Page 18 of John Eyre

Villa Striges

Athens, Greece

Friday, 9 September 1842

Dearest Blanche, —

Apologies for the delay. What a domestic dustup we’ve had! You will never believe it, but I’ve been writing to you often these past weeks, and only noticed yesterday that you’ve yet to send a reply. On further investigation, I discovered that one of the servants at the villa has failed to deliver your letters, or to post any of mine. Heaven knows why. Mrs. Wren says it’s pure laziness and has fired the girl. She tells me that she’ll be taking personal responsibility for the post from now on, but I’m loath to inconvenience her with my private correspondence and have set Mr. Poole to the task.

Along with domestic troubles, we’ve also had a tragedy in the village to contend with. The body of a local woman was found on Friday. She was mauled by some manner of wild animal. No one knows for certain what kind of animal it was, but we have all been advised to remain on our guard after dark. It’s put me rather on edge, especially as most of my activities of late take place in the evening. I’m eagerly anticipating cooler weather in hopes that Mr. Rochester can better tolerate the temperatures, and I can once again resume a daylight existence.

He and I have been spending more time together in the evenings. Mrs. Wren has lately been ill, and often retires to her room while Mr. Rochester and I dine or go out together to stroll about the village. You will, perhaps, think it not very appropriate that I should spend so much time in his company unchaperoned, but Mr. Rochester is the soul of propriety. Indeed, his manners are faultless. I frequently joke that he has the sensibilities of a much older gentleman—a courtier from centuries gone by.

But though I feel a definite fondness for him—and flatter myself that he cherishes the same sentiment toward me—that fondness has never been put into words. He’s not said a thing to me that could ever be construed as a passionate declaration, nor made any attempt to do more than shake my hand. I own to being a trifle frustrated. There have been many moments when some greater expression of affection would have been welcome, and most happily so.

Have I done wrong to remain so long in company with Mr. Rochester and his sister? The villa in which we’ve taken up residence is in every way agreeable, but the servants answer to Mrs. Wren, not to me. I keenly feel my lack of power here, and my lack of independence. Perhaps it’s time for me to strike out on my own again? Then again, it can surely do no harm to remain a while longer. The warm friendship I’ve developed with my host and hostess does much to compensate for my misgivings.

Enough about me. Let me hear from you, dearest! Tell me what the weather is like in Millcote, and who has come to call since last you wrote. Anything more about the vicar in Hay? Is he still as promising a prospect as you first surmised? Enclose a sketch of him when next you write, and I shall tell you precisely what I think.

I must dash now. Mr. Poole is walking into the village, and awaits my letter to post. I pray you will receive it directly.

All my love to you,

Bertha

Villa Striges

Athens, Greece

Monday, 17 October 1842

Darling Blanche, —

How pleased I was to receive your letter this morning—and how angry I am at our former servant for having disposed of your previous ones, for I realize now just how much I’ve missed of the goings-on in Millcote and Hay. Thank you, my dear, for so patiently catching me up with the state of things. I am, of course, overjoyed to hear that your vicar has asked leave of your father to pay court to you. Judging from the portrait you enclosed, I must conclude he’s as sensible as he is handsome.

I have some good news of my own to share, though I fear you will find it comes rather too quickly. It is this: Mr. Rochester has proposed to me.

As you’ll no doubt guess from my last letter, his proposal was entirely unexpected. How was I to know he was even contemplating such a course? After more than two months in each other’s company, we had settled into a companionable enough relationship, but he never once made any direct overtures until last evening. (As to that, I will tell you all, my dear, but you must promise to burn this letter after reading it. If it fell into the wrong hands, it would compromise me utterly.)

You see, Mrs. Wren has been away this week. She was obliged to travel inland on a matter of business. I was given the choice of accompanying her—an unpleasant prospect, especially with that wild creature still roaming about. It’s mauled another villager, can you believe it? The fellow was found near the beach in a most dreadful state. Regrettably, he succumbed to his wounds before he could describe what manner of animal had attacked him.

The villagers have been frightened. They’re a superstitious people and have come up with all kinds of theories, none of which have the slightest connection to reality. Common sense says that there must be a wolf or bear hereabouts. One with hydrophobia, perhaps. It gives me shivers to think of encountering such a creature. Hence my decision to remain at the villa with Mr. Rochester. You see, I hold my life slightly more valuable than I hold my reputation. An unpopular opinion for a lady in my position, I know.

Naturally, I’m still attended by Agnes and Mr. Poole, though neither was accompanying me on this particular night. Mr. Rochester suggested we go for a walk along the beach. The sea was in turmoil, the waves crashing mightily on the shore. It was there he first took me in his arms and kissed me. Not a friendly kiss like you and I have shared, nor a kiss one might receive from a gentleman beneath the mistletoe. This was altogether different. To begin with, it lasted much longer than any kiss I’ve ever had before. I won’t go into intimate detail, except to say that, when coupled with the passion of his embrace, it was all rather thrilling.

Sometime later, he confessed that he had come to care for me deeply. To love me, in fact, and that it was his fondest wish that I would consent to be his wife. He even produced a ring—a blood ruby on a band of gold, not too dissimilar to one worn by his sister. A family heirloom, he said. Part of a valuable set, hundreds of years old.

Dearest, you know what my feelings have been about marriage. How determinedly I resisted the pressure of my parents and of Yorkshire society. But this is quite a different matter. I’m no longer an inexperienced girl, languishing in the country. I’m a woman, grown. A woman who has seen the world, and who knows her own mind better than she ever has before.

It’s true my attorney, Mr. Hughes, has been urging me to marry. I expect he thinks a husband will manage my fortune and property better than I will myself. But Mr. Hughes’s advice has had no influence on my decision. The simple truth is, I believe that marrying Mr. Rochester will be the greatest adventure of my life. He’s unlike any gentleman I have ever met, or am ever likely to meet again. I’d be a fool to refuse him. And I am no fool.

Be happy for me, my dear.

Your own,

Bertha

Thornfield Hall