Return To Thornfield

As the time drew near, I became more and more persuaded that I would not return alive from this venture, that St John would drive me with whip and tongue, as he might a mare or bitch, until no more use could be had of me, and I might be allow to slip away into my rest in some foreign graveyard. Filled with this foreboding of his coming use of me, I wished to make my farewells of all that I had known in England, and especially Thornfield, where my thoughts often strayed, despite the service I had pledged to St John.

Accordingly I set off, a week before I was to make my final vows, taking the stage to a coaching inn, not far from Mr Rochester's estate. There I asked for news of him, and sorry news it was.

It seemed that, after I had fled, he had gone near mad, looking for me, sending men in all directions, putting advertisements in the county and the London papers, pursuing every lead. His enquiries were brought to an abrupt end by a great fire at Thornfield, that destroyed, not only the house, but its Master as well, or as makes little difference, for he was blind and crippled. I learnt all this from the innkeeper, who had seen the flames rising and gone to give assistance, but could tell me no more of how my Master fared. I set off myself across the fields to view the sorry remains, the great house as blind as its Master, the empty sockets of the windows staring unseeing across a deserted park. In the lodge I found one of the servants, who remembered me, and told me all.

It would appear that the conflagration was started by Bertha, who had escaped her jailor, Grace Poole, once again, and was roaming the house, naked and intent on revenge for the whipping she had had for attacking me. Failing to find me, for I was long gone, she had set fire to the house and then, while men strove to contain it and rescue the contents, she was seen running, still bare and manic, from room to room on the upper floor.

Mr Rochester had torn himself free from those who would restrain him, and rushed into the burning building to try and rescue her, despite the injury she had caused him. He got no further than the hallway when the entire floor above collapsed, carrying her to her death, they found what was left of her the next day. Her would-be rescuer was trapped by a falling beam, which destroyed his left hand, and one eye, damaging the optic nerve so severely that he was blind in the other too.

Helpers extricated him and dragged him clear, and now he lived at one of his other, smaller and more remote, properties, cared for by the groom, John, and his wife Mary, who had been a maid at the Hall. Blessing the fortune that had made me rich and independent, able to buy what services I needed in haste, I hired the innkeeper's chaise, and a boy to drive it, and set off for the Manor that very hour.

I arrived in the evening, and sent the chaise back to the inn. Entering the Manor, I was greeted by Mary, who wanted all my news, when I only wanted news of him. She had prepared a tray for the Master's supper, and I took it in her stead. When I came to his door, I knocked and was bidden enter. My heart leapt at the loved voice. I brought the tray to where he sat, slumped in his chair where he could feel the fire.

"Thank you, Mary," he said, "set it on the table. I have no appetite at present."

"But you must eat," I said, "you must restore your strength and health."

He started upright, amazed.

"Who's that," he cried. "Mary is that you?"

"Mary is busy, so I brought your tray myself," I said.

He clasped his hands to his poor blind face.

"I go mad," he cried, "now I do not just think of her every minute, but I hear her voice as well."

"And why should you not," I asked, "since I am here?"

Again he groaned.

"It is a delusion. I am demented."

"It is no delusion, Sir," I assured him. "Here. See." I unbuttoned the bodice of my travelling habit and placed his one good hand inside, folding his fingers on my breast, his thumb pressing the hard erectile nipple, "do you not recognise its feel? Or, perhaps, this is more familiar, you used it often enough, though usually with a rod in your hand," and I reached under my skirts to drop my drawers, moving his hand to grasp the roundness of my buttocks.

He thrust his face into my soft hairy nest, now uncovered, pressing his lips to those lips of mine that nestled there.

"Jane. Jane," he murmured, his voice muted by the muff he nuzzled. "It is you, I know your scent, your taste. Stay with me a while. Do not leave me yet."

"I will never leave you, Sir," I replied. "You are my Master, and my place is at your feet."