Page 33 of John Eyre

Forgive the delay in writing. We’ve been traveling, and I’m only now at liberty to respond to your (rather severe) letter. You’re perfectly right to scold me for being so changeable. My only excuse is that I knew so little of the world before now. It was easy to vow that I’d never marry when the sole contenders for my hand were a trio of Yorkshire mill owners and farmers, none of whom had anything more than their bank balances to recommend them.

You ask if I love Mr. Rochester. In truth, I don’t know. I feel a great physical affection for him, certainly. An attraction unlike any I’ve ever known. But what is love, really? Nothing but a lofty ideal, to my mind. Such ideals are easy to adhere to when no temptation exists to challenge them.

Which isn’t to say that Mr. Rochester is a mere temptation. He’s a worthy man, I promise you, and a fascinating one, with such a way about him. Whenever we’re out together in the evenings, he draws people to him like a magnet. No one can resist his subtle charm. He could have dozens of ladies at the snap of his fingers if he wanted them, and has no reason to have “set his sights on me” as you so unflatteringly put it. No reason other than that he finds me equally worthy of attention—equally fascinating in my own way.

You and I have long been special friends, and I trust we shall always be so, no matter what direction our lives take. Do you imagine that, if you married your vicar, I would be jealous? Of course not! I would rejoice in your happiness. Can you not do the same for me?

The tone of your last letter makes me reluctant to share the following, for I know it might serve to deepen the rift between us. But here it is: Mr. Rochester and I were married last week. We are now husband and wife.

You will reproach me for marrying so far away from home. No doubt you’ll say I should have waited so that I could be wed in the church at Hay, among all of my friends and neighbors. But our decision to wed in Greece owes more to logic than to sentiment. My new husband is obliged to return to his ancestral home for a short time. It is an old Bulgarian estate, some seventy miles north of Varna. He inherited it from his mother’s people, and has many distant relations there who will be wanting to meet me before we return to England.

And yes, my dear, I am returning home. My husband is very keen on coming to England, and can speak of little else. Our visit to Bulgaria will be only a brief one. Through the winter, I expect, with plans to depart for Thornfield Hall sometime in the spring. You may write to me care of the consulate at Varna. I’ve enclosed their direction.

Pray don’t be worried for me. I’m still quite capable of looking after myself—much to my new husband’s dismay. Since the incidences of that wild beast near our villa, I’ve taken to carrying my Nock percussion pistol in a specially made pocket of my skirt. It seemed unimportant at the time, such that I never thought to share the fact with Mr. Rochester. But as we traveled up the coast from Athens, I had occasion to use my pistol, and fear I shocked the poor man.

The sun had set, and our coach had come to a lonely road. As I was out stretching my legs, a creature approached. I glimpsed it in the moonlight—a great beast rustling inside the bushes—and sensed it was about to spring. Drawing my pistol, I leveled it and fired. I didn’t kill the creature, but whatever it was (a bear?), it fled for its life. As I returned my pistol to its pocket, I saw my husband regarding me with a very strange expression. He asked me where I had got it, and I told him that it was mine, but not to fear, for I knew full well how to use it, and all manner of weaponry, my father having taught me.

Oh, Blanche, if you could have seen the look on Mr. Rochester’s face! It’s a giddy feeling to surprise someone like that. And to impress them, too, for I believe he was impressed by my skill. He never said so, but during the remainder of the journey, I frequently observed him studying me—with a newfound respect, I daresay.

There’s so much more I long to share with you. All the details of my wedding ceremony, and other, more personal details, too. But I won’t do so. Not until I can be assured you will receive such confidences with a spirit of friendship. It pains me that we are at odds. What would I do without my bosom friend to confide in? Be happy for me, my dear.

Your devoted,

Bertha

Krepostta Nosht-Vŭlk

Senniskali, Bulgaria

Tuesday, 10 January 1843

Dearest Blanche, —

My sincerest apologies for my failure to write. I have been these seven weeks ensconced in Mr. Rochester’s house on the Bulgarian coast, a veritable prisoner of the inclement weather. House, I say. In truth, it’s a fortress, located high atop the cliffs overlooking the Black Sea, far from any semblance of civilization. It’s quite medieval, really, composed almost entirely of massive old stone, with sunken doorways, broken battlements, and high iron-barred windows that admit no sunlight. Carved figures loom at every corner, worn to unrecognizability by time and weather. Wolves, I believe they once were.

The only modernization to Nosht-Vŭlk (what the natives call the estate) has been to the room in which my husband keeps his antiquities. It is a vault lined with deep shelves and glass cases of ancient texts and strange statuary, tablets, and jars. These artifacts come from all around the globe. Not only Egypt, but Asia, Europe, and even the New World. In the vault they’re sheltered from light and extremes of temperature, preserved in a near perfect state.

Mr. Rochester keeps the door locked. It even has a bar on the interior so that while he’s inside with his collection, no one can burst in and disturb him. I’ve been permitted to view his treasures on occasion, and have determined that the vault is, by far, the most comfortable room in the house.

Mind you, I’m not complaining, except to say that when combined with our isolated location, the weather has made correspondence nearly impossible. The village post is unreliable at the best of times, and the servants my new husband employs even more so. Not a one of them speaks a word of English, and though I was assured they had a rudimentary grasp of French, when I address them in it, they pretend not to understand me.

To make matters worse, my maid, Agnes, has left me, without giving the courtesy of notice. She simply disappeared one evening. I discovered her absence the following morning when she didn’t come to my room to help me dress, and only later discovered that she’d hired a calèche to take her to Varna, and from there no doubt returned to Greece. She even took my pistol, if you can believe it. I daresay she was frightened. She must have been to embark on a journey in all of this snow.

It’s an odd thing, for she gave no indication of fear or unhappiness. Indeed, she was a hearty creature, and a loyal one, too. The native girl Mrs. Wren has found to replace her isn’t half as competent. She has a sly way about her, which makes me reluctant to trust her with anything.

Mr. Poole still abides with me, thank heaven. Though I’ve begun to fear that he, too, will depart any day, if not for home, then for more favorable accommodations outside of my husband’s influence. I scarcely know if such a place exists hereabouts. When meeting Mr. Rochester and Mrs. Wren in Cairo, I had no idea they were such important people. The way the locals address them, one would think my husband and his sister were royalty. The villagers all but bow and scrape. Meanwhile, they look on me with expressions of suspicion, sometimes going so far as to cross themselves when they think I’m not looking.

It’s strange, really, for the Bulgarian villagers we met as we traveled to Varna were exceedingly hospitable. I’d expected the same from the residents of Senniskali, the rural village at the foot of my husband’s estate. However, the villagers hereabouts have not been welcoming to me at all. I begin to wonder if they’re even Bulgarian. I asked Mr. Rochester about this, but he would only admit to them being a diverse group, owing to recent wars in the region. Mrs. Wren was a bit more forthcoming, telling me that most of the original inhabitants of Senniskali had died out long ago and have since been replaced with Romani settlers.

Our position high atop the cliffs means that we are constantly buffeted by sea winds. At any given time, one can hear the crash of the waves roaring more than two hundred feet below. It is an unsettling sound, made more so by the emptiness of the skies above. Unlike the Yorkshire coast, there are no sea birds squawking. No avian life of any kind hereabouts that I’ve seen.

I was assured we would only be staying through the winter, but now even that appears uncertain. Mr. Rochester has been consumed with business. Something about his investments in the West Indies. He hasn’t confided in me as yet. I must own I am disappointed. In Greece, as in Egypt, he professed to value my opinions. Here, however, he is content to keep his own counsel.

As before, much of our time together is restricted to the evenings. He says that the sun gives him headaches and causes weakness in his limbs. I had thought his ailment a mere intolerance to the blazing heat of Egypt and Athens, but it is, apparently, something of a graver nature—a rare sensitivity, the management of which he has been navigating his entire existence. I’ve made it my mission to help him find a cure for his ailment, and have spent many hours in my husband’s library poring over old medical texts and books of folk remedies.

I won’t say that Mr. Rochester appreciates my efforts. Indeed, I suspect he hasn’t wholly acclimated to being married. He still considers Nosht-Vŭlk to be entirely his. All of my attempts to learn about its management have been firmly rebuffed—as have my efforts to take household matters in hand. He has even gone so far as to forbid me from exploring certain parts of the fortress. He claims that there are floors above and below with rotting wood, and other dangerous conditions. It isn’t safe, he says, to roam about unescorted. I do believe he’s right about the rot, for at certain moments as I walk through the dark halls or sit quietly in my husband’s vast library, I have caught the vague scent of decay.

I’m quickly learning that marriage is a union defined by compromise. Though I sometimes find my husband’s directives to be senseless, I’ve found it easier to comply with his wishes than to engage in countless arguments. This is especially true in matters related to his health. For a man who appears to be in perfect physical condition, he has an abundance of medical issues. I sometimes wonder if they’re real or imagined.