Mr. Rochester(143)

“You know my wife’s condition,” I began with hesitation, and both men nodded solemnly and leaned forward as I spoke. Carter had more than once urged me to find a more acceptable accommodation for Bertha; he might even know already of Everson’s as-yet-fruitless search for such a place.

“And I am wondering…” I looked expressly at Everson, for he would know the law. “What are the possibilities for divorce?”

Carter sucked in his breath, likely remembering the vehemence with which I had rejected his earlier mention of the same idea.

Everson contemplated my suggestion for a few moments. “It might be done,” he said cautiously. I could feel the weight of years of worry and care begin to shift on my shoulders.

“Might,” he repeated, turning to Carter. “What is her condition?” he asked.

“She is like an animal,” Carter said. “She is healthy and as strong as an ox, but it is not possible to think of her as anything but an insentient creature.”

Everson shook his head at that. “It has been done,” he admitted. “But with difficulty, and I cannot imagine your doing it successfully in this case. One must go before Parliament and swear that she has been caught in flagrante delicto. There must be witnesses, of course. And you cannot have had congress with her since.”

Certainly the last was not a problem, but the former would be, for I did not know if she had ever had congress with any other man after our marriage. I refused to let my hopes fall yet, though I could see how this would end.

“It’s not possible,” Carter said. “No man would have congress with her, for any amount of money. Nor would she allow it; she would tear him apart.”

Everson nodded agreement. “Parliament has gotten quite sticky on the matter. You would not be the first man to try to rid himself of an inconvenient wife.”

“Inconvenient?” Was that the way the law saw it? A mad wife, with whom one could not reason, upon whom a man could not safely turn his back. A woman who must be locked up to keep her from harming herself or others? Inconvenient? I rose, anger flushing my face.

“Sit down, please, Mr. Rochester,” Carter said.

I turned to him.

“Sir, I beg you to be seated. Let us speak rationally.”

But I could not.

“It is complicated—divorce,” Everson said, staring meaningfully at me. “On the other hand, if there existed—”

But I had caught his meaning. “If there are actually documents—proof—that there was a previous marriage…” From the corner of my eye, I saw Carter start at my words: he had no idea what I meant, but for certain Everson did. “Then my marriage to Bertha is null and void.”

“If,” Everson said.

“If,” I repeated. I still did not believe a prior marriage had happened—but what if it had? And if so, Gerald would be the rightful heir. Was this truly something I could even be wishing for?

“You understand what that means?” Everson asked me.

“I do,” I said. “I would lose Thornfield.” But I would gain Jane.

Carter’s face showed genuine surprise, but Everson’s did not; he was too good a solicitor for that.

“I will see what I can discover,” Everson said. “If that is not a possibility, I have little hope for you, for there are only two grounds for a divorce: one is a prior, undissolved marriage, and the other is if a man cannot be assured that his wife’s progeny are his own. As I said, Parliament is well aware of men—and women—manufacturing assignations for the sole purpose of getting a divorce. They would send out their spies, and it is known in the neighborhood that you have been courting Miss Ingram. Your names would be dragged through the mud, and after all that the divorce would not be granted.”

They were thinking of Miss Ingram, but that was not who would suffer. I could not allow Jane’s name to be sullied that way. “There is no hope, then,” I said. None, unless I gave up Thornfield. The idea was still forming in my mind: could I trade one love, one security, for another?





I could barely sleep that night, my thoughts roiling, and when I did fall into a fitful slumber, my dreams offered no respite: I was a child, wandering through Thornfield-Hall, crying out for my mother, rushing from room to room but finding her nowhere—neither her nor anyone else—Thornfield itself cold, empty, barren.

And when at last I woke, shaken and stunned from my dreams, I rose and washed and dressed numbly. I made my way to the drawing room, where I sat down on the sofa, facing my mother’s portrait. There she stood, staring down at me. What would she have me do? I tried to order my thoughts, but I could not. Caroline Fairfax Rochester. She had been known for her kindness, Mrs. Fairfax had said—how I wished for her kind hand on my shoulder now, to guide me down the right path.