Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles (6 page)

“Yes,” I said as I fought a lump in my throat. “They are dazzling.”

But Edward cannot see them, so what use are they?
I thought.

With my portmanteau packed and ready to go, I retrieved the jewels and pondered how best to carry them.

“Why not put the jewels in your reticule?” Mrs. Fairfax handed me my purse. “That way they will stay close at hand.”

Following her suggestion, I tucked the velvet bag with the diamonds into my reticule with my wallet.

“I shall tell John to fetch your trunk.”

I thanked her and turned to Hester, who was holding Ned on one hip.

“Come here, little boy,” I said as I took my baby from the nursemaid’s arms. “My darling,” I cooed to him as I walked him around the nursery. He was nearly asleep, and I kissed him repeatedly before settling him down in his crib. “Save them up, little man. I shall be home before you know it, but I hope to deposit enough kisses that you won’t want for any until I return.”

For as long as I dared, I stood beside his bed, gazing in wonder at my sleeping child and stroking the peach fuzz of his hair. A quivering bubble of spit rested on his rosebud lips, and I wiped it away with my linen handkerchief. “Good-bye, my darling. I promise I shall come home soon.”

My breath caught and the room swam before my eyes. Had my mother whispered these selfsame words in my ear before she went to nurse my father? He had been the curate in a large manufacturing town and had caught typhus while ministering to the poor. My mother caught the fever from him. They died within a month of each other.

“I promise I shall come back to you,” I told Ned again with
more feeling. I pressed a last kiss onto his rosy cheek and stood up, ignoring the growing pang in my chest.

Mrs. Fairfax accompanied Edward and me down the path leading to the grassy lane. Pausing there, I kissed my husband a tearful good-bye. Withdrawing from his embrace was nearly impossible, but I did it. Mr. Carter offered me his hand as I mounted the stone step and climbed into the doctor’s Stanhope Phaeton.

“I sent one of the stable hands on ahead to Millcote with a letter for Lucy,” my husband said. “A rider can outpace you in that carriage, easily. I told him that if he missed the mail pickup in Millcote, he was to hurry on to the next posting inn. The letter should arrive before you and alert her that you are coming. I shall tell her to expect you either Sunday or Monday.”

“Thank you.” My heart raced; my pulse thrummed loudly. Edward’s gaze reflected stoicism, but I detected a tension along his jawline.

He smiled at me, with effort. “Godspeed, my darling.”

“Are you ready, Mrs. Rochester?”

“I am.”

With a clap of the reins, Mr. Carter urged the horses forward.

On the road to Millcote, Yorkshire

The clouds parted, only to regroup and grow darker. Mr. Carter and I hurried along to make the best of the dying sun. The wheels of the carriage crushed the sparse fallen leaves, forcing them to release their spicy dying fragrance. The horse pulled the two-wheeled carriage down the country road with ease.

“I hope you will not misjudge me,” said Mr. Carter with a nod at his phaeton. “I bought this secondhand from a young man in London, who lost his allowance playing cards. It is both light and fast, which makes it perfect for traveling from one needy patient to another.”

While I admit the bright yellow wheels had rather surprised me, I found no reason to complain. The phaeton took the bumps better than most carriages I had ridden in. Since rain threatened, the doctor lifted the roof and secured it over us. Luckily the bad weather held off. Our progress was steady, but by no means fast.

Mr. Carter proved an interesting conversationalist, quite knowledgeable about the area tenants. He pointed out this
farm and that, telling me about the inhabitants. “The past few years have been hard on them, Mrs. Rochester. The charity baskets from the church keep most of them going. But that is not enough for the families with young ones. Their children present with hollow eyes, thin limbs, and enormous bellies. Their eyes stare out into an uncertain future.”

I remembered the incessant pang of hunger, how a lack of food could bring lethargy to one’s limbs and render clear thinking difficult, if not impossible. Thinking of the children and their needs, their helplessness in the face of such misery, caused tears to prickle my eyes. I knew full well how hard it could be to sustain hope, much less to believe in a brighter future. Poverty for me was synonymous with degradation. In the pursuit of survival, dignity was the first virtue to be cast aside.

My own wealth was of such a recent vintage that I did not dare take it for granted. Since God above had blessed me so richly, I could not ignore the urge to give back.

I resolved then and there that I would assist the church with its good works, and I would endeavor to sponsor a small school in the nearby hamlet, as my cousin St. John Rivers had done for peasant girls in his parish outside of Morton. Such efforts were easily within my reach. They would make me more useful to Edward and to our tenants.

When we arrived at the Farrow house, Mr. Carter saw to not one but two Farrow children with the croup. Mrs. Farrow proved a good hostess, if an overly curious one, feeding us and asking nonstop questions. I sidestepped most of them as best I could without being rude. Her husband had his own queries. They both wanted to know more about Edward Rochester’s girl bride, but I feared their interest was unwholesome, especially when they asked our wedding date and the date of Ned’s birth in an obvious attempt to calculate his legitimacy.

As I crawled under the down coverlet that night, I worried about Adèle before moving on to missing little Ned and
Edward. I wondered if I would get along with Lucy Brayton. I hoped I would not embarrass myself with my lack of social polish. Again and again, I wondered about Adèle. What would I find? How was she? Why hadn’t she written to us, a real letter, an honest communication, in so long?

A dream awakened me rudely. No, not a dream. A nightmare. A pillow was pressed against my face, suffocating me. My lungs struggled for air. When at last I came to my senses, I sat up fighting to take a breath, and my throat hurt. The bedclothes lay strewn around me and half on the floor.

Unable to return to sleep, I dressed at the first hint of dawn. Bypassing Mrs. Farrow’s generous offer of fresh eggs, rashers, and blood sausages, Mr. Carter and I made do quickly with tea and bread before setting out again.

We stopped at several households before arriving in Millcote. At each, I did my best to assist Mr. Carter in small ways, handing him items from his walrus-hide doctor’s bag and so forth. At the Biddles’, he helped a grandfather with arthritis. At the Morris home, he dispensed medicine for a lingering cough. The Hobson child needed a splinter removed. In each case, there were the telltale signs of hunger: hollow eyes, bulging bellies, and listless demeanor. The womenfolk bustled about and offered us thin tea at every stop. Knowing the sacrifice it represented, I had trouble choking the brew down.

With each mile, an urgency within me grew more demanding, like an itch I could not reach to scratch. I needed to get to London, to visit Alderton House, and to see Adèle with my own eyes. Then I could be at ease.

At long last, we stopped at Mr. Carter’s home. My arrival surprised his wife, and she did not hide her dismay well. The atmosphere grew distinctly icy. The couple excused themselves to discuss my visit.

I waited in their vestibule, trying not to overhear their conversation but unable to help myself. I had thought I overheard the name “Blanche Ingram” as Mrs. Carter spoke. I moved
closer to the parlor door. Yes, there was “Blanche Ingram” and “upstart” and “indecent” and…my name. Now I knew for certain what had happened.

Miss Ingram, a member of the local gentry, was a lovely and accomplished—if also vapid and cruel—young woman who had hoped to become Mrs. Rochester, not for any love of Edward but out of a vigorous affection for his purse. Edward had tested her by setting forth a rumor that his fortune was only one-third of what was supposed. Once that falsehood took root, he visited her, only to be received coldly by both Blanche and her mother, the Dowager Lady. By now they would have learned that his fortune was indeed vast, and that he had married another. As to the improbability of Edward Rochester, a member of the landed gentry, marrying a governess—well, Dowager Lady Ingram spoke for herself and her daughter both when she said of my former profession: “I have just one word to say of the whole tribe; they are a nuisance,” as if we were a subhuman, monstrous breed of insect that spoiled their Sunday picnic.

So, Blanche Ingram had been talking about me—and worse, she had cast me as a conniving, grasping fortune hunter. A cold anger nipped at me, but I am no shrinking flower. Let her talk! I had done nothing wrong! Gritting my teeth, I vowed again to leave my seclusion and become an active presence in this community, if for no other reason than to irk my detractors!