Mr. Rochester(147)

“Mother, it’s me,” he said more forcefully.

“Took my baby, where’s my baby, where’s my baby, where’s my baby,” she muttered almost incoherently. Should I have warned him that she would not understand? Yes, undoubtedly. But I did not. I was curious as to how this would play out.

“I am he,” Gerald insisted, his eyes searching his mother’s face, which was growing more feral by the minute. “I am your son and I have—”

His words were swallowed by her scream. Again he persisted, his voice rising to match hers, as if her understanding were only a matter of hearing him. “I am here, Mother. I have finally found you!”

“Gaaaa, gaaaa!” She let out a wail that could be heard throughout the house, and she clawed at him as he stood, frozen in horror. It was only Grace’s quick reflexes that saved him. She leaped across the room and pulled a snarling and growling Bertha away.

“Gerald,” I said, “come.”

“No,” he said. He now stood halfway across the room, unwilling to approach his mother but unwilling, too, to leave her. But her cries were growing louder now, and I knew Grace would not be able to contain her forever. I took him by the shoulders and pushed him from the room and down the stairs, slamming the door behind me.

By the time we reached the gallery, he was furious and in tears. “What have you done to her?” he demanded.

“I told you. She is mad, and she cannot be cured. Her own mother was the same.”

But he would hear none of it. “You have done this to her! She was the most beautiful girl in Jamaica…” His eyes blazed dark fury, and he swung at me, his fist barely missing my jaw and landing on my shoulder instead.

I tried to guide him toward the stairs, but he swung again and this time hit his mark, and then came another blow, and by the third I was swinging back, and we tumbled to the floor, two grown men fighting and tussling like common ruffians.

I was less skilled, perhaps, but stronger, and I rose from him, straightening my clothes, but he stayed at my feet, staring furiously at me. “What have you done to her?” he demanded again, his voice steely.

I shook my head and walked away, for there was nothing I could say in response to that. I waited at the top of the staircase for him to regain his mind. But when he did, all he could do was stomp past me and down the stairs and glower back in at me from the door in that dark fury, before he dusted off his hat and left.

What had we been thinking, two gentlemen brawling like villians? Or was that how things were done in America? It seemed an eternity to wait for the proof to go through the courts; but, I reminded myself, in four short weeks, I would be free of Bertha and her whole accursed clan forever.





That very evening I was reading in the library, waiting for Jane to join me after putting Adèle to bed, when I happened to catch a movement from out of the window. I raised my head, and there Jane was, walking toward the orchard. It had become a favorite place for her, as it had always been for me, and I stood at the casement and watched her small figure disappearing into the beech avenue on the other side of the gate.

I followed. She was not in sight, and her soft step was impossible to detect among the evening birdsong and the wind rustling in the beeches. But she was there in the garden still, I knew, for though I could not see or hear her, I felt her presence. As I wandered, I popped a cherry from an espaliered tree into my mouth, tasting its refreshing sweetness; I bent closely to a rose to smell its fragrance. Oh, how I would miss this garden! It was strange to think of it as Rowland’s before me, and Gerald’s after. But such is the life of an object; it is the human connections that are irreplaceable, and I had come, tonight, to claim mine.

I could feel Jane beyond me; I touched the velvet petals of a yellow rose and saw a drop of evening dew slide down. Evening had always been my favorite time of day at Thornfield; I could have lived my life in it. A brightly colored moth caught my eye, and I bent to watch as it lighted as delicately as a breath on a patch of pinks.

“Jane, come and look at this fellow,” I murmured.

When the moth flew, I looked up and caught her retreating. “Turn back,” I said to her. “On so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house; and surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at meeting with moonrise.”

She came and walked with me but remained a step behind, as if her mind were on other things. We strolled like that in comfortable silence for some time. Troubled as I was by the bittersweet knowledge that I would soon have to take my leave of Thornfield, I nonetheless felt the delicious anticipation of tonight’s task. But how does one begin?