Page 52 of John Eyre

“That doesn’t explain where my servants are,” I said. “Or where you were. Why you didn’t wake when I called out for help.”

He approached me, then, something almost hypnotic in his gaze and manner. I was struck again by how handsome he was. How very stimulating to all of my senses.

I reminded myself that this was no unfeeling monster. This was my husband. The man with whom I’d shared more intimacy than anyone else on earth. What devil drove me to be so unbending toward him? It shouldn’t matter that his infernal documents were written in a foreign language. I was his wife. I should trust him enough to sign them.

But when it came to the point, I couldn’t bring myself to trust him. Not implicitly. Fanciful or no, I couldn’t dismiss the feeling that he wished me ill.

He told me that the servants had accompanied Mrs. Wren to Varna, and would return within the week. As for Mr. Poole, Mr. Rochester said that he’d sent him away with Mrs. Wren as well in order to give the two of us a chance to “come to terms.”

I knew then that he meant to force me into compliance. Why else would he have been standing over my bed in such a threatening manner? Why else would he have sent away Mr. Poole? I told him as much, giving voice to all of my suspicions.

“You know nothing of the threat I pose, my dear,” he said. “But you will soon understand.”

He continued toward me. My heart, at this point, was beating as swiftly as a hummingbird’s. I had to stop myself from cringing, lest he discern the extent of my fear. For all his eccentricities, I didn’t think my husband a wife beater, but in moments such as these, who can say what lengths a man will go to in order to get his way?

I told him that he had no right to send Mr. Poole away. That he was a faithful servant who only ever did what he was told.

“What you tell him,” Mr. Rochester returned. “Am I not master in my own home?”

I said that he was, but reminded him that a wife was not without some authority.

“Your English law says differently,” he replied. “You have told me so yourself. By virtue of marrying you, I have become lord of all you possess.”

He had at this point backed me into a darkened corner. He stood over me, using every ounce of his masculine superiority—his height, his weight, and his build—to make me cower. To illustrate the fact of my physical weakness. My feeble femininity.

“We have pretended to be equals long enough,” he said. “It has bred only discontent. Henceforward, you shall be an obedient wife.”

In other circumstances, his words would have kindled my anger, but in this bizarre world in which I now found myself, his delusions of male dominance were the least of my concerns. I was far more troubled by his waxen pallor and the hungry look on his face. The sun had set, and I had yet to light a lamp, but I must tell you, Blanche, in the dim glow of twilight that shone through the high window of my bedchamber, Mr. Rochester’s eyes looked as red as blood.

“The papers are on your desk. A mere formality. If you love me, Bertha, you will sign them. It is the only hope for you.”

At that, he placed a hand upon the back of my bare neck. His flesh was cold to the touch. Colder still when his strong fingers closed and bodily turned me toward the papers. There was a moment when I feared he would crush my throat. Instead, he shoved me into the low chair in front of my desk and forced a quill into my resisting hand.

“Sign them,” he commanded. “Do it now.”

God forgive me, Blanche, but I did sign them—a stack of papers in a language I could neither read, nor understand. At the very least, I have signed away Thornfield, but I fear I have relinquished even more. All of my fortune, even that portion inherited from Mama that was left to me alone and should have been untouchable.

I trembled at what he might do next, but after my signature was affixed to the final document, Mr. Rochester’s entire behavior changed. He once again adopted that old-world manner he’d used to woo me in Cairo and Athens. Pressing a kiss to my forehead, and collecting the documents, he took his leave of me as silkily as a courtier.

As he departed, I called out to him, telling him that I wanted to go home. He stopped in the doorway, but he did not turn around. He said that he would be visiting his solicitor in the morning, after which he would see to our passage. He promised we would leave without delay. And then he was gone, closing my chamber door behind him.

I ran to it and tested the lock. Thank heaven he hadn’t bolted the door. I was free to come and go as I chose. But at what cost?

This letter may never reach you, and if it does, perhaps you will think I have been headstrong and foolish. That I have provoked Mr. Rochester unnecessarily, and have deserved the physical manifestations of his anger. You always did believe a husband was a godly figure, the head of the family, and natural superior to his wife. But Mr. Rochester is not your vicar. He is a different kind of man. Sometimes, I wonder…

But I must end this now, before he returns. I pray I will find a servant in the house who will take it, along with the rest of my letters, to be posted. With Mr. Poole gone, so much is left to chance. Goodbye.

Your loving,

Bertha

Thornfield Hall

Yorkshire, England

March 1844

Nearly two weeks passed with no news of Mrs. Rochester. John was beginning to become accustomed to her absence.