Chapter 3: In Vino Veritas
Merry days were these at Gavelkind. After another thought-provoking conversation with his wife, Rochester sat down often with Baily and got to know him better. He could not have been more mistaken regarding his impression of the young man. One day, when they were sitting in the parlour, drinking wine and smoking cigars, Baily told him about how he had first met Adèle. He said he had been on his way home from Smithfield Market. He had seen her sitting on a stone by the side of the road. "She looked like an angel with broken wings", Baily declared and then went on about how her carriage had broken down. A wheel had broken off and the carriage had careered off the road. The driver had gone for help and so she had been sitting there waiting for him to come back. Baily had stayed with her because it had been late afternoon. The driver should have been back by now, she had told him anxiously. Little had they known that the driver had had yet another accident with the carriage horse he had taken. Due to the accident with the carriage, the horse had an injured leg. It had stumbled and fallen. The driver, whose head had hit a stone, was lying bleeding somewhere between the place of the first accident and London. "An hour went by", Baily recalled. "Before we set out to London ourselves. We rode on my horse and found the driver by the side of the road. Fortunately, he was still alive, though badly injured." According to Baily, they had waited another 20 minutes till a carriage had passed that could take both, the driver and Adèle, to London while he himself rode off in the opposite direction. Not, however, without making her promise that she would allow him to come and see her the next day, to make sure that she herself and the driver were well.
"So you are a kind-hearted man", Rochester concluded, taking a sip of wine and letting it sit in his mouth for a second.
Baily shrugged his shoulders.
"I only did what I thought was right. And I'm glad I did. Because otherwise I would have never found out what a wonderful person your daughter is."
Rochester frowned but, though the thought immediately crossed his mind, did not correct Baily. The young man continued.
"She must have had the best of teacher's, an inspiring example of honesty, integrity, and all that is good."
Rochester exhaled cigar smoke, then smiled cryptically.
"Indeed, Mr. Baily. Indeed."
They did not speak any more on that subject. Rochester felt it was Adèle's responsibility, not his, to explain the family's situation.
Adèle and Baily stayed more than a fortnight during which, due to the fact that Adèle spent much time with the children, Jane made good progress with her autobiography. When she wasn't writing, Jane and Adèle mostly spoke of the young woman's upcoming wedding and conversed about things like the wedding dress and bridal bouquet. The men, then, took flight and went hunting or fishing. Baily quickly learned how to help when Rochester needed help with a gun or a fishing rod. It was only a matter of time before Rochester gave his consent to the marriage of Baily and Adèle. Jane just smiled knowingly when her husband finally announced that he thought the two were a good match. It was agreed upon that the wedding should take place in September.
It was one day after the young couple's departure, that Jane sat on a bench in the park, working on her book. Around her everything blossomed. She felt like she was in a fairy garden. She took a deep breath of fresh air. Everything was just perfect. Almost too perfect. Jane was currently trying to recall what kind of tree it was that had been struck by lightning shortly after the proposal, when Edward came to sit next to her. She passed the question on to him.
"It was the great horse-chestnut at the bottom of the orchard", he remembered. "It happened the night after I had offered you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions."
Jane smiled as she remembered his words. It must have been the most romantic proposal of all time, she thought.
"You asked me", she added. "to pass through life at your side—to be your second self, and best earthly companion." She paused. "A very eloquent speech, Edward. Was it prepared or did you improvise?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"Well…", he began but was interrupted by George who was approaching them.
"The post has just come in. You wished to be notified when there is another of these letters, sir." He paused. "Well there is."
Rochester jumped up and was gone in an instant.
George, after casting a short but somewhat commiserating glance at Jane, followed his master. Jane now remembered the day Adèle and Baily had arrived. She remembered that a similar scene had taken place in the drawing-room. She had not given it a second thought. It was only now that she realized how strange her husband's reaction had been then. What could it mean? What letters were these he received? Her mind raced but formed no answer. She had nothing but these two instants to point her to the solution. The best idea, she concluded, was to just ask him about it.
And so she did at the dinner table.
"Letters?", Rochester replied surprised, though she could see in his face that he knew what she was talking about. He was an open book to her. At least, normally he was. But right now his expression changed to something she did not quite know how to interpret. He looked uneasy, but then there was also this curious flash of another emotion in his eyes. An emotion of which she wasn't sure if it was only distress or rather alarm.
"Yes well, you know. These letters George keeps informing you about. There must have been at least two by now."
"Oh", he said, his expression brightening. "Those letters. Ah well, I did not want you to worry about them. It is a matter of business. Do not bother your head about it, my dear. It will be resolved soon."
His voice was calm and reassuring.
Jane was relieved. Business, of course. The thought had not even crossed her mind. She thought herself very foolish for having even mentioned this. Edward often had problems to solve considering mortgages or shares. And he was usually very upset about these things.
"By the by", Rochester remarked. "There was also a letter from Baily. He asks whether or not we will bring the twins to the wedding in September."
He drank something before adding: "I think it best to let you decide that. I also think you should answer his letter. He likes you better than me."
His wife laughed and told him that wasn't true.
Jane was rather busy the following days. One of the twins was taken ill and needed her attention. She wrote in the evenings and slept little. But these were good times nevertheless. Edward surprised her with presents nearly every day. He spent long hours with her and the baby, or went with her for a walk in the park so she could "clear her mind." He also helped her with the book, always read what she had written and helped her remember what had happened during the month of courtship. This time it was Jane who was amazed at the accuracy of her husband's memory and the richness of detail he was able to come up with.
Jane Rochester had enjoyed complete happiness in this world. Not that she did not enjoy happiness now that her husband, once again, showered her with presents and attention. But it did not seem quite right. She did not doubt that he spoke truth when he told her again and again that he "just still loved her as much as ten years ago and desperately felt the urge to prove it to her", yet it was so unlike her Edward to show his affection that way. But all her "You do not have to do this" didn't help. She could not change his mind.
And so this was yet another of those evenings with them sitting together in that little room Jane liked most to write in. Jane sat at her desk, Edward in the armchair.
"Why are you not reading to me?", Rochester complained, his dark eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"Because I am thinking", replied Jane who had been writing quietly for about ten minutes.
As much as she liked and enjoyed his presence, it made her feel uncomfortable to write about him when he was near. She always felt like it would falsify her description of his past self. He had, after all, changed from a grumpy loner to a…well…grumpy husband and father. She laughed at the absurdity of that thought.
"What is it?", he inquired.
"Oh nothing", Jane lied. "I was just remembering that day you sang to me. I knew your intentions. What you wished for was clearly written on your face. But I would not let you have it."
Rochester wasn't exactly pleased that she made him remember this. He grimaced. Said nothing.
"I am going to read it to you", continued Jane. "Tell me if it is an accurate account of the situation."
She began to read.
From less to more, I worked him up to considerable irritation; then, after he had retired, in dudgeon, quite to the other end of the room, I got up, and saying, "I wish you good-night, sir," in my natural and wonted respectful manner, I slipped out by the side-door and got away.
Edward suddenly wished from the bottom of his heart that he had not made her read this to him. He was not going to like it. He hated it already, could hardly bear listening to it. Not because it was poorly written, but because it was like a mirror that was held up to him. And he did not like what he saw. He forced himself to keep a straight face. He failed miserably.
The system thus entered on, I pursued during the whole season of probation; and with the best success. He was kept, to be sure, rather cross and crusty; but on the whole I could see he was excellently entertained, and that a lamb-like submission and turtle-dove sensibility, while fostering his despotism more, would have pleased his judgment, satisfied his common-sense, and even suited his taste less.
"Yes, very accurate", he said hastily, looking out the window so she would not see his face.
Jane did not need to see Edward's face to know that he despised having once been unable to express or, rather, prevented from expressing his love for her the way he would have liked to. It had tormented him then and to remember it tormented him now.
She read on.
In other people's presence I was, as formerly, deferential and quiet; any other line of conduct being uncalled for: it was only in the evening conferences I thus thwarted and afflicted him. He continued to send for me punctually the moment the clock struck seven; though when I appeared before him now, he had no such honeyed terms as "love" and "darling" on his lips: the best words at my service were "provoking puppet," "malicious elf," "sprite," "changeling," &c. For caresses, too, I now got grimaces; for a pressure of the hand, a pinch on the arm; for a kiss on the cheek, a severe tweak of the ear. It was all right: at present I decidedly preferred these fierce favours to anything more tender. Mrs. Fairfax, I saw, approved me: her anxiety on my account vanished; therefore I was certain I did well. Meantime, Mr. Rochester affirmed I was wearing him to skin and bone, and threatened awful vengeance for my present conduct at some period fast coming. I laughed in my sleeve at his menaces. "I can keep you in reasonable check now," I reflected; "and I don't doubt to be able to do it hereafter: if one expedient loses its virtue, another must be devised."
"It could be more descriptive, don't you think?", she asked.
"No", he exclaimed. "It is descriptive enough indeed."
Jane frowned seriously, getting ready for the death blow.
She thus continued.
Yet after all my task was not an easy one; often I would rather have pleased than teased him. My future husband was becoming to me my whole world; and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven. He stood between me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes between man and the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see God for His creature: of whom I had made an idol.
Rochester still had his face averted. But his hand clung to the arm-rest and, thus, revealed his state of mind.
"You would have rather pleased than teased", he repeated her choice of words in his deepest voice. "Then you were not entirely averse to the idea?"
He finally turned his head to look at his wife.
Jane was impressed at how well the wall she had erected around herself during that time had worked. Even now he needed her help to see through it. For a moment she entertained the idea of keeping him in the dark about her wishes at that time. Her yearning for physical contact. How she had desperately longed for intimacy, had spent the nights dreaming of all these things and trudged through the days waiting only for the clock to strike seven so she could at least be near him, alone with him.
"Of course", she eventually answered his question. "What did you expect? I was a woman. With feelings. Emotions. Desires."
Rochester smiled slightly.
"You were 18", he rejoined.
"Well, still. I was a woman, Edward."
"I am quite sure you did not have these desires when you first came to Thornfield. And you were 18 then."
Jane faltered. She could not deny that. It had, she remembered, indeed been only after the fire in Rochester's chamber that these kinds of thoughts had crossed her mind and that her master had dominated her dreams. Extinguishing the fire in his bedroom had sparked a fire in her.
The next day was incredibly dull. It poured like there was no tomorrow which, however, did not prevent the children from being outside. They ran through the rain and played with the mud. Fortunately it was a warm summer rain, so Jane let her children enjoy it. Rochester had left at noon. He had to take care of some business in town. Something he had postponed for days in order to spent time with his wife and children. He could not postpone it any longer, though, and had decided to finally get it over with. Jane thus seized the opportunity to write some letters she had meant to write for a while. The young woman was sitting at her desk with Pilot at her feet and a couple of letters in front of her. She read all of them again before she started answering them one by one. She wrote to Mrs. Fairfax first. The old lady still lived near Millcote where she worked for an old, amiable man. Rochester had found the place for her since she had not wanted to leave —shire. Rochester, on the other hand, had wished to get away from Thornfield as far as possible. He had not wished to hear the gossip, the stories people now told each other about the place and its dreadful master. Edward and Jane had not been back to Thornfield ever since. Jane knew from Mrs. Fairfax that the old hall had not been rebuilt. It was merely a ruin now, a symbol of decadence and misfortune.
Here, Jane and Rochester had built a whole new life, begun a new chapter.
When she was done with the letter to Mrs. Fairfax, Jane wrote to Diana and Mary next and, finally, answered Baily's letter. She was just assuring him that they would come to the wedding with all their children, as the door flung open and Eli and Jacob came running in. Pilot whimpered, obviously annoyed at the sudden disruption. Jane greeted each of the boys with a kiss on the forehead.
"My god, you are dripping wet", she said. "You should rather play inside now."
"No mama", cried Eli. "Nathan has found an earthworm that is huge. You must come and look at it. We think it is a new species."
Jane looked out the window. It was still raining heavily.
"I would rather not go outside", she explained.
But when she saw the disappointment on her children's faces, she came up with an alternative solution.
"Why don't you put it in a glass and bring it here?", she suggested.
The boys exchanged looks, then nodded in unison and before Jane knew what was happening, they were running away again. A few minutes passed before they came back with Nathan who carried the glass with the worm. It was indeed a quite large specimen but she doubted that it was a new species.
"Does it not look very different from other earthworms, mama?", inquired Jacob proudly.
She agreed that it was indeed unusually large but also expressed her doubts about it being a new species.
Again the boys were disappointed. Jane was annoyed at herself. Their father would have been good at this. He always managed to get them interested in all kinds of things, no matter how ordinary they actually were. So she asked herself what he would do.
"Ah I know", she suddenly exclaimed. "Why don't we find out what kind of earthworm it is? It might be a foreign species at least."
The children's faces brightened up.
"Wait here", she ordered them as she rose from the chair. "I will go get the book about worms and insects."
As nobody objected, Jane left them, walked down the gallery and entered the library.
The library was quite impressive with shelves that reached to the ceiling. All of them were full of books. The fire at Thornfield had not reached the part of the hall the library had been in. So they still had all of the old books. One of these books, she thought immediately when she stepped into the room, was the one she had brought with her from Gateshead. She thought about looking at that book right now but dismissed the idea and, instead, headed for the shelf that contained Rochester's books on animals. She was sure she had seen the one on worms and insects here just recently. Yet, she could not find it. She checked the adjacent shelves first before she returned to the first one and noticed that a book was missing. "Edward must have taken it out", she though to herself. It was probably in his study. She thus left the library and went on to her husband's study. She seldom if ever entered his study. If Jane had learned one thing during her time as his governess, it was that Edward Fairfax Rochester did not like to be disturbed when he was working. And what else but her husband would have drawn her into this room?
The study was maybe half as big as the library. A large rug covered the floor with geometric shapes in dark colours. Pictures that had been painted by Jane herself decorated the walls. Most of them depicted local landscapes, one of them was a portrait of their four eldest children. There were no maps or globes in the room. No carvings or other items from foreign countries. Nothing alluded to the fact that the master of this house had once travelled the world. Facing the window stood a mahogany desk covered with pens, sheets of paper, books etc. A longcase clock struck two as Jane approached the desk. There was an empty bottle and an almost empty glass of red wine standing amidst the organized chaos on the desk. Jane smirked and began looking at the books in search of the one about worms. It did not take her long to find it. It was, of course, the one at the bottom of the pile. Jane lifted the other books up and put them aside, then reached for the book she had come here for. Since she was, at the same time, already turning to go, she accidentally knocked over the glass of wine. It's contents spilled over the table. Jane cursed at her own clumsiness. Fortunately, as there had not been much wine left in the glass, only the sheet of paper nearest to it was affected. She reached for the handkerchief that she always kept in her pocket ever since she was a mother. One just always needed a handkerchief when dealing with children.
It was useless, the wine had left a highly visible stain on the sheet of paper. A short glance told her that it was a rather short letter. Edward would not be amused. She just hoped it was nothing important. She did not wish to read it. She would not go so far as to rummage through his things. After all, she would not want him to do that with her things. Not because she had anything to hide but because it showed that they respected each other's privacy. Yet, involuntarily, her eyes caught the name that the letter had been signed with. She was startled. Instantly, a thousand thoughts rushed through her head, none of which seemed to make any sense. She suddenly felt dizzy. Her look was fixed on the name. Could it be true? Maybe she was mistaken. She took the letter and turned it around to read the sender's name on the back of it. It was the same name. Maybe, she thought, this was just another person who happened to have the same name. After all, the surname differed. There was only one way to find out, though: She had to read the letter. But no, she could not do that. Jane struggled. She knew it was wrong to read the letter and she even feared its' contents. But she just had to know. She would not be able to get the letter out of her mind now and how would she be able to face Edward when he came back? With these ideas swirling around in her head.
She began to read.
Burrows Hall, 24th June. My dearest Edward, I perfectly understand that an illegitimate child would damage a man in your situation, especially a man with your history. Therefore I can easily conceive your reluctance to acknowledge Henry. Yours ever,
Yet, I must continue to insist on my wish and hereby repeat my entreaty which I have explained in my previous letter. I see no use in continuing our discussion in writing and would much rather resolve the situation in person. I deeply regret that you still refuse to visit Burrows Hall and decline the opportunity of meeting Henry. I assure you, he is the most talented boy I have ever seen, with the most beautiful black hair. However, by a fortunate coincidence, I am going to spend a few weeks in —shire next month. That is, as I understand, where you and your little wife live now. I thus consider it justified to visit you during that time. I am perfectly sure that we shall be able to come to an agreement.
Blanche Notham
As Jane read the letter, it was as if her heart had stopped beating. Everything around her began spinning, she had great difficulties to make sense of the words that were before her eyes. The dizziness she had felt upon reading the name "Blanche" worsened. The young woman seated herself on the desk chair for fear of fainting. Whatever she had expected, this exceeded her wildest imaginations. She had to think. The letter had been written this month. So Blanche's visit was going to take place some time next month. Also, another letter had been mentioned in this one. She had to find it. She did not think about what was right or wrong anymore. Her head ached, her heart burned with agony. She wished to, no, she had to know it all. She looked around but there was no other letter on the desk. Only books, notes, an old contract etc. She opened the desk drawer. And indeed, there it was. In fact, she discovered two more letters from Blanche Notham. The first one had been sent in May while the second one was dated 5th June – the day Adèle and Baily had arrived. She decided to read them in chronological order and, thus, started with the first letter.
Dearest Edward, I am writing to you because I have come to know that you have been very successful, financially and personally. I am very pleased to hear that you have recovered from the injuries you received in the fire at Thornfield and can lead a nearly normal life. This, at least, is what I have been told recently. Being familiar with your strength and eagerness, I have no doubt that it is the truth. I have therefore decided to speak to you about a personal issue. This I would rather do in person. I thus invite you to Burrows Hall where I shall explain to you the entire situation. Yours sincerely,
Blanche Notham
This letter was easier to bare. It did not answer any of the questions that Jane had in mind, though. Rather, it brought up new questions. Why Notham? Was this really the woman Jane knew as Blanche Ingram? What did she want from Edward? Why the devil did she call him dearest Edward? And what about the illegitimate child? Impatiently, Jane took the second letter, hoping that it would answer at least some of these questions.
My dearest Edward, I am very happy for you. It all sounds like you have a wonderful family and a wonderful home. I must confess, though, that I am very disappointed and sad that you cannot come to see me. The issue I must talk to you about is indeed very important and I would rather speak to you about it in person, as I am sure you will come to understand once you have read this letter in which I will now try to define my position. Yours ever,
As you might have heard, I have been married to Mr. Notham of Burrows Hall for six years now. My husband is a highly esteemed and respected man with a considerable fortune. Mr. Notham and I have no children but my son Henry who is to be ten next January. I say my son because my husband, indeed, is not the father of the child. And this is precisely why I urge you to come and talk to me, for Henry can and will not be my husband's heir especially, as I am pregnant right now with his own flesh and blood. You will, by the by, be relieved to hear that I have kept it secret as to who the father really is. To this day, there are only two people in the world who know the answer to this question. Everyone else thinks I saved the poor thing when it was left to die on a field by its mother.
Blanche Notham
Jane sat, with bated breath, staring at the letter in her hand. She could not believe it. It could not be true. But then again, she had left Thornfield Hall to see Mrs. Reed when Rochester's guests had stayed with him. That had happened in summer eleven years ago. The boy was to be ten next January, meaning Blanche must have gotten pregnant in summer eleven years ago. Rochester had never told Jane what had been going on during her absence. They had always just talked about her experience at Gateshead. It was possible after all, that he was the child's father. She sat and pondered for a few more minutes until she realized that she was still holding the book about worms in her left hand.
"The children", she exclaimed, left the book on the desk and jumped up. She tried hard to push aside all the information she had just gained in order to appear normal before her children. But already in the gallery she realized that she would not be able to. She felt sick and numb. So she just went inside the room where her boys where standing next to the desk just like she had left them.
"Did you find the book?", one of them inquired immediately.
"Why did it take so long?", asked another.
Jane felt tears rising to her eyes but managed to fight them. She was unable to force a smile, though.
"Go to the nursery!", she ordered them.
"But mama, what about the worm?", Nathan wanted to know.
"It is only a worm, nothing special", Jane replied harshly. "Now go and leave me alone!"
They obeyed, and trotted away sadly. Jane was, once again, alone. Only that this time she actually felt lonely. Very much so indeed. She threw a glance at the clock on the wall. There was still much time left until Mr. Rochester would return. She put away the letters she had been writing, got her notes out of the drawer and composed herself to work on her autobiography. She tried hard to concentrate but her mind kept drifting.
