= 10 =

"Let us move closer and I shall tell you how it looks." I replied to my husband.

He willingly consented.

"Believe me, Jane," Edward said gloomily as we crossed the bridge, "I do not expect anything but a ruin. I can imagine the damage the fire wrought. George tells me often enough that I am lucky to be alive, so I don't expect there would be much left of the old place."

"It is a ruin, Edward." I divulged, "I only saw it from a distance two months ago, and even then the damage was plain to see."

"And now that we are closer?"

I looked up at the Hall, and then back to him. He was agitated by the suspense, but I feared that to defer would agitate him even further. So taking a deep breath, I plunged headlong into a description of the Thornfield before me – a skeleton against the clear sky, without windows, without battlements, without roof.

"I saw the roof fall." he told me, "I was descending the stairs, after Bertha…"

He swallowed audibly. It took him some time to regain his thoughts, and when he spoke it was in a tone so faint that I strained to hear him.

"I was on the stairs when the roof collapsed in a frightening roar. It was as if the house came alive, menacing, and all-consuming. I lifted an arm to fend myself against a falling beam – but there was no stopping it – I was knocked down – swallowed up."

He grimaced, absently rubbing the scar on his cheek – a permanent reminder of those dark times. "What happened afterwards, I don't precisely know. What I do know was that I was found unconscious and in the most awful state. Carter tells me that my injuries could have been worse, that if the beam had not fallen upon me, I would have certainly been burned to a crisp."

Or worse, I thought. He would have survived to live a life of continual, unspeakable agony.

I shivered inwardly, recalling my shock upon seeing his burns for the first time on our wedding night. I remember tearfully tracing the puckered skin that stretched from his cheek down to his hip, wishing for once that I did possess the magical powers that would relieve him of his suffering, but mortal as I am, the only form of healing I knew was love. It was all that I had to give, so I administered it liberally, in the form caresses, kisses, laughter, and careful care. Seeing him now, so changed from the grim, wounded man of a mere two months ago, I realised that love was the best treatment he could ever have.

"We are passing through the lower gate now," I told him as we continued on, "Though the gate itself is no longer there. Now, take a big step over the beam before you – it is all rather precarious, I'm afraid – and up the steps to–"

A pause.

"Jane?"

I could neither move nor speak, struck afresh by the devastation before me, by the realisation of what my beloved hall had become – a wasteland of weeds, rubbish and rubble – that its stately rooms and corridors, its ancient treasures and dear gardens, shall never be realised again. I became aware of its perfect stillness, unbroken by even a whisper of a breeze, as still as a tomb.

The silence was unnerving, not just to me but also to my companion, who whispered in my ear, "Let us not linger at this spot, Jane. I cannot feel at ease here where she landed."

She?

I jerked my head upwards to what had been the North Tower, and then back down at my feet.

"Bertha." I murmured. Her name felt strange on my tongue, for I cannot remember ever uttering it out loud.

"I returned to look for her after the servants were safely outside," he recalled, "After Grace frantically told me that she had disappeared. I found Bertha on the roof. She was smiling and twirling around the landing. I begged her to come down, but she was so caught up in her own world that she disregarded my plea. Instead she got up on the ledge, and leaped."

I pictured her in my mind's eye, her black hair against the red flames, leaping into the void, and then suddenly understood.

"For freedom – she leaped to be free."

Edward snorted. "Perhaps she did," he said sardonically, "Though who knows what fantastic visions, what twisted plots lurked in her mind. What was clear was that she was determined to destroy everything that I had – and in the end she almost did."

"What else could she do, Edward?" I argued. "She was a prisoner of the house as well as of her mind. Her status as your wife was perhaps the only scrap of dignity she had. Then I came along. I had no doubt that she watched us carefully, and when she realised what was afoot, she sought her revenge."

"And what sweet revenge it was!" he growled. "She took away my house, my sight, my independence – and most precious of all, you!"

He clutched my hand in a vice-like grip. I gazed up at his face, and was instantly moved by the anguish I saw there.

"Edward, she did not take me away forever." I assured him gently.

At these words, his face softened, his lips bending into a hint of a smile.

"No, thank God it was not forever." he cried, drawing me to his chest. "Thank God!"

We fell into silence – a contented silence that enveloped us like the snuggest of blankets. We nestled into it, all uneasiness gradually fading away.

Then Edward said, "You are right, Jane – I cannot blame Bertha for wanting revenge, for wanting freedom. I had taken her from her home to an alien place, imprisoned her, and then practically threw away the key. I deserted her, and I did it all for my own selfish piece of mind – for my own precious dignity! If I had not neglected her, if I had taken care of her better, perhaps she would not have done what she had done? No one wants to be deserted, not even those who are mad."

"Where is she buried?" I asked quietly.

"In the churchyard."

"Then I think we should visit her."

He froze, evidently startled by my proposal. "Are you in earnest?"

"I am." I replied. "Let us pay our respects. I think Bertha deserves that – from the both of us."