The door opens and I hear his heavy step on the floor.
Grace has gone. It is just me and him. I curl up tighter in bed, feign sleep, and do not look at him.
Bertha, he says, Bertha, look at me.
I do not turn to him. He will leave soon and go away. That is the way of things – he will give up and go to her.
Bertha, I hear him say again, as he sits down in a chair near me. Bertha, I know you are not asleep.
But I am asleep. I will be asleep, once he leaves me.
Bertha, I hear him say as he pulls back the coverlet on my bed. Bertha, get up.
I do not move. I do not even shiver, though I am cold, with little fire in the grate and no blankets.
Bertha – he grasps my arm, tugs me out of bed, pulls me to my dressing table, forces me into the chair. Come Bertha, try on the pearls. Don't you want to try on the pearls?
I look at my reflection in the mirror. White face, white hands and white gown in the darkness of the room. I cannot see his reflection – as he is dark and fades and blends into the shadows so well – but I know he is there. I hear his voice, his sweet, sibilant whisper.
Here Bertha, here are the pearls.
I see them, a string of gleaming snowdrops, sliding bead by bead out of his black hand.
I will help you try them on. Let me put them on you.
The way he says it, with that boyish grin, reminds me of us, younger and far away from here. For a moment, he steps out of his shadows and I have a vision of him, behind me in the mirror where he used to stand, watching me dress, in a sunnier, warmer long ago.
He comes up behind me with the pearls, like he always would, with that secret smile he has just before he gives me a present.
He holds them delicately between two fingers and lays them, cool and smooth against my flushed skin.
They look well on you Bertha, he says, resting his icy hands on my neck. The man in the mirror bends and lightly kisses my cheek, my neck, with cold lips.
Come now Bertha, he mumbles against my skin, lips sliding lower, down to my shoulder, a finger tracing my collarbone, a hand slipping under the neckline of my dress.
I smile at our intertwined reflections in the mirror, dark and light and I finger the gleaming jewels on my neck. I have won.
He lifts his head from my neck, smiles, showing gleaming white teeth, like the pearls.
Come, he says, hand slipping still lower down my dress, squeezing me painfully. Let's take those off now.
But these are my pearls. I do not want to take them off. I smile and shake my head no.
Come Bertha, take them off, he says, moving his hands back up to my neck.
I stop them, tell him no. I want to keep them on.
His smile grows wider, his teeth suddenly sharper at my insistence.
Bertha, he hisses.
He pulls, hard ,at the snowy chain around my neck and I gasp for breath as I feel every hard round drop burrow into my neck. I claw at the chain and at his hands, but it does not break and he does not move, except to pull harder and smile wider, until I cannot breathe.
I did not have to pay a visit to Thornfield to see my old master, as he came to see me the next morning before I left to take up permanent residence at the teacher's cottage.
"I know we promised no long goodbyes, Janet, but since I was unavoidably detained yesterday, I hoped I might accompany you on the walk to the church," he said gruffly. I agreed, eager for his company, if only for a little while longer.
It was a tolerable walk, but a pleasant one in the good weather this morning. We strolled leisurely, close but never touching. I noticed it was a different, longer route than we had taken on previous trips – one trip in particular that still made me shiver. This time we both wished to prolong the journey, I suppose.
As we approached the graveyard, and wove our way through the rows of stones, I was unavoidably reminded of Helen.
The thought of my lost childhood friend, combined with the approaching loss of another just as dear, made me increasingly agitated and I clenched my jaw to keep from crying out. I should not be violent, passionate and distressed; it would do me no good, to prolong the inevitable with tears.
"What's wrong, Jane?" Mr. Rochester said, noticing my silence.
"It is nothing, sir," I said. "Only let's continue to the cottage, for it is cold here."
I thought perhaps he would press the issue, insist on knowing my true feelings, as he had before. But he did not and continued to walk towards the house, speaking as he went.
"Yes, I do not favor this place much either – all the ghosts of the Rochester clan looming down upon me – it offers too many reminders of the past, with only darkness ahead."
I followed his gaze to a dim corner of the cemetery, where the great stone tomb of the Rochesters stood alone and imposing.
"Is that where your father and mother rest?" I asked.
"Yes – And my brother. And one day, I suppose, myself," he answered, smiling grimly.
"Surely not for a long time, though," I said, striving to lift him out of his depressed mood, though my own was just as sad. "You are still quite a young man."
"A youngish man, Jane," he said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "And not entirely ignored by the struggles of life, as you will remember."
"You must not dwell on them so," I said, growing increasingly distressed at his dispirited mood. "You must promise me that you will not fall into a melancholia and take proper care of yourself – else I will not be able to rest!"
"Jane, dearest, don't cry – here, take my handkerchief, dry your eyes. There, be calm."
I took it and strove to compose myself. As I wiped my eyes with the silken fabric, I noticed something glinting in the grass. I suppose it had fallen out of his pocket when he pulled out the handkerchief and I bent to pick it up.
It was a string of pearls. My wedding pearls.
"I thought I left these in the clothes press," I said, fingering the jewels, concentrating on their sheen and keeping my voice calm and steady. "Why do you have them now?"
"I wanted you to have them – they are yours," he said, not looking at me. "You did not take them with you the last time."
They weren't mine to take then. They still weren't mine; they belonged to a girl bride, an innocent that no longer existed.
"I should have no use for such ornaments, not as a teacher," I said. I pushed them back into his fist, but it was closed against me.
"Nor should I, my fairy – what do you propose I do with them? Drape them about my waistcoat? Use them in place of a watch-chain?"
"I cannot accept such a fine gift, Mr. Rochester," I said again, firmly.
"Please take them – as a farewell gift, Jane."
He looked anxious, tender, his visage dark and troubled. I did not wish to say goodbye.
"This is not a farewell, sir. I shall be just a short walk from Thornfield, and shall visit often," I said, taking his hand and placing the pearls gently in his palm. " There should not be a parting gift, if we never truly part."
Tears stood in my master's eyes at my pronouncement. "Dear Janet!" he said, swiftly kissing our joined hands. "You are right – we should never truly part, you and I – time and distance could not snap such a bond before; it should not now. I shall keep these pearls – they shall be a kind of cord between you and I, a reminder of such an unbreakable tie."
He was greatly agitated and continued to hold both of my hands, tightly; I did not wish to distress him more and sought to lighten the conversation.
"When I am not at Thornfield," I chided. "You will not frighten the servants with your changeable moods?"
"Moods?" he barked, tossing away my hands. "I am and always have been a gentleman of a calm and serious demeanor."
"Ah, so you have only been play acting at your distress and anger? I shall have to tell Mary not to coddle you, if it is merely a ruse. I fear she is quite worried, and now without good reason. "
"Is she worried?" he said, genuinely concerned.
"She fears you will fall into a melancholia again – that you are burdened by your w- your troubles."
"Well I shall try to bear my troubles more gallantly," he said, grim expression returning.
We were at the cottage door. If I was going to sate my curiosity, I had better ask him now.
I began, "Grace has told me –
"What has Grace told you?" he cut me off, his eyes suddenly alert and wild.
I continued calmly, hoping to soothe his expression. "She has told me that there might not be much wrong with Bertha – only that she does not care for her position at the Hall."
"Not much wrong!" he scoffed. "Forgive me, Jane, for not taking the word of a servant woman with a predilection for drink and a mad, dangerous charge! Have you forgotten how she tried to burn me in my bed? How she gravely injured Mason, her own brother? How she nearly attacked you, my darling, flying at you in a rage on the day of our wedding?"
I had remembered these things, but felt there were still answers to be pursued.
"Perhaps she would not resort to such violence if she were not locked away so often," I said softly.
"She has seen several physicians, Jane, all of whom say that keeping her in tight rein is the only answer – though I wish it were not," he said.
"I only worry for your health, sir – I only wish to ease your distress, to lift away your worry, to provide, if I may, some answer to your troubles," I said to soothe him. I knew we must say goodbye soon; it was late in the morning and there was much work to be done at the schoolhouse and at Thornfield.
"I know Jane – and I thank you for it. I do not deserve such a dear and devoted soul mate," he said, clasping my hand one last time.
This time it was my eyes that burned with tears.
"Nor do I, sir. Nor do I."
It is evening. The sun blazes like my dying candle, sputtering in the cold English wind, until the black winter sky takes over and engulfs the last of the light. There are no stars; only the moon shines and it is too pale and sickly. Its light offers no warmth and I imagine it to be a bleak and hungry landscape there, on the moon. When I stand near the window on these winter nights, I can almost imagine I am there, for the wind is just as icy and the landscape just as foreign.
The fire is dying; I wish Grace would attend to it, but she is gone again. With the door secured and locked firmly behind her.
I have not been let out of this room since my last expedition into the hall; he has seen to that. But I still carry souvenirs of the trip with me always.
I sit in front of my dressing room mirror and unbutton the neck of my gown, as I have each night now for a week to look at myself in the moonlight.
There, just under the high starched neck of my nightdress are eight perfectly round hollows, blotched purple and blue. I touch each one with a fingertip; they are tender, bruised and I wince at the contact.
I have my string of pearls.
Of course, Grace does not believe me when I tell her.
Nonsense, she says, not looking up from her mending. It's merely marks from your own hands, you selfish thing. Master told me – he tried to take the pearls off you, but you grabbed hold of the chain and wouldn't let go. See how your knuckles fit into each of the marks? He had to call the doctor, he was afraid you injured yourself so badly.
Devious girl, she says, You did an idiot thing, going after those pearls.
Perhaps, I say to my reflection, after Grace has gone to get dinner. The string of pearls was unbreakable. I had known from experience, before I had even put them on, that such chains always were.