Ferndean Manor, Yorkshire
October 13, 1820
In the months and days that followed Ned’s birth, my thoughts often reverted to my own orphan childhood. When I was but a year old, I lost both my parents to typhus and was taken in by my mother’s brother, who, upon his own deathbed soon thereafter, entreated his wife, Mrs. Reed, to care for me. She did so in the barest sense—she did not, after all, send me directly to the workhouse—but extended to me, a blameless infant, none of the affection and indulgence she lavished upon my three cousins, her own children, who tormented me mercilessly. I was alone in the world without protectors, without a guiding hand or kind heart to ease my journey.
I shuddered to imagine such a fate befalling my son. Tucking his blanket around him, I was struck anew by how wholly dependent he was at six months of age.
These days Ned was not the only one who relied on me. His father saw the world through my eyes. When fire destroyed Thornfield Hall, the Rochester family home—a conflagration set by my husband’s first wife, Bertha Mason, and in which she also perished—it not only burned the mansion to the ground; it nearly cost my husband his life. A beam fell on Edward, partially crushing him, partially protecting him. His right eye was knocked out, and his left hand was damaged so badly that amputation was done directly. The other eye, in sympathy to its twin, alternated inflammation with good health, severely limiting his vision. Recently, I feared his sight had gotten worse.
Most cruelly, his injuries took from him his ability to ride horseback alone, an activity previously perfectly suited to his personality and love of the outdoors. Nowadays, my husband often visits the stable, standing with his forehead pressed against the slats of his horse Mesrour’s stall, the old comrades communing and remembering happier days. Robbed of his ability to ride, Edward finds it difficult to get out among his tenants and talk to them as he should. Reading is impossible, and writing is nearly so.
“Mr. Carter has arrived to examine Mr. Rochester,” Mrs. Fairfax said as she stood in the doorway. “Your husband waits for you. Hester can watch after the baby.” This was a gentle rebuke. Our housekeeper worries that I will spoil our son with too much attention.
I planned to.
Hester Muttoone, my son’s wet nurse, had had much experience in the nursery, certainly more than either the childless widow Mrs. Fairfax or myself. Watching Hester’s deft movements with Ned, I realized how awkward I was, how tentative, a beginner at motherhood. Yet I was determined to do many of the chores often relegated to a baby’s minder. These small tasks brought me pleasure; I admit that I was in awe of my son. But Hester held him, cleaned him, and offered him her breast as though my child was wholly unremarkable.
“The girl is fully capable. You will spoil him.” Mrs. Fairfax made a clucking sound with her tongue, a weak attempt to scold me.
“But he is my own, my firstborn child.”
“Ah, and we would all give our lives for our young master. Be assured of that,” Mrs. Fairfax said. “But Ned’s father relies on you to help him. Master and Mr. Carter are in the garden.” She paused and cocked her head toward the window. “Perhaps you will still have time to stroll the lane together. Mayhap you can pick the last of the rose hips before the birds get them all.”
If we could hurry through Mr. Carter’s visit, I had every intention of taking a walk that afternoon with Edward. Indecisive weather marred our autumn. The scent of rain and change was on the air. A storm moved in from the coast. The yellow tassels of the furze nodded winningly, as the fern fronds waved sleepy heads in the woods surrounding our home. Leaves had begun to turn, a prelude to their drifting down and leaving bare branches in their place.
We lived far from human society. Ferndean Manor lay half buried, deep in a thick stand of trees. Millcote, the closest town, was thirty miles away. To reach the main road into town, one must travel a lumpy, uneven grass path, a trial to passengers in carriages.
“Tell Mr. Rochester that I am coming.” I ran a fingertip along the crown of my son’s head and down his plump cheek. In response, his lips pursed and he suckled the air.
“As you wish.” Retreating footsteps and the squeak of door hinges signaled that Mrs. Fairfax had at last left me alone. I studied my little boy, committing every inch of his form to memory. He was already growing so quickly!
In truth, I needed a few moments of privacy to gather courage to face what lay ahead. Mr. Carter visited Ferndean regularly to check on Edward, my darling husband, once a strong and mighty man, now my sightless Samson. With each examination our hopes soared, only to be dashed and come crashing down, as a pheasant falls from the sky when felled by a percussive gun.
“What if he pronounces my improvement beyond his skills?” Edward had asked me only last evening as we sat together companionably beside the hearth, basking in the dying embers. His stern brow, interrupted with a scar from the conflagration, creased with concern. “What if I can never see more than the haze of light as it pours through the window? Or the dancing red tongue of a candle’s flame?”
“Then I shall have to be your eyes. Such deficiency matters little. I am here for you. All my heart is yours, sir. Always and forever.”
I relived this poignant moment as Hester entered the nursery and executed a sloppy partial curtsy. Keeping her protruding eyes downcast, she took her accustomed place on a chair near Ned’s crib. I gave my son one last kiss and started toward what we euphemistically called “our garden.”
I passed by Mrs. Fairfax, who struggled mightily to keep a slight expression of disapproval on her face. She aims to make me a more conventional lady of the manor and endeavors to mold me into her ideal of a country squire’s wife. It is a challenge—because I care little for outward appearances—but one she approaches with tact and persistence.
Alice Fairfax had known my husband since he was a lad. She worked as Mr. Rochester’s housekeeper for many years, but after the fire, he settled an annuity on her. How fortunate we were that when she heard of our marriage and Ned’s impending arrival, she had written inquiring if we might have need of her!
At first, however, our new roles caused friction.
Mrs. Fairfax was accustomed to running the master’s household. But now I—who had once been hired by her to serve as a governess for Mr. Rochester’s ward, Adèle—was her mistress. She would tell Cook to make lamb chops, and I would ask for veal. Cook would take advantage of our confusion and serve up leftover pigeon pie. Mrs. Fairfax demanded that we eat on good china and drink from crystal glasses. I would have been content with an old chipped plate and a tin mug. She would suggest that we inventory all the bed linens to determine what needed mending, and I would think that could wait until the bluebells finished blooming. What did I know of fine living? I was, after all, little more than a grown-up orphan girl. The shift from governess to mistress was still fresh with me, and my new role proved an awkward fit. Mrs. Fairfax frequently reminded me, “One can’t converse with servants on terms of equality. One must keep them at due distance, for fear of losing one’s authority.”
Over my more than twenty years on this earth, I have found that most of the kindness I have enjoyed was delivered from the hands of servants, not masters! I think I can be excused if I parted company with our servants reluctantly.
But I knew the good widow was right. I looked to her for guidance in a multitude of matters, including the art of entertaining, although currently our situation was complicated by our cramped quarters here at Ferndean.
This house was built as a hunting lodge for the Rochester men. Gradually, nature had encroached upon the property, seeking to reclaim that which was rightfully hers. The location was both out-of-the-way and unhealthy. In addition, it had been long ignored, thus rendering the main building almost uninhabitable, with the exception of a few rooms that had been done up to accommodate my husband’s late father when he used to visit during hunting season. Therefore, we made do with limited space, living a cramped existence, especially considering our growing family.
So far, we had not had any visitors who wished to come and stay, but that might change. I have a handful of cousins. On my father’s side are my cousins Diana, Mary, and St. John Rivers, delightful people whose companionship I enjoy. On the Reed side, I have been less fortunate. No doubt they feel the same about me.
I am no great beauty, nor even passing pretty; indeed, I am possessed of a pale coloring and a small stature that renders me quite ordinary. I have heard myself compared, not inaccurately, to a house sparrow. Certainly, like that ubiquitous bird, I tend to blend into my surroundings. Although my features are irregular, I compensate for that by keeping my person neat.
In addition, I have two talents I might reasonably claim. First, given a pencil and paper, I can reproduce anything I’ve seen with reasonable accuracy. Second, if people were to look beyond my unassuming façade and their own prejudices, they would notice my curious and analytical mind, a faculty that gives me a talent for quiet observation.
I also have another dependable virtue: my compassion for those in reduced circumstances. After all, I know what it feels like to be alone and without resources.
As I walked down the hallway, my heart caught in my throat. A tingle ran up my arm. Someone or something begged my attention.
I whirled around, expecting to face an intruder or the source of my unease.
I was alone, but I thought I had heard a voice, calling out to me.
I entered the parlor and found it empty, except for the lingering scent of pipe tobacco. I moved to the window, disturbing Pilot, my husband’s Newfoundland.
No one was there.
Sensing my alarm, Pilot rose from his bed and nudged me with his cold, wet nose.
“Do you see someone or something, old friend?” I traced the gray in his muzzle. “No, I imagine not.”
It could only be my imagination. Lately an unsettled feeling had gathered strength within me. At present, it was vague, but insistent. I shook my head to clear it. There had been no reason for alarm. None. Ned was in his crib. Hester was there with him. Leah, our maid of all work, and Cook clattered about in the kitchen. I could see Edward and Mr. Carter through the window from where I stood. Turning the other way, I watched Mrs. Fairfax struggle with the front door, which was heavy to open and harder yet to close. The recent wet weather had warped its frame.
I went to her, and by adding my weight to that of hers, we managed closure. She stepped aside. “Mr. Carter gave me these as he got out of his carriage. Bless him for remembering our mail.”
“Yes, he always does,” I said with a smile.
Our housekeeper waved a rather large bundle of letters at me, which the good doctor had fetched from the Millcote shop designated as a dropping-off point for the post. My name—“Jane Eyre Rochester”—had been scrawled across a few of the pieces.
“These will take up much of your day. I could handle them for you. Or help you decide how to answer.” The scent of lily-of-the-valley toilet water enveloped me as Mrs. Fairfax put a gentle hand on my arm.
“Thank you, but you have other work to do. I shall tend to these. I’ll go over them with Mr. Rochester. It will give us a task to complete.” I tucked the mail firmly under my arm. “And now to face the doctor.”
Mrs. Fairfax gave me her kindly smile. “Whatever the good doctor’s prognosis, I am certain that you and Master will face it together. His burden is halved because he shares it with you.”
“Yes.” But my feet refused to move. As much as I knew I had to go and greet Mr. Carter, I found my courage waning. Still, I had to hear his prognosis. I had to know the status of my husband’s health.
“Shall I instruct Leah to bring tea so you can pour?” Mrs. Fairfax’s suggestion softly reminded me of my responsibilities. All of our visitors traveled far to find us. As a consequence, good manners dictated that we serve them refreshments.
“Yes, of course. Tea. That will help if…if there’s bad news.” I did not worry for myself. I worried for my husband, who keenly felt the restrictions of his infirmity.
“Jane.” Mrs. Fairfax interrupted my thoughts. “Listen to me. You love Mr. Rochester, and he loves you. Nothing the doctor says can alter that. You will bring the world to him if you must, dear girl.”
Seeing that I seemed unconvinced, she took me by the shoulders. “You are stronger than I guessed when I first met you. Then you were a mere girl, untouched by love, unsure of her place in the world. Since then you have both won and opened the Master’s heart. Edward Fairfax Rochester is no longer the brooding, unhappy man I once knew. No matter what the doctor predicts, you have accomplished a miracle. Why would you doubt yourself now?”
I hugged the older woman, and she responded by patting my shoulder. “Go to your husband. I shall be along directly.”
She was right. He, who was once my master, now loved me as my husband. Should I not take joy in that? Is it not the expressed desire of every living soul to be loved?
I loved Edward, deeply. As part of our wedding vows, I pledged that we would face any obstacles together. This was but one more challenge. I paused to gather my thoughts. Whatever happened, I would make the road ahead more bearable for Edward. I would manage. No. We would manage, together.
I was not alone in my desire to help him. I could count on Mrs. Fairfax to assist us. Though I could not always count on her to hold her tongue. Recently, over our evening meal, Edward had announced plans to rebuild Thornfield Hall, on Ned’s behalf.
“Rebuild Thornfield?” Mrs. Fairfax had thrown her hands up in alarm. “The place is in ruins. It is nothing but a charred wreckage. The rooks and owls inhabit the carcass.”
True, but cruelly said. I swallowed a sigh. Sometimes Mrs. Fairfax went too far. When we lived at Thornfield, she took her meals in her own small dining room. But at Ferndean we invited her to sup at our table. This offered both benefits and deficits. On occasions like this, her opinion was both unwarranted and unnecessary.
“You will have to run off the vermin, clear the wreckage, and start from the ground up.”
“I intend to.” Edward kept eating his cold pigeon pie.
“It will take you years.” She wouldn’t leave it alone.
“I believe you are right.”
Later she took me aside. “He will waste his fortune on that house.”
“Perhaps. But it is his to waste.”
Now it was her turn to sigh. “You support him in this?”
“I support him in whatever makes him happy. Did you notice how animated his face grew? How excited his voice was? If rebuilding Thornfield restores a sense of mastery to him, I personally will drive carts to transport stones from the quarry.”
At that image, she laughed. “You are his other half. I swear that I’ve never known two people with such harmonious desires. Bless you both with many, many happy years together.”
Ours was a marriage of true equals. We valued each other’s opinion, even when we disagreed. Our discourse gave us many hours of pleasure. In fact, it was our intellectual equality, in part, that had convinced Edward we should marry. He had grown tired of vapid women who parroted his views, or who suggested none of their own. As for my own opinion of Thornfield Hall, I missed it as a landmark, and I owed it a bit of sentimentality since it was there that I met Edward. More importantly, my husband wanted a project to ignite his passions and give him purpose. Rebuilding the family manor could do both, and assure my husband that he would leave to his son a tangible legacy.
Although I support my husband’s rebuilding plans, I must admit: I am happy here at Ferndean. The isolation suits me, and my mood is decidedly more lighthearted than ever. Both Mrs. Fairfax and Edward have remarked upon how cheerful I am. Marriage and motherhood have changed me, for the better. Certainly, I am more confident. That boldness that was always within me now finds expression almost daily.
Despite my new sense of self-possession, I have had no wish to leave this secluded, half-hidden spot. Our distance from Millcote sets us apart from our neighbors. That is fine by me. Edward has vowed that our honeymoon will shine our whole lives long. “As long as we have each other, we have little need for company,” he proclaimed.
But Ned’s arrival changed everything.
While I’d never been appreciative of society, I began to see its value. Ned would want the fellowship of other children as he grew older. On occasion, I realized I could benefit from conversing with other mothers. And although he claimed his interactions with me were quite enough, I sensed that Edward missed the society of others, particularly other men who were active in the county and its politics.
“Being closer to Millcote offers several advantages, Jane,” Edward had said. “For one thing, there’s a larger pool from which to hire servants.”
Presently, Leah juggles the duties of my personal maid, parlor maid, and kitchen help. Mary and her husband, John, have been with Edward since he was young, but time has caught up with the old couple, and they have slowed down noticeably since the harsh winter. On Mondays, a woman from two farms away comes to do our laundry. The nursemaid, Hester Muttoone, grew up on these lands, and her family has farmed the Rochester acreage for three generations. One of her brothers, Nehemiah, works part-time as our stable hand. Another brother, Josiah, whom I have seen only in passing, is said to be one of the finest judges of horseflesh in the parish. On occasion, he, too, helps with the horses.
Even though neither of us admitted it, there was a larger, more ominous reason for us to live closer to town: Our location made it difficult for Mr. Carter, the doctor, to examine Edward without making a special visit.
Due to his injuries, Edward needed examination regularly.
Outside the window, my husband sat stiffly on a wooden bench while Mr. Carter ran knowing fingers along his patient’s temple and brow, tracing and probing the angry scar. The doctor held up a series of cards and asked questions. Each of Edward’s responses struck the physician a visible blow of disappointment. The light bent around them, hopeful patient and frustrated healer, freezing the two old friends in a painful tableau.
I blinked back tears and struggled to compose myself. It would never do to let Edward know how worried I was on his behalf. To me, the loss of his sight was an inconvenience, nothing more. To him, it was a prison sentence. No jail cell in Newgate could be more confining. Increasingly, Edward’s poor vision curtailed his activities in ways that rendered him dependent.
How different my husband was from the man I first met! The troubles we have weathered have worn down his rough edges, the way nature works to soften the sharp features of a rocky outgrowth.
The Edward Fairfax Rochester who first welcomed me as his ward’s governess may have been physically intact, but he bore the unhappy imprint of a man who had suffered many injustices.
His own father had not borne the thought of dividing his estate and leaving a fair portion to Edward, the younger of his two sons. Neither, however, could old Mr. Rochester endure the thought of an impoverished heir, so he and his elder son, Rowland, had tricked Edward into marrying a Jamaican heiress, a woman whose family bore a strain of madness. As her character ripened, Bertha Mason Rochester exhibited all the grossest aspects of lunacy. Her violent outbreaks drove the then twenty-one-year-old Edward to the brink of despair. He even considered ending his own misery, but hope stayed his hand and revived his will to live. Instead of death, he escaped to Europe, where for ten long years he traipsed from one capital to another, seeking a soul mate, but never finding her.
One of his many mistresses, a French opera dancer known as Céline Varens, affirmed him as the father of her child. Although simple math disproved Adèle’s patronage, the little girl’s plight sufficiently moved Edward that when her mother abandoned her, he brought Adèle home with him to England. Both old Mr. Rochester and Rowland had since died, leaving Thornfield Hall to Edward, so it was there he installed little Adèle and Mrs. Fairfax, as well as his faithful manservant John and John’s wife, Mary. He also locked Bertha Mason in the attic, as much for her safety as his, and hired a nurse to watch over the madwoman. This, of course, was Thornfield’s secret—none except he and the nurse knew Bertha was there. It was also Edward’s cross to bear, a pain he felt every day of his life.
Wanting to do right by Adèle, he instructed Mrs. Fairfax to hire a governess for the girl.
Thus I came to Thornfield Hall, and into the life of the man who was once my master and is now my mate. He swears that my affection has changed his soul from a charnel house to a sanctuary. With me by his side, he is free to show the world a more kindly nature.
My love has helped him.
We have arrived at a happy ending to our journey, but we paid heavy tolls along the roadway here. I do not believe that most people, even as they envy us our good fortune—our healthy son, our loving marriage, our monetary wealth—would choose to endure all that we have. Nor would they survive such deprivations as I did in the harsh environment of my boarding school, or as Edward did when trapped in a first marriage to a madwoman. Perhaps they might even look upon our current situation—our isolation, the scandal that tainted us, and Edward’s injuries, including his near-blindness and the loss of one hand—and see only a future devoid of light or hope.
But I saw glorious possibilities. I saw a brilliant beginning that rendered me both thankful and joyful when I contemplated our future, a future we shall traverse together.
“This child is God’s blessing upon our union,” Edward said when he first held our son in his arms. “You, my wife, are the instrument of my redemption. Where once I questioned, now I believe. The Universe is governed by a benevolent spirit, call it what you may. What a miracle it has manifested from the wreckage that was my life!”
Yes, my son and husband were the sun and the earth, and I the happy moon suspended between.
“Jane? Is that you?” asked Edward now as I walked down the hallway. Although his vision was uncertain, there had been compensations. His sense of hearing had become exceedingly sharp.
“Yes, sir.”
I stepped out of the gloomy manor into the sunlit garden. The sun-warm fragrance of fading wild roses floated over the garden wall. A playful breeze ruffled Edward’s dark, unruly hair. He was never a handsome man, but still my heart melted at the sight of him.
“Come join us, Jane. Carter, am I not a lucky man? How wonderful she is! Is that sunshine I feel on my face or the glow of my well-loved wife?” Edward’s hand reached out and grabbed mine tightly. Edward does not care who sees his affection for me. In fact, I rather think he revels in showing to all and sundry that at last we are wed.
I was, I admit, a well-loved wife. Edward took seriously his duties as my tutor in the art of lovemaking. His tender ministrations could not help but inflame my passions. “You must turn me loose, dear husband. Free me so I can pour you another cup of tea. Good day, Mr. Carter. Tea for you, too? Thank you for bringing along our mail.” I held up the packet Mrs. Fairfax had given me.
Mr. Carter laughed. “Rural delivery will come one day, Mrs. Rochester, and you will get your mail right to your door daily. See if you don’t!”
I set the batch of letters to one side. They could wait, but Mr. Carter could not. His services were much in demand. “How are we today, sir?”
“I wish I had better news for you. But Mr. Rochester’s vision continues to decline.” The doctor pointedly stared into his teacup rather than engage me. It is a game he plays. Mr. Carter tries to keep the worst from me, and I respond by working harder to pry it out of him. He thinks me too young and delicate to bear up under this adversity. I think he underestimates me. In fact, I know he does. It is a common mistake.
“Are you certain? Is there nothing you can do?”
“I have done all I can, but I encourage you not to give up hope. I suggest that Mr. Rochester visit an oculist in London. I have located one who has an astonishing success rate.”
“We shall pack our bags immediately!”
“Not just yet, my darling. Carter thinks we should wait,” said Edward, putting a staying hand on my knee. “He thinks that if I rest properly, some healing might occur. The oculist would be a last resort.”
“More to the point,” Carter interjected, “I prescribe hot compresses twice daily. And no strenuous activity. For several days at least.”
I put on my best smile and tried to sound cheery. Instead, I heard myself prattle on and on. “So, my husband, you must let me devote myself entirely to you and your comfort. I shall start by warming your tea and serving you scones. Mr. Carter, may I offer you more refreshments, too?”
“That would be most welcome. But I cannot stay long. I need to hurry back in the direction of Millcote. The Farrows’ youngest son has a touch of the croup. It makes the rounds of the countryside faster than I do. I promised I would stop in on my way home.” He frowned at the sky. “Perhaps I will be forced to spend the night with them. A storm appears to be moving in. When the clouds cover the moon, the roads are too dark for a lone traveler to journey safely. Especially with highwaymen about.”
The talk then drifted from the weather to politics. Eventually that led to a discussion of the ongoing adultery trial of Queen Caroline, wife of King George IV, who had ascended the throne when his father died that past January.
“The masses are supportive of her. After all, our King was the most dissolute of all princes,” Mr. Carter said with a disapproving shake of his head.
Few thought Queen Caroline innocent, but since her husband publicly cavorted with his mistresses, many found it difficult to blame her for seeking comfort in the arms of another man. Even at this distance from London, we had heard how her daily processionals to the trial aroused sympathy.
“It is shameful,” my husband said, “how the King has lived a life of pleasure and excess while many of his subjects starve because of the low price of corn. The common folks identify with her and repudiate him—and with good reason.”
The subject of crops changed the course of conversation. I sorted the mail and listened carefully as Mr. Carter reported sadly on the general condition of farmers in the area. Pauperism in the counties was a very real problem. The local landowners feared a revolt, much like the French had suffered, so they met regularly to share their views and to try to find methods for reducing unemployment and the more general discontent.
“Is there a letter from Adèle?” Edward asked me after a while, likely seeking a break from such dismal news.
“I am looking. Surely this bundle will include a note from her.”
For a short time before our marriage, unhappy circumstances had caused me to take my leave of Edward. My absence had left then eight-year-old Adèle without a governess. Considering the girl’s overly dramatic nature and her chaotic early upbringing, Edward decided she would benefit from a traditional English education. He asked his friends for recommendations. Mrs. Lucy Brayton, the wife of Edward’s dearest friend, Captain Augustus Brayton, suggested the Alderton House School for Girls, in London.
Once Edward and I were reunited, we did not have time to fetch her back from London before the wedding, which we conducted hastily before a parson and a clerk, not even telling John and Mary until it was done. I did not like to be fussed over—it suited me to have been married in that way. Afterward, Edward and I sent out notice of our marriage. We received back several polite letters of congratulations from his business associates, a letter expressing happy surprise from my cousins Diana and Mary Rivers—and an exuberant missive from Lucy Brayton petitioning us newlyweds to come to London to visit her “for the whole of the Season.”
We took extra care with our letter to Adèle, explaining our new situation and assuring her of Edward’s affection and mine. We planned to visit her as soon as possible.
We also sent a letter to the school’s superintendent, Mrs. Webster, and that kind soul replied that she wished us many long years of happiness.
Although it had been our intention to visit Adèle immediately after our wedding, I became enceinte within days. Complications of my condition, punctuated by frequent upheavals in the basin, rendered travel impossible, at least in those early months. Before we knew it, a brutal winter was upon us. Snowdrifts piled high against our doorway. The road to Ferndean, always a challenge, became impassible. We were housebound for the duration of the winter, spending the long, dark days huddled in front of the fire. In the uncertain light of the coals, I would read to Edward and sometimes to Mrs. Fairfax while her knitting needles provided a steady clicking accompaniment to my voice. The tangy smoke from the logs on the hearth hallowed our evenings with a pleasant haze, putting me in mind of incense at church.
This period of enforced solitude proved a blessing, as Edward still suffered the aftermath of the conflagration, his damaged but noble presence reminding me of that majestic oak tree at Thornfield that had been rendered nearly in two by a bolt of lightning. Despite the damage, the tree survived, tentatively putting out one sprout and then the next as if testing its vitality, until finally it succeeded in producing a verdant canopy of sheltering leaves, a wholly pleasing result. The oak was never the same, but its new form still struck me with admiration at its tenacity and virility.
Through the long winter nights, my belly grew, and Edward’s spirit flourished, imbued with expectation and anticipation. Slowly, his maimed stump healed, as did his remaining eye, but his vision never quite recovered.
Thankfully, the last of the winter’s snow melted and the lane was passable in time for the midwife to attend me when I delivered Ned. He arrived hale and pink with plump and perfect little limbs, but the birth was arduous, and afterward, I was slow to regain my former vitality. Still, the months passed with Ned growing and thriving, and over the summer the color came back to my cheeks. By the first chill of autumn, my clothes no longer hung loosely on me and a shine returned to my hair. In my husband’s presence, Mr. Carter pronounced me fit, but the good doctor warned me in private that I needed to gain back several pounds. “You are far too thin, ma’am,” he said as he shook his finger at me. “You need to eat more and take meals with regularity.”
Throughout my convalescence, I sent letters to Adèle, signing them with my name and guiding Edward to sign his. But since Ned’s birth, her responses have proved confounding! She made no mention of congratulations, nor did she seem excited about the arrival of our baby.
“I fear the girl has mastered the fine art of a Gallic pout. She learned it at her mother’s knee,” was Edward’s summation. Although we pretended otherwise, we were both hurt.
Many weeks had passed since her last letter. All of her correspondence left us disappointed. We wanted news of how she was getting along, letters that evoked her sense of gaiety and drama. Instead, we received nothing more than a scribbled sentence or two, usually a weather report and a bland recitation of what she was studying. It lacked every evidence of Adèle’s usual ebullience. In fact, each letter so strongly resembled the one before that I began to suspect the child was copying a lesson from a blackboard rather than penning her own missive to us.
Fortunately, Mrs. Brayton had visited Adèle often, and her amusing letters brimmed over with how the child looked, what new songs she favored, and so on.
Every fresh batch of letters brought hope that Adèle would congratulate us on Ned’s arrival, and each left my heart aching with disappointment. I didn’t care about the new poem she memorized or the psalm she could recite by heart. I wanted to hear about Adèle’s feelings. I loved the little French girl—how could I not, seeing how her situation was so much like mine had been—and the time I spent out of contact with her had been one of the most painful of my life.
I shuffled through the stack, searching for her familiar scrawl.
“It is here!” I opened it quickly and read the letter out loud, heedless of Mr. Carter’s presence:
Dearest Mr. and Mrs. Rochester,
I study very hard. I say my prayers every night and day. I am learning simple mathematics. My Latin and Italian have improved. I hope to master German as we are to have a new teacher.
Yours faithfully,
Adèle Varens
I stared hard at the careless script before turning the letter on its side. Using my finger as a pointer, I traced the letters, hoping to discern the word written crosswise over her short message, a method of communication I myself had often used to save money on postage.
By careful examination I was able to make out one phrase in French repeated three times:
Au secours! Au secours! Au secours!
“She begs for help!” I translated.
“She has always been a fanciful child,” Edward spoke slowly.
“That is true.” But the excuse sounded weak, even to my own ears. However, I persisted with it. “Do you recall how she would feign illness when I assigned Latin translations to her? She is quite the scamp.”
“I had hoped this school would encourage her to be more…British. But even so, this is unlike her,” my husband mused.
“The message does seem quite desperate,” agreed Mr. Carter.
“There is more,” I said. A scrap of watercolor paper fluttered to the ground as I unfolded her note. “Perhaps this will offer an explanation.”
But that wretched scrap only made the situation worse. On it was scrawled: God rot your filthy soul. You will die! I will see to it! Avec plaisir!
The three of us sat in stunned silence.
I turned to my husband. “We must go to her at once!”