But I was on my own. I was on my own—except for Jane. It was Jane who grounded me, Jane who knew me to my very soul. It was Jane whom I could never give up—not my life as a landed gentleman, not the Ingrams, not Bertha, not even my ancestral home. If I had to choose, I would let nothing, not even…not even Thornfield itself stand in the way.
Chapter 18
I left for Millcote without even breakfasting, At Gerald’s inn, I pounded on his door until, half-dressed, he opened it. I imagine we both were surprised at this first meeting: I at the way he, even dark haired, resembled my brother, and he, perhaps not even knowing who I was, surely startled at my slightly mad appearance.
“You call yourself ‘Rochester,’” I said, the accusation clear.
“It is my name: Gerald Rochester. And you, I assume, are my uncle.”
I would not acknowledge that. “Why have you come?”
“To see my mother, why else?” It dawned on me that I did not know if he was aware that his mother was my wife.
“Why else?” I repeated. “One does not go to a solicitor if one is merely trying to establish a familial connection.”
He looked me straight in the eye. “But we are connected, are we not?” In a sudden motion, he stepped back from the doorway, saying, “Why don’t you come in?”
I advise you not to speak with him except in my presence. I hesitated just a moment, and then, Everson’s advice be damned, I stepped into the room, and he motioned me to the only chair, while he sat on the unmade bed. “Do you know where your mother is?” I asked.
“I know that she is in your protection. Does she live at Thornfield-Hall, perhaps?”
I steeled myself. “Do you know what state she is in?”
“What do you mean by that? I presume she is treated well.”
“Your mother is mad. Insane. She does not take visitors. She would not recognize you; she would not know you; you might very well not want to see her in her condition.”
“I would want to see my mother in any condition.”
I had already opened my mouth in riposte, but this stopped me. See my mother in any condition. Could I fault him for that? “Have you met her brother?” I asked.
“I was at Valley View,” he said, “but my uncle Mason was not there. He lives in Madeira, I was told. In Madeira they said he had come here.”
“Indeed, he was here, and visited your mother and she attacked him for his trouble and nearly killed him.”
He did not react to that revelation. Instead, there was steel in his eyes as he said, “And my father: your brother?”
Could he possibly know how much he resembled Rowland? But of course he could, for those who had taken him to America must surely have known Rowland in Jamaica. Still: “I have no reason to think my brother was your father,” I said.
“You have only to look at me,” he responded, leaning close, his face nearly in mine.
“My brother is dead, these many years ago.”
“And I have come to claim my inheritance as his son.”
And now he comes to it. “Son or no son, the inheritance is not yours, unless you have proof of a marriage,” I countered.
“I do have proof.”
That stopped me for a moment. What kind of proof could he have? “Show me.”
“First, let me see my mother. I have a right to see her.”
I could not deny that. I did not want to allow it, but it hardly seemed decent to deny a man his mother. But I did not need to tell him that yet. “You have no right to see anyone you claim as a mother but cannot prove; you do not resemble her. You do not carry her surname.”
“I carry her husband’s name: her husband, Rowland, your brother.”
“And yet you show no proof. If you expect to see her, much less to claim an inheritance, you will show proof of legal marriage first.”
“If you are looking for legal proof, the parish records were destroyed in the hurricane of October 1818; but I have a letter—two, in fact—from your father, Mr. George Howell Rochester, to my grandfather, Mr. Jonas Mason, referring to the marriage of his son to my mother.”
I stifled a gasp. So the proof did exist—Rowland and Bertha had wed after all. Unless— “His son? Which son?” I demanded, before realizing I should not play my hand, if Gerald did not know about my own marriage. Then I tried covering my mistake: “You have the letters with you?”
“My solicitor has them—for safekeeping.”
“In that case, tell your solicitor to arrange a meeting at my solicitor’s. We will settle this thing there.”
As soon as I could, I went to Everson, telling him what had happened, and sitting through his disgust that I had gone against his orders. But when he had finished scolding me, he admitted an interest in Gerald’s supposed proof. “It is not a copy of the record,” I pointed out, “only letters, because the record was destroyed.” His eyebrows rose at that, but he said, “It’s not usual, but letters might do. It is possible. Let us see them and do our best to determine if they are genuine. When I hear from his solicitor, I will inform you.”