceful neck, brilliant eyes. And then she had such a fine head of hair, so becomingly arranged.”
“And you say she was admired?”
“Yes, indeed; and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments. She sings, draws, speaks French fluently. On the whole she would make a fine match for our Mr. Rochester.”
A fine match for our Mr. Rochester?
Adèle came in, and the conversation turned to other things, but my spirits had plummeted. Last night in his bedroom, I had been harboring silly fantasies that I was a favorite of Mr. Rochester’s. Now I realized how stupid I had been. He was my boss, and I was his employee. He may have felt some friendly affection toward me for saving his life, but that was all.
A week passed, and no news arrived of Mr. Rochester. Ten days, and still he didn’t return. I went on with my day’s business, but I couldn’t concentrate. I missed him. Why did a girl’s happiness always seem to depend upon a man? Why couldn’t I be content with the quiet, peaceful existence I’d carved out for myself? Wishing and hoping for romance and adventure would only get me into trouble.
All the same, when Mrs. Fairfax told me that Mr. Rochester and his entire party were to return to Thornfield that week, my body thrummed with anxiety and excitement. Early that week, the house went into a state of frenzied cleaning and preparation. Adèle ran quite wild in the midst of it. The party was expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon in time for dinner at six.
When Thursday finally came, Mrs. Fairfax was the first to spot Miss Ingram approaching on horseback. Moments later, a joyous stir could be heard in the hall—gentlemen’s deep voices and ladies’ accents and distinguishable above all, the voice of Mr. Rochester. I couldn’t help but feel as giddy as Adèle at his return. Hidden behind a column in the hallway, I watched as a parade of elegant guests in brightly colored riding costumes passed through the foyer. I tried in vain to figure out which one of them was the famous Miss Ingram, but they all wore riding hats. I stayed hidden as they went upstairs, their cheerful laughter echoing through the gallery. I listened as they discussed plans and finally parted ways to go to their rooms to change for the evening.
Wondering where Adèle had gone, I sought her upstairs in the schoolroom. There she was, peeping through the schoolroom door, waiting for the guests to emerge in their finery. When they did finally assemble in the gallery, looking haughty and elegant, Adèle exclaimed in her thick French accent, “What beautiful ladies! Oh, I wish I might go to them! Do you think Mr. Rochester will send for us after dinner?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “Mr. Rochester has other things to think about.” But I had been wondering the very same thing myself.
I told Adèle stories for as long as she would listen, and then for a change I took her out into the gallery to watch. The hall lamp was lit now, and it amused her to look over the balustrade and watch the servants passing backward and forward. As it got later, piano music issued from the drawing room. Adèle and I sat down on the top step of the stairs to listen. When the clock struck eleven, I looked down at Adèle, whose head leaned against my shoulder, her eyes waxing heavy. I took her up in my arms and carried her off to bed.
The next morning as Adèle and I had our breakfast, Mrs. Fairfax leaned over to me and said, “You will see Miss Ingram this evening. Mr. Rochester requested you to accompany Adèle to the party.”
Later that afternoon, I put on my finest dress of violet satin with lace trim. I pinched my cheeks for color, then went to fetch Adèle, and we headed downstairs together. There were eight guests in the drawing room, and I spotted Rochester at the other end of the room. My eyes were drawn involuntarily to his face—that square brow, those deep eyes and strong features. It was true he was not conventionally handsome, but he had become beautiful to me. I had not intended to love him. I had tried not to. But now that I’d finally admitted to my feelings, it was too late. He was in love with Blanche Ingram.
I had the sense that I’d met Blanche before, felt I knew that glossy golden hair, that superior smile, the arched brow, and the full lips that erupted in haughty laughter at anything Rochester said. After observing her for some time, I confirmed what Mrs. Fairfax had told me—Miss Ingram played the piano proficiently, sang angelically, and spoke French with fluency and a good accent. There was no doubt she was a beautiful and accomplished woman.
I watched her with Rochester, too, saw the way her hand brushed his arm when she spoke, how she whispered things so he would have to lean in close. She seemed manipulative and vain, a social climber only interested in Rochester’s wealth and position. Could he really love this woman?
It was agonizing to have him so near, yet not be able to talk to him. Why had he requested my presence if he was only going to ignore me? Jealousy crept into my heart like water inside a stone, freezing and breaking it into little pieces.
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