Mr. Rochester(155)

I reminded her gently that none of her other dreams had come true, and half succeeded in convincing her, I thought, that it was a matter of nerves. But then she rejoined: in the light of broad day, she had seen her fine new wedding veil, lying on the carpet, torn in half.

I clung to her, wishing I could erase the event from her mind, erase it from time altogether. Now it was clear: it was not just I who was in danger from the madwoman—Jane herself was at risk. How could I protect her now? Would this terror never end?

Struggling to control my voice, I offered an explanation: It was—it must have been—Grace Poole, I said. She’d seen how oddly the servant had acted in the past. In her half sleep, Jane had imagined Grace as a monster. I comforted her in as cheery a voice as I could muster, making it up as I went, desperate to hide the truth for one more day. After the wedding, when we were on our honeymoon, Bertha could be moved away somewhere—anywhere. Grace Poole’s good name deserved better than this, but there was little to be done for it now, knowing my clear-sighted, rational Jane would wonder why Grace was allowed to remain at Thornfield-Hall. I hinted that Grace’s tenure at Thornfield represented a burden and debt I had taken on and must repay, but that when we were married a year and a day I would tell her the whole of it. I would have liked to tell her immediately, to hear her lift my burden with the blessing of her trust and love, to have her tell me that I was not wrong in the clear eyes of God and morality to think I deserved a better life than the one I had been dealt. But I dared not tell her now, while I could still lose her.

Jane, bless her, seemed content with what I had to say. I urged her to sleep with Adèle in the nursery and to lock the door. If I could just get her safely to morning, to our exchange of vows, we would be off to London for our honeymoon and a happy life together.

She did as I suggested, and as soon as she was settled, I climbed to the third floor and let myself into the chamber. All was quiet there, Bertha pacing in silence in her room, and Grace sitting up in the outer room, relishing the one mug of porter I allowed her each night. “She was out again last night,” I said quietly.

I could tell by Grace’s expression that she had not known. “Does the porter make you sleepy?” I asked.

She rose in umbrage at that. “I keep my promises. I do my duties.”

“She nearly attacked Miss Eyre,” I hissed at her.

She shrugged. “In another day you will be shut of us, off on your honeymoon.”

Indeed. I held her eyes, torn between rage at her impertinence and the knowledge that I could not risk losing her service the way I had lost Molly’s.

“Thousands of people better off than her are kept in asylums,” she added, and I think I saw pity in her eyes.

“You have served me well all these years, Grace, and I appreciate that.”

She nodded.

“And have you saved enough by now?”

She smiled her gap-toothed smile. “It is never enough.”

I left her with that. Nothing is ever enough. One thinks one has done enough, and it turns out not to be so; one thinks nothing else could go wrong but is mistaken in the end. And yet, as I left the chamber, the big clock downstairs chimed and I told myself that in a few hours, my new life would begin.





Chapter 22



All night, half-awake, half-asleep, I dreamed of our future. Our travels in Europe, a happier place now that we were together; our return to Thornfield, which would remain my own. I imagined, even, children exploring the woods as I had once done and dawdling their way through the orchard, picking cherries or plums; running recklessly through the rooms and up and down the stairs; dragging mud through the kitchens; laughing and squealing in delight; Mrs. Fairfax, perhaps frowning in disapproval but silent, because Jane and I were delighted simply in the life we were afforded. Bertha would remain my secret, and I would guard Jane well and secure our happiness, no matter what man’s law might think of me. Had I not earned this? Had I not acquitted myself as well as or better than any man in my position would have done? Jane and I loved each other as equals: I had been willing to give up Thornfield for Jane and had convinced myself her love for me was surely stronger than her moral stubbornness. If she knew, she would forgive me. But she need never know.

I rose that morning with the sun, watching the deep shades of the orchard lighten, the shadows shorten. I made my ablutions and dressed, slowly and carefully, letting the import of the morning enter fully into my mind. In less than three hours, and then less than two, Jane would be at my side in the little church. She would be mine—all else be damned. She would want this; she loved me. I could not believe my fortune.