October 13, 1820
Dear Lucy,
I have dictated this letter to Mrs. Fairfax, who sends along her best regards. Although the hand is hers, rest assured the words are mine alone! She has become a tremendously helpful amanuensis, serving me whenever Jane is unavailable.
Your requests have not fallen on deaf ears! I send to you my greatest treasure—my bride, Jane Eyre. Care for her as you would any object of great value! I swear to you, Lucy, she is the world to me—her love has brought me such joy and contentment that you will scarce recognize me.
As you might guess, I am over the moon with joy at becoming a father. Our union has been truly blessed. We welcomed Edward Rivers Rochester into our lives six months ago. (We sent you a letter then to let you know of our son’s birth. Did you receive it? I ask because it is not like you to overlook a chance to celebrate.)
Young Ned is thriving. He is plump and active, rolling from here to there, and sitting up with some assistance. He babbles like a mockingbird. Jane tells me he has my own eyes, so dark they seem almost black.
I know it pains my darling girl to leave her son behind. However, a week or so under your watchful eye should do her good. She has always been slight, but Ned’s birth proved difficult, and she needs to regain the weight she lost. I remember what a wonderful cook you have. Please make sure to tempt my wife to eat!
I shall follow before the week is out. I cannot come straightaway because that tyrant doctor Mr. Carter has forbidden me from immediately undertaking the strains of travel. He fears I shall go blind. The specter of that disability haunts me, and hangs over my head as precipitously as the sword that threatened Damocles. But as long as I am assured of Jane’s love, I can manage, although I wonder that a young and vital woman could happily play nurse to a blind stump of a man like me.
You are probably wondering why Jane did not wait until we could travel together. Your letter proved most persuasive. Thank you, Lucy, for checking on Adèle. Her recent letters to us have been less than helpful. Jane cares for the girl as if she were her own flesh and blood—so my darling wife declared there was nothing for it but to see to Adèle’s welfare immediately.
Like you, my wife is a woman of strong intentions. When fixated on an outcome, Jane will give it no quarter! The timbre of her voice warns me of her determination; she will visit the school and she will be apprised of Adèle’s well-being. As you will see, Jane is as tenderhearted as she is intelligent. Perhaps she is also responding to the new impulses common with mothers, that sense of attachment that allows a woman to sense when her child needs her. I do not know, but I believe this to be so. We trust that Adèle is merely petulant, as is her wont to be, but concern speeds Jane on her way (and no little guilt that we have been slow to visit before now).
You might ask yourself, who is this stranger who dictates such a fawning letter to the wife of his best friend? I imagine you laughing in wonder, as you ask yourself, who is this man I once knew to be so proud—so stern, so angry, so disgusted with life—who now writes like a mewling youth about his loved one?
I tell you, it is I—and I am Jane Eyre’s husband.
Yours truly,
Edward F. Rochester