Mr. Rochester(27)

“Who is that man?” the sister asked, and Mrs. Wilson came to her senses and turned to glance at me.

“Why, that’s Eddie,” she said.

“That’s not Eddie,” the sister said.

“Of course it is!” Mrs. Wilson said in her cheeriest voice.

“Not our Eddie,” the sister insisted.

Mrs. Wilson laughed. “No, Ella, not our Eddie. But he is still a very nice young man. He brought me here to you.” And she attempted the introduction. “Ella, this is Edward Rochester, whom Mr. Wilson has taken under his wing and who lives with us—”

“Who is Mr. Wilson?” the sister asked.

“My husband. John Wilson. You know him.” The sister looked blankly at her, but she continued on. “And, Eddie, this is my sister, Miss Little.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Little,” I said, stepping forward, making a bow.

But Miss Little shrank back, as if afraid I would strike her. “This is not Eddie, and I don’t want him in my house!”

“No, dear,” Mrs. Brewer put in, “it’s not your brother, Eddie. But he is a friend of your sister’s; surely he can stay.”

“No, he cannot,” Miss Little said, her voice rising. “I do not want him here, Cassie. He is not Eddie and there is no reason to pretend that he is, and I will not have some strange man staying under my roof!”

Mrs. Wilson glanced helplessly at Mrs. Brewer, for neither one knew how to handle the situation. But I did. “That is quite all right, madam,” I said. “I can just as easily stay at the inn. It’s not far and, anyway, you two sisters probably have a lot to talk about.” Though I had no idea how that could be, as Miss Little seemed to live in another world.

“Would you mind terribly?” Mrs. Wilson asked.

“No, of course not.”

“You could come back for tea, surely,” Mrs. Wilson said, looking at Mrs. Brewer.

“Maybe it would be best if I stay away,” I said. “I seem to disturb your sister; the less she sees of me, the better.”

“But, Eddie—”

“I shall be perfectly fine,” I interrupted. “Mr. Wilson said you could stay for two days. I shall return to fetch you then.”

“But what will you do at the inn all that time?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I have a friend not far from here. Would you mind if I visit him in the interim?”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Wilson said. “It will ease my mind if I know you are occupied.”

Relieved, I turned to Mrs. Brewer. “Please don’t bother to see me to the door. I will just run upstairs and find my bag and be off.” I did not even care if I seemed to be in a hurry to leave, for, indeed, I was.

Unfortunately, I had to spend the night at the inn, as it was too late to catch a coach to Millcote, but I took one early the next morning, and shortly after noon I was at the George Inn, which I had not seen in the nearly eight years since I had left for Black Hill. I knew I had limited time, so with most of the “emergency money” Mr. Wilson had given me, I hired a trap to take me directly to Thornfield-Hall, which took another good hour. I was anxious all the way, almost ripping the whip from the driver’s hand to urge the horse on faster. The George and the countryside around it all seemed so familiar that I could scarcely believe it was not a dream. I gripped the handrail as the trap rolled over the old hills and across the little bridges, and then, suddenly, Thornfield lay before me, settled into its quiet valley, the November mists curling around it.

At the gate, the trap stopped and I descended, paying the driver and asking him to return by ten the next morning, and I picked up my small bag, opened the gate, and walked up the long drive. All the way from Harrogate I had tried to work out what I would say to Rowland when I turned up at his door, but despite that I could not think what to say, I also could not pass up an opportunity to be at Thornfield-Hall again. As for my father, I did have a good excuse to be gone from the mill, though perhaps not a good one to be at Thornfield. Never mind, I told myself; I was not going to allow myself to miss this chance.

The place was quiet as I approached, no evidence at all of activity. It flew into my head that it had all been a lie of Rowland’s, that Thornfield-Hall was indeed closed and empty, but then I saw drifts of smoke coming from the chimneys, and with a lighter step I hurried forward.

It was Holdredge who opened the door for me. After nearly eight years he still appeared the same, but he clearly did not recognize me. “It is I,” I said at last. “Edward. Edward Rochester.”