Mr. Rochester(141)

“Have you known all this time that there was another possible heir? Can he be discredited?”

“I don’t know. Bertha often cried out for a lost baby, but I always assumed it was merely the ranting of a madwoman. But when Molly, her Jamaican servant, left, she told me there had indeed been a baby that was taken away. Bertha was only thirteen, poor child. And, recently, I asked her brother, Richard, and he confirmed it.”

“And her brother said…,” he prompted.

“That, yes, there was a male child, who was sent with friends to be raised in America. And the father was my brother. Richard does not believe there had been a marriage.”

Everson nodded. “Would he testify to that?”

“I have no idea what he would testify to.”

“A child born out of wedlock, or even born of a marriage that is not considered a proper one—that is, outside of a church or without the proper banns—is considered filius nullius: the child of no one. If he cannot provide proof of a proper marriage, that is what he is in the eyes of Chancery: the child of no one.”

I sat for some time in silence. “And we do not know if he has proof,” I mused.

“In the meantime,” he said sternly, “I advise you not to speak with him except in my presence.”

I nodded. “Have you had an opportunity to look for a suitable house for my wife?”

“I have begun, but as you know, a house as you’ve described is not easily come by. But my inquiries continue.”

“Very well,” I said. “And as for Gerald Rochester, or whatever his name is, let it be understood that he is not to come to Thornfield again as long as I am master there.”

“Indeed,” he said.





As I waited for news from Everson, and waited as well for news from Jane, I confess a sour mood overtook me. It felt as if she had been gone for years. She will not return, I thought. She is gone. And worse: I do not deserve her. I wanted to banish those thoughts from my mind, but they would not leave. I loved her—I knew that—and I wanted her; I could not see how I could live without her at my side. But for me to insist that she, unknowing, ally herself with me, a man married already to a madwoman, was beyond all bounds. She was young, innocent, pure. I myself had been that once, but I had crumbled to an ugliness that could lay no claim on one such as Jane; and, now, if I lost Thornfield, I would have nothing left to offer her.

But Adèle would not let me wallow in such dreary thoughts; once I returned from London and Gateshead, the lonely child had insistently become my daily companion. One morning I ordered Sophie to dress Adèle in her oldest clothes, for I had something in mind. I had been watching the haymakers, the rhythm of their work, as steady and insistent as a heartbeat, and although my help was not needed, an unexpected urge came upon me to become a part of that tableau.

Searching for old clothes for Adèle was like hoping to locate an oak tree growing in the drawing room, for the child carelessly discarded clothing long before it was outgrown. But finally something suitable was found, and, with Adèle’s hand in mine, I led her down the lane and into the fields. There I took a spare rake and set myself to work with the laborers. I could see the stifled smiles at my ineptness, but never mind, it was good for me to be out in the sun and the open air. The work cleared my mind, and the sun on my back, the unfamiliar aches, blotted out nearly every other care.

Adèle, meanwhile, scampered here and there, gathering hay in her arms and ferrying it to stacks we laborers were forming. She delighted in the activity for a time but soon grew bored and begged me for a ride in the pony cart, not relenting until I gave up and walked with her back to the Hall, where we harnessed up the pony cart and took ourselves to the village and back.

But that was only one day out of so many. I missed Jane more than I could have imagined—that staunch little friend, as pert as a wren, as steady as a rock: how had I let her go so easily? Why had I not accompanied her? I would have made sure she was not treated badly, not insulted as she once had been at that house. And I would have ensured she did not find another position elsewhere. I would have brought her home to Thornfield-Hall, where she belonged.

On some afternoons, while the sunlight lingered, I took a book and sat on the narrow steps of a stile on a small knoll. It afforded me a view at once vast and pleasant, and, more important, an opportunity to see the road, to see if a coach came, to watch Jane alight with her small box, home at last. I tried to write but could not focus my thoughts, imagining my dear one patiently suffering through her time with her cousin Reeds, insulted and demeaned beyond all reason.