Page 50 of John Eyre

“Indeed.” Mr. Fairfax helped himself to a biscuit. “But they didn’t reckon for the strength of Mrs. Rochester’s will. She had no intention of tying herself to Yorkshire. No sooner had her parents died than she was off—first to Europe and then to Egypt.”

John wondered if she’d found the adventure she sought there. She must have found something. A measure of happiness, perhaps. Why else would she have married?

He finished his tea without tasting a single drop of it, and after bidding goodnight to Mr. Fairfax, retired to his bedroom.

A fire awaited him in the grate, and on the chest near the door, a tray holding the bottle of herbal tonic that Mrs. Rochester had given to him. He measured out a spoonful and swallowed it down, just as he did every night before bed. He didn’t do it because he believed in the curative properties of the vile stuff. He did it for her. Because she’d asked him to.

Somehow, during the course of the past months, he’d come to respect her. To care for her. And he’d imagined that she had begun to feel the same.

More fool him.

Mrs. Rochester held no special regard for him. She’d left him without a word. Gone away to London, and then to a raucous house party attended by fashionable members of the gentry. And here he was. Left behind at Thornfield. An afterthought. A nonentity. As if last night had never happened at all.

Though his heart stung at the rejection, his head found it easy enough to understand. The truth was, despite their brief moment of intimacy, he was nothing but her paid subordinate. A humble tutor, with an equally humble salary of forty pounds per annum. He had no grand prospects. No expectation of wealth or property. He was, in short, no George Eshton.

In future he would do well to remember it.

Letters from Mrs. Bertha Rochester to Miss Blanche Ingram.

Krepostta Nosht-Vŭlk

Senniskali, Bulgaria

Monday, 13 March 1843

Darling Blanche, —

It’s been too long since I’ve heard from you. Have you received any of my letters? Have you written back to me at all? Mr. Poole made the journey to the consulate again yesterday, and returned to inform me that none of your letters awaited me there. Indeed, there was no correspondence from anyone, which troubles me greatly, for I’ve lately written to my solicitor, Mr. Hughes, on a matter of grave import.

Should I continue writing, though my letters may never reach your hands? For all I know they’ve been cast to the four winds or are gathering dust on the shelf of some far-off way station. But I must write, and I shall write, for I have no one else in whom I can confide. Despite my marriage, and the constant company of my husband’s sister, Mrs. Wren, I am very much alone here and missing you so very desperately.

You will, perhaps, wonder how things stand between Mr. Rochester and myself. I’m pleased to report that his alarming behavior of last month was naught but an aberration. He’s long since apologized to me in the sincerest terms, and promised to never again let his temper get the better of him. We’ve been quite comfortable together ever since, though I confess there has been a certain distance between us. It’s most evident in his lack of husbandly attention. He rarely visits my room anymore. Certainly not as often as he was wont to do in the early days of our marriage.

His own room lies adjacent to mine, and his headaches are such that he insists I not disturb him until after the sun has set. He’s even gone so far as to lock the connecting door to prevent my accidentally waking him. I’ve had no luck in discovering anything that might alleviate his pain. Between you and me, I’ve come to suspect his malady owes more to a deep-seated melancholy than to an actual medical condition.

According to what I’ve read in the medical books available in my husband’s library, the best treatment for melancholy is plenty of sunlight and fresh air. I tried to explain this to Mr. Rochester, that by locking himself away during the day, he’s only exacerbating his problem. But he would have none of it. He’s too long believed sunlight his enemy and refuses to entertain any other thoughts on the subject.

His unwillingness to heed sound advice isn’t the only cause of strain between us. There’s also the matter of my money and property. When he returned from his visit to his solicitor last month, he had legal papers he wished me to sign, all of them drafted in a foreign language. He says my signature on them will transfer ownership of Thornfield Hall into his hands. I told him that Thornfield was as good as his already by virtue of marrying me. And so it is, according to English law. But he continues to insist I formalize the transaction.

To own the truth, I may have become a trifle unreasonable on the matter. You know how I bridle at being forced into something. I refused to sign his wretched papers (how could I when I can’t even read them?) and have written to Mr. Hughes, demanding he explain the legalities of marital property to my husband. In the meanwhile, Mrs. Wren has been working at me constantly—employing all manner of arguments—to convince me to do as Mr. Rochester bids me. If she knew me better, she’d realize that such methods do little more than solidify my resolve. I am no weak, wilting female to be bullied thus—not by my husband, and certainly not by his sister.

You will perhaps think me irrational. And if I am, it’s no doubt owing to this strange night existence of mine. My nerves are frayed, and my temper pushed to the limit. What in Cairo and Athens was an exciting thing—being up all hours with Mr. Rochester and Mrs. Wren, and then sleeping the day away—has finally burnt me to a socket. I’ve begun to long for those dull, dreary days at Thornfield, awakened at dawn with a cup of tea, and then up and dressed for an early morning ride over the moors to clear away the cobwebs.

There is no riding in Senniskali. The region is plagued by wolves. One can hear them howling throughout the night. I’ve almost become used to their mournful songs. Yesterday, from a window high atop Nosht-Vŭlk, I even imagined that I saw a black wolf lurking. A giant creature, padding through the mist that swirls through the village. He stopped and raised his head, seeming to look at me from across the distance. And then he bared his teeth—razor-sharp canines glistening in the light of the waxing moon. The sight sent such a jolt of fear through me, I backed away from the window.

These are the fancies that plague a woman when she’s far away from home, isolated in an unwelcoming land, and deprived of her sleep. Don’t mistake me. I still care for Mr. Rochester, and I haven’t yet come to regret my marriage. But I want to come home. To see you again, and to live at Thornfield, with all its familiarity and comfort. And I will return soon. That I promise you.

Until then, I pray that your days are brighter than mine, and your dreams sweeter.

Your loving friend,

Bertha

Krepostta Nosht-Vŭlk

Senniskali, Bulgaria

Wednesday, 29 March 1843