Midsummer at Eyre Hall: Book Three Eyre Hall Trilogy (15 page)

The school was indeed in a sorry state.
It needed whitewashing, new chairs and desks, notebooks, pencils, and a
blackboard. I was glad that he was willing to contribute to its upkeep.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you. How
old is your son?” I asked, trying to turn the topic of conversation back to Mr.
de Winter.

“Max is sixteen. When my mother, Mrs. de
Winter, died two years ago, I thought it was best for him to study at Eton.
He’s a shy boy. He needs to meet other young boys. He will be home shortly for
the Easter holidays.”

“Mrs de Winter, Max’s mother, also
passed away?” asked Michael.

“Not exactly, but she no longer lives
here or has any contact with either of us. It’s a long and painful story, and,
to cut it short, she left us. My mother was against a divorce, so officially,
we’re still married. I have no idea where she is.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. de Winter, for both of
you, especially for your son,” I said. “I was an orphan, and I know how hard it
is to grow up without a mother’s presence.”  

Mr. de Winter was silent for a moment and
then suggested we take a walk towards the rose gardens in the east wing. The
light wind had dropped and the afternoon was peaceful. The rippling of the sea
could no longer be heard and the air was heavy with the scent of crimson roses.
I saw a wooden swing held by two long ropes. A light breeze shot through and
the swing swayed as if someone were sitting on it. I walked towards it and saw
Helen smiling at me. “Mummy, when are you coming to bring me back?” she asked.

Seconds later, Michael rushed to my
side, embracing me as my tears flooded down his coat. He asked me what was the
matter and I told him.

“Michael, I miss Helen. Please bring her
back.”

“Of course, my love. I’ll leave tomorrow
morning. She’ll be with you again before Easter.”

Mr. de Winter listened curiously. “May I
ask who Helen is?”

“Helen is my daughter, by a previous
marriage. She’s almost twelve. We left her with her older brother while I
recovered.”

“Excellent. She will be in time to see
the daffodils bloom and the bluebells cover the meadows. I’m sure she will love
Cornwall as much as her mother does. Easter is exceptionally late this year,
almost the end of April. You must bring her to Manderley to meet Max. He’ll be
home for the holidays.”

I wondered if we had said too much. I
was sure he suspected that our reasons for being there held more mystery and
that we had withheld part of the truth. It pained me to live under false pretences,
but there seemed to be no other way for the moment.  

Fortunately, the conversation came back
to the weather, the plants, and other mundane matters. Mr. de Winter showed us
some ancient family tombs and proudly told us the de Winter family were
originally from France, and had settled in Cornwall shortly after the Conquest.
If that were true, it meant they weren’t as deep-rooted as the Rochesters.
Years later, I would tell Helen how her father’s family had modified their
Anglo-Saxon surname to ‘de Rochester’ after the Conquest, although they had
lived in Yorkshire long before then. Edward’s first famous ancestor had been
Damer de Rochester, who had been struck by a cannon ball on Marston Moor,
fighting for the Parliamentarians against the Royalists. Edward always said
that was why King George, whom he considered a vengeful man, had denied his
grandfather a peerage.

It was almost sunset when we left Manderley.
“You must come back in summer. There will be fresh strawberries and
raspberries, and Mrs. Benson makes a delicious summer pudding.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. de Winter.”

On the way back, Michael told me he
didn’t like him or trust him. “I think he has more secrets than we do,” he
said. “And I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

“Michael. He’s just curious and lonely.”

I knew Michael was right. I had no doubt
in my mind that Mr. de Winter had a special interest in me. I knew it was not a
love interest, because I had already made it clear to him that I was in love
with Michael. Nevertheless, I was certain that there was something else he
wanted. I would no doubt find out in due time. In any case, we had more
pressing problems to solve.

The following morning, I received a
letter from Mr. Dickens. I started reading and called Michael at once.

“Listen Michael, Mr. Dickens writes,
‘Lord
Shaftsbury considers it is the duty of the House of Commons to prescribe the
conditions under which a man should be deprived of his liberty. Those who
require restraint should be provided kind and competent keepers, and that the
patient should receive no injury. He is aware of the abominations, which
prevail in many asylums, and recurrence of frightful cruelties to the
unfortunate residents. He is also concerned with the provision of security
against the improper detention of patients, whose property shall be protected
from the unscrupulous grasp of their relatives or superintendents.’

Lord Shaftsbury is a Commissioner in Lunacy;
he has the power and the duty to ensure that people are not improperly
detained. I have asked him to read the first instalments of your novel and told
him that I am personally acquainted with the author, and know the events
narrated to be accurate. I have taken the liberty to tell him about your
situation, and he has assured me that he will take a personal interest in your
case. If he believes your son has taken unjust or immoral actions for financial
or personal reasons, and that you have been the victim of a conspiracy, your
son, and all those who assisted him, will be accused of making a false
statement and perjury.’”

“Jane, that’s wonderful news. It means
we’re almost free.” 

“I know you don’t want to see him Michael,
but you must speak to John and tell him that if he doesn’t revoke the warrant
for our arrest, we will speak to Lord Shaftsbury personally. John will also
have to allow you to take Helen away from Lowood and bring her back home with
us.” 

My spirits were high when Michael left
the following morning. I don’t know if it was the prospect of seeing Helen
again or Mr. Dickens’ letter, or both, but for the ten days Michael was away, I
was voraciously hungry and immensely happy. I spent most mornings in the
kitchen with Shirley, who showed me how to bake cakes. I walked down to the
school every afternoon after an early lunch, and found great pleasure in
teaching the pupils the rudiments of French and reading
Oliver Twist
,
which was always a favourite with children. Blains was kind enough to pick me
up every day at five and take me home. Shirley had prepared a delicious dinner,
which we often ate together, and then they left. I wrote into the early hours
of the morning, and sent Mr. Dickens two more chapters of
The Asylum
. 

***

The heavy clouds and sharp west wind
whistling through the leafless trees reminded me that I had left behind a
warmer part of England, which I was fast coming to think of as our home. I
decided it was best to call on Harry at Ferndean, before visiting Eyre Hall.

I told Harry about our escape to
Cornwall, John and Poole’s visit, and Lord Shaftsbury’s interest in Jane’s
case. He was glad that our need to hide would soon be over.

I realised uneasily that he wasn’t
surprised to hear about the tattoo. “Why didn’t you tell me what had happened
to Jane at the Retreat?”

“She asked me not to.”

“You should have told me, Harry. I would
have understood why she rejected my affections. She shouldn’t have had to bear
the weight of the memory on her own.”

“It takes a long time to pull through
such an ordeal, but Jane’s a strong woman. I’m sure she’ll recover.”

“She has.” I closed my eyes and
remembered her soft moans and supple limbs, as she moulded into my desire, as
she used to before she was taken to the retreat.    

I was saddened to discover that Harry’s
mother had passed away recently and surprised to hear that he was planning to
leave the area to work in London. I wondered why he hadn’t mentioned Annette.

 “How is Annette coping at Eyre Hall?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen much of her
lately. I have proposed to her, more than once, but she has always turned me
down. She says we should wait. Since the archbishop has taken over the running
of the estate, because John follows his instructions to the letter, they have
refused to let her see me. She can no longer work at the hospital in Hay. She
was not even allowed to attend my mother in her final days as she had been
doing. John wants her at Eyre Hall. He’s selfish and headstrong.” He paused to
sip his brandy, looking into the warm liquid as he spoke. “I think he loves
her, and what is worse, I suspect she loves him, too.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m
sorry, Harry. I also fear that’s been the case for a long time. Jane tried to
keep them apart by letting them believe they might be brother and sister.”

“Do you think they are related?”

“Nobody seems to know for sure. The only
thing we know is that Annette was born in the attic at Thornfield Hall, where
her mother was confined. Mr. Rochester, John’s father, always said he wasn’t
her father, but he never told anyone who her real father was.”

“So they could really be brother and
sister, you say? That’s repulsive.”

“Jane is sure Bertha Mason was violated
in the attic by another man.”

“So that’s what was keeping them apart,
then.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“When she told me she had loved another
man but their relationship was impossible, I thought he might be married. I
never guessed it could have been John. He was always engaged, or gallivanting
with eligible young girls. I never saw them together.”

I had no words of consolation for poor
Harry. He would have been a good husband to Annette, but if John had her heart,
there was little Harry could do. 

“Annette never loved me. She let me kiss
her, court her, and propose to her, while she was in love with another man,
with that bastard. I suspected it, but I was a fool and ignored the evidence.”

“I believe she tried to love you, Harry,
but love is unpredictable and often unwise. It cannot be governed by reason,
but you already know that.”

“He’ll never make her happy.”

“She is making the wrong decision. I
believe Annette loves John, but John only loves himself.”

“She knows that. She’s seen what he’s
done to his own mother. He’s a treacherous rogue, just like his father.”

“Harry, love is blind.” I wondered how
Jane could ever have loved her first husband.

“And deaf and dumb and foolish in Annette’s
case. He’ll bring her so much pain and suffering.”

“That’s her choice, Harry. I think she’s
fond of you, but John is…under her skin, and that’s a wonderful place to be if
it’s reciprocal, and it’s hell when it’s not.”

We were silent, watching the flames
dancing on the brandy swirling in our glasses. I couldn’t even begin to imagine
how tormented I would feel if Jane loved another man.   

We were still drinking and brooding on
the injustice of love when there was a violent knock on the door. It was Fred.
He asked Harry to come to Eyre Hall at once because the archbishop had been
taken ill. The beast in me roared once again, and I was blinded with the need
to break every bone in Fred’s body and then the archbishop’s, but Harry pulled
me back and asked Fred what his symptoms were.

“Dr. Carter, the archbishop can hardly
breathe or speak. His right eye is swollen and his left eye is closed. He
cannot move his arms or legs. Earlier, when he could speak, he complained of a
pain in his head and chest.”

“It sounds like a heart attack or
apoplexy. Loosen his clothes, don’t give him anything to eat or drink, and keep
him in a seated position until I arrive.”

Fred nodded. “You are to come with me at
once. Mr. Rochester said I…”

“Fred, please return to Eyre Hall. Tell
Mr. Rochester that I will be arriving shortly with Mr. Kirkpatrick, who needs
to discuss an urgent matter with him and Miss Mason.”

When Fred left, Harry turned to me.
“It’s as good a time as any to confront John. Don’t fight with him. Just tell
him you’ve come for Helen, and that if he doesn’t release his mother, he’ll
have problems with the law himself. He’s not a brave man. I know him well.
He’ll do anything to avoid facing a public trial. And after everything you’ve
told me, even someone like John should be feeling at least a little guilty
about what the archbishop and Poole did to his mother.”

“I suppose you’re right. I hope he
doesn’t try to have me arrested, or I’ll have to kill him.”

“Once the archbishop is dead, and it
looks like he’s not going to last, John won’t know what to do. He certainly
won’t want to face any more problems. Your ordeal is almost over, Michael,” said
the good doctor, and I hoped he was right.

When we arrived at Eyre Hall, the doctor
was rushed upstairs and I was shown into the library, where John was sitting at
Jane’s desk. I scowled. He had no right to sit there, with Jane’s books,
papers, letters, and quills. He had usurped her place, greedily and
deceitfully. 

 “I’ll never forgive you for what you
did to my mother.”

“That’s a fine thing to say, John
Rochester. But remember this, I’ll never forgive you either. They’re all dead.
Every person who hurt Jane has been killed or died, except you.”

“Why am I so privileged?”

“For some reason your mother loves you
more than you deserve, and much more than you will ever love anyone. If I ever find
a way of killing you without her knowing, it’ll be your last day on Earth.”

“How dare you come to my house and
threaten me?”

“This house? This house you stole from
your mother? Was it worth it? This house that you can’t even run. This estate
that you have no idea how to manage because you’ve spent all your life
carelessly spending every last penny. Keep it all. Jane doesn’t want it, and
neither do I.”

“There’s someone else who’ll have to die
according to your twisted logic. Someone else who hates Jane enough to betray
her trust. Someone who puts out her hand to be fed and bites it to be fed by
another.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You mean, who am I talking about?”

“You and the archbishop alone are
responsible. The others who signed the testimonies against Jane were forced
against their will. We will not hold it against any of them.”

“How do you think we found you?”

I had wondered how it had happened at
the time, but after John left, Jane was upset, and we had to deal with Poole.
When she recovered, I forgot about the fact that there must be a traitor
amongst us, someone whom we considered a friend.

“No idea?” He laughed. “Your sister,
Susan. Mrs. Greenwood, the pregnant servant whom my foolish mother helped on
her way to an honourable marriage, even paying her dowry, and sending her a
generous monthly allowance, not to mention spoiling her little bastard.”

I grabbed his shirt and pushed him
against the desk. “You liar. My sister didn’t know where we were.”

He smiled triumphantly and pushed me
away. “That’s where you’re wrong. It seems certain people in London knew that
James Elliot was, in fact, Mrs. Stewart. She went to Mr. Dickens’ office and
found out your address, which she sent to me in a charming letter.” He pointed
his index finger and thumb at me as if it were a gun. “I’d say Susan hates my
mother even more than I hate you, and believe me, that’s a great deal of hate.”
He pulled the imaginary trigger and popped his lips to emulate the sound of
gunfire.

I was as stunned as if he had really
shot me. Could it be true? Why would my sister have done such a thing? I
realised only someone from our close family could have convinced Mr. Dickens to
give them our address. Why would she do it? How could she hate Jane so much?

“Tell me, why are you here, Michael?”

His question brought me out of my shock.
There was no doubt I would deal with Susan, but that would have to wait. I had to
manage the urgent business at hand. “I’ve come for Helen. Jane wants me to
bring her to Cornwall, and I need your authorisation to take her away from
Lowood.”

“Why don’t you just kidnap her?”

“I will if I have to.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. Have you no
sense of decency? Would you kidnap a child?”

“Don’t you think that’s the pot calling
the kettle black?”

“I could have you arrested.”

“That’s the second reason I’ve come. You
should know that your mother has powerful friends in London.
The Asylum
,
which is a bestseller in Mr. Dickens’ monthly magazine, has been quoted by Lord
Shaftsbury in parliament. He has pledged to continue his reforms into asylum
laws as a result, and he is interested in meeting the real Mrs. Stewart. Mr.
Dickens is confident that your mother’s name will be cleared. A madwoman could
hardly write a best-selling novel, mentioned in parliament, could she? Now that
your ally, the archbishop, is dying, all those who were forced to give false
testimony will speak up. Who do you think people will believe? You or your
mother?”

He stormed towards me and landed his
fist on the desk. “You want it all, don’t you? It’s her money you’ve always
wanted.”

“I’ve told you, we don’t want any money.
I feel sorry for you, John. You’ve had the most wonderful woman in England as
your mother. She’s beautiful, intelligent, and caring. I praise every day I’m
by her side. I’m the luckiest man in the world because she loves me too, but
you’ll never understand what I’m saying, because you’ll never love anyone
except yourself. And that’s too bad, because you’re a pathetic thing to love.”

Our faces were close enough we could
feel our heavy breathing, and our hands were balled into fists, when Annette’s
voice made us turn towards the door.

“Please don’t argue, John, Michael.” She
approached John and put her arms around him. “John, Harry says the archbishop
is dying. He wants to talk to both of us.”

“The sooner you give me the
authorisation to remove Helen from Lowood, the sooner I’ll leave.”

“So impatient.” He tut-tutted and shook
his head. “Well, you’ll have to wait.”

Annette held her hand out towards my
chest to stop me from grabbing his shirt again. “We’ll be back soon, Michael.”

I helped myself to some brandy and
waited by the fireplace. I was thinking about Jane waiting for my return, and
how much more pleasant our life was in Cornwall than in Yorkshire. I was sure
Helen would enjoy living there, too.

I drank the rest of the decanter while I
waited for John, but instead I received an unexpected visitor whose prophecies
would fill the following months with both joy and dread.

****