Mr. Rochester(28)

He took in a sudden breath. “Master Rochester?” he said. Then: “Master Rochester! Come in. We had no idea. I am so sorry.”

I stepped into the entrance hall as he retreated to make room for me.

“I am so sorry,” he repeated. “Did you walk? We could have sent a carriage for you! We had no idea—”

“Of course,” I said. “You had no way of knowing I was coming. I had no idea myself twenty-four hours ago. I took a trap from the George.”

“Master Rochester—that is, Master Rowland—is not here,” he said, as if in apology. “It is only Mrs. Knox and Cook and a girl and a footman who are here at the moment.”

“And my father?” I asked.

“Oh,” Holdredge responded, “he is never here; he spends his time at his residences in Liverpool and in London.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, as if I had known of my father’s residences and trying not to show my relief. Just those I wanted to see, and no one I cared not to. “I had no right to assume Rowland would be here. This is an unexpected visit, and a short one.”

“Do come in,” he said. “Into the drawing room?”

“The kitchen if you don’t mind. I would like to see Cook. And Knox.”

He did not react to this at all, so good a butler was Holdredge. “Follow me, please,” he said, and stepped forward and led the way down to the kitchen, where we found Cook and Mrs. Knox enjoying an afternoon cup of tea. When no family was present in the house, I could imagine, this was the kind of relaxed atmosphere that prevailed.

“We have a visitor,” Holdredge announced as we walked into the kitchen.

Automatically, Mrs. Knox rose before she even turned to look. I can see her face still—shock there, and confusion, and then the dawning. “Master Rochester,” she said quietly.

“Oh, my heavens!” Cook proclaimed, rising and running around the table as fast as her bulk allowed. “Master Rochester! Young Master Rochester!” Mindless of the flour on her apron, she pulled me to her bosom, her body suddenly wracked with sobs. “I thought I would never see you again! I thought I would die without ever seeing you again!” When she came to herself and realized how unseemly her outburst had been, she stepped back, her arms at her sides but her face still locked on mine. “It is,” she added, still marveling, “it truly is.”

“Welcome,” Mrs. Knox said.

“Thank you,” I replied. “I know you have not planned for me. And I can go back to the village if necessary. I only have until tomorrow morning, as it is.”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Knox said. “You shall stay here; of course you shall.”

“It would be my greatest pleasure,” I responded.

“Master Rowland is not here,” she added.

“So Holdredge told me.”

“He has gone down to Bath, with his friends.”

With Carrot? I wondered. “No matter,” I said. “In fact, I saw him only a short time ago. I have come to see Thornfield. And you all. Not him.”

Mrs. Knox did not react at all. “And we are delighted to have you,” she said. “Are you sure you can stay only until morning?”

“I’m sorry, but yes. I must be back in Harrogate by this time tomorrow.”

“I shall make your favorite tea,” Cook said. “Is it still pork and kidney pie?”

“It is indeed.” It was then that my eye was caught by a movement in the shadows of a corner. It was a young woman—perhaps a few years older than I, square built, with a kind of wary cast to her eyes. I had seen such looks on some of the children in the mill. “Hello there,” I said, to put her at her ease.

Shrinking back, she stared at me.

Mrs. Knox glanced at her and at me and back at her, but it was Cook who spoke up. “It’s Gracie, Master Rochester. Jem’s sister.”

“Of course,” I said, though I would never have recognized her. I remembered my occasional playmate Gracie as something of a daredevil, but her spirit seemed to have deserted her. “Is Jem still here?” I asked, out of politeness—to change the subject—and from curiosity about my other old friends.

The young woman looked at Mrs. Knox to respond to my question, and then turned quickly away, as if fearing I would ask another.

“Master Rowland let Jem go,” Mrs. Knox said.

“He doesn’t keep horses?” I asked. That did not seem like Rowland.

“Oh, he does,” she responded. “But Jem got into a bit of trouble and—”

“Trouble?”

Mrs. Knox shook her head, and I understood not to push the subject. But still— “Where is Jem now, then?”