April came, and with it came the first word from Mr. Rochester. Not much was said to Mrs. Fairfax, I assume, for she seemed to sigh and say: "Well, he's not coming for a little while longer yet. He still has pressing matters in London. But, he says that when he does come, he will be bringing along someone for you. I have no idea what he means, it all seems very peculiar doesn't it?" I smiled and said that Mr. Rochester was a peculiar man. Mrs. Fairfax laughed, "Yes, I suppose he is" she said.
Another few weeks passed, and one day I was fetched from the library by Sophie. "Mademoiselle Allen, you are requested" she said in stuttering english. If the Reader is wondering, the answer is 'Yes, I was beginning to teach her as well. No use not doing it' I reasoned. She was in England, and was likely to be here for quite some time. I also supposed that she would most likely (after Adele had no more need of her) find another job here on the Isle.
"Oh, did Mrs. Fairfax send for me?" I inquired.
"Oui, she got more news from Monsieur Rochester. Along with a present from London." Sophie replied. "She wishes for you to come immediately, as she does not know what to do with it." I stood, "Very well" I replied, following the younger girl out. Adele requested to accompany us, and I could not refuse her.
On my way downstairs, my curiosity spawned numerous questions. The majority of it being: What was it?
Perhaps the Reader recalls a conversation I had with Mr. Rochester about horses? He had told me to ride any choice of his mares. I had not done so, for I had not had the opportunity to have that discussion with him. Therefore, I had not ridden during my time since my return. It would seem that that fact had not escaped him, and his present was for me.
It was a mare, a beautiful Buckskin Andalusian. I stared at the creature in awe. "Ah, there you are child" Mrs. Fairfax exclaimed, "Here, a note came with her. It is addressed to you" she said, handing me a piece of paper. I opened the object, and read the words. They were simple, and straight to the point:
'Dear Miss Allen,
While here in London, I saw this beauty. Knowing that you have no ride at Thornfield, and most likely would not consider bringing Gaius to the Hall, I therefore took the liberty of buying her. She is an Andalusian, not that you probably do not know that already – for you seem to be exceptionally knowledgeable in such matters – one of the last of the dying breed. She is yours, if you will allow it. She has been trained to an extent, enough to be easy to ride. I shall return in a fortnight of this note and present, I hope to see you upon your noble mare.
Edward Rochester'
Adele's little french mouth was agape, admiring the beauty, for she was indeed beautiful. "Ah, mon dieu, Mademoiselle Marie. Is she from Mr. Rochester? I'm sure she is, she is beautiful" she gushed, I chuckled in disbelief, rereading the note a few times more.
"Yes, she is." I still could not believe that Mr. Rochester had bought me a horse. And an Andalusian no less. If I was at Branhurst, it would be considered improper – but I had long since understood that Mr. Rochester did not follow the normal rules of propriety.
"She is more beautiful than most of the presents Mr. Rochester has gotten for me. He must like you very much" Adele continued to tattle, and I did not stop her. Not in several years had I received such a gift. I was overwhelmed. "What will you name her?" Adele inquired, I quickly wondered what to name such a marvelous animal.
What does one name such a beauty? Hero? No, although Shakespeare declared Hero as exceedingly beautiful, that was out of the question. Cleopatra? Desdemonda? Juliet? – Never. I would not want to curse the poor creature with names of women who were doomed to death.
"Portia" I declared after my debate, "Yes, I think that Portia suits her well, for she is as fair as Portia of Venice was said to have been" I said whilst allowing 'Portia' to nuzzle my hand. The Andalusian seemed to approve of her christening, for she neighed in reply.
Adele looked up at me quizzically, "Who is Portia of Venice?" she asked.
I chuckled, "Remind me when we go to the library, I will show you then" I told her, petting Portia. She tossed her black mane, and whinnied. I wondered when I would be able to ride her.
Mrs. Fairfax smiled kindly, "Well my dear, John will put her in one of the stalls. Mr. Rochester sent me a letter, informing me that I am to make sure you ride her every other day – at the least – for exercise. If you don't, and do not have a very good excuse, then I am to tell him. At least, that is what he writes" she said, holding up a piece of paper, which I assumed was a letter from my master.
"Well, I cannot complain. She is a beauty, and I only hope that she will not be unhappy here. Spain is not the same climate as the moors. Even though the Moors invaded Spain." Adele giggled, for I had taught her the Moorish invasion the day before. With one last pet to my Portia, I told Adele we were to return inside to finish our lessons.
There was no chance of riding Portia that day. The rain made it impossible. It was two weeks since I had received her, and I had ridden as often as I could – remembering how Mr. Rochester had given instructions (which were hardly needed) that I was to ride often.
It was already May, and Mr. Rochester had been in town for five months. I would never have admitted it then, Reader, but I was most anxious for his return. I wanted to hear his laughter – or even his barking manner, while he would tell me to sit down (and then regret his tone and request my forgiveness) and politely ask me again – for the house was all too quiet. It had been two weeks since he said he would return in a fortnight. A fortnight had passed, and still I awaited his arrival. No word came telling us one thing or another. Every morning and evening I would inquire if he had returned, and every evening I would pray that everything was alright – and go to bed disappointed.
But this day was different, for when I looked out on the rain, a carriage rolled up. John had gone to Millcote with Mrs. Fairfax, for he had to get some repairs done, and she had some errands to run. I watched as she came down from the carriage, and hurriedly entered the house. Her steps were urgent, as if she was in some kind of emergency. I wondered what it was, until I looked again.
Tied behind the carriage was a horse, and were it any horse then I would not have thought anything – but it was Mesrour. Which only meant one thing: Mr. Rochester was also in that carriage. My suspicions were confirmed as John went to the carriage door and helped a figure out. I was overjoyed! That is, until I saw that John had to help Mr. Rochester into the house.
There was something wrong.
I immediately exited the library, and went down the stairs, just as I heard Mrs. Fairfax yell "Molly!" Upon entering the foyer, I saw that Mr. Rochester was being supported entirely by John. "What happened?" I asked, voicing my questions which were flitting through my head.
"The master is ill, Molly." Mrs. Fairfax informed me.
"Ill?" I repeated, that ominous word meant far too much to me.
"Yes, he rode all the way from London on Mesrour, like he always does. There was just one problem, he got caught in a storm. I don't know how long he was out in the cold before he found an inn, but it was long enough to sicken him. He has been like this for two days, he told me." she said, bustling about giving orders. She told John to take him to his room, and then to go for the doctor; she then told another to fetch some water for the Master, and to tell the cook to start some broth.
"You had better go with John, Molly, he may need you" she told me. I agreed, and quickly was beside John and Mr. Rochester's seemingly lifeless form.
"Is that you Molly?" Mr. Rochester mumbled – allow me to correct my previous statement, not quite lifeless.
"Yes, sir, it is I" I replied.
"Good. Did you receive my present?" he asked, he was apparently more lucid than I had originally thought.
"Yes, sir. I thank you, she is beautiful" I replied, opening the door for John. He quickly brought Mr. Rochester in and set him on his bed.
"Forgive me Miss Molly, but I need t' fetch the doctor." he apologized.
"Thank you John, I will take care of him from here" I replied, quickly going to my master's side. I took off his hat, and began to unbutton his coat. It was soaked through, was it any wonder that he was sick?
"What did you name her, Molly?" Mr. Rochester asked, I looked up to his eyes, they were red with exhaustion.
"Portia" I answered, "I thought it suited her"
Mr. Rochester laughed, "Yes, I suppose it does. She is lovely isn't she?" he asked, suddenly breaking into a coughing fit. He was worse than I had realized, but I was no doctor. I could not say for sure that he was truly in a dangerous position, but I was taking no chances. I deftly removed his overcoat, and began to help him out of his jacket.
"You have followed my instructions, yes?" he asked, I assumed he referred to me riding her.
"Yes, sir, I have." I answered.
"And do you no longer desire to ride your stallion, Gaius?" he inquired.
I smiled, "Either horse is a beautiful mount, I dare not choose favorites" I replied.
"A wise answer. Very diplomatic of you" he responded, chuckling ever so slightly. He once more began to cough,"Do I look like I've been to hell, Molly?" he asked, I looked at him again.
"Yes, sir" I replied, taking in his appearance. He did indeed look unwell, I then placed my wrist upon his forehead. He was very hot. Poor man. "You feel like you've been there too" I said.
"I have" he replied, "I have been there over and over. At various times in my life. You are looking well though" he observed.
"I thank you for your observation, sir. I am well. You, however, are not. And I'm afraid I must insist upon you lying back as I try to do this." I ordered, pushing him against his own pillows. I began to undo his cravat, he would need as much cold air as possible.
He smiled, and did as ordered for once. "Caring Molly. Always thinking of others, your aunt said." he mumbled, drowsiness was beginning to set in, I could see it.
How do I describe his appearance, Reader? For it resembled that of death. His skin was pale and drawn, the color which I was used to seeing had faded. His eyes were glazed, and saw without seeing. His hair clung to his forehead, as perspiration gathered on his brow. Indeed, he was not well. As I looked upon him, my mind could recall the images of my brother on his deathbed. Roger and Mr. Rochester resembled each other in that moment of time. Weak and gaunt. Their liveliness of temper vanishing in a moment.
A lump formed in my throat – illness had harmed far too many times. It took away those who I cared for, and left me in agonizing despair. I looked once more upon my master, his breathing had intensified, as he found it harder to take in the life-giving air which he needed. He slept, which was a good thing in some respects. In others, it could mean death.
Oh, where was the blasted doctor? Shouldn't he have been here by now? Why did he delay? Did he not know that Mr. Rochester was in a terrible predicament? That his life was hanging precariously upon an edge? I shook my head of the thoughts, for I realized I was being irrational.
As I finished taking off as many of his clothes as I dared, I sat beside his bed – praying that he would be spared the fate my brother endured.
"Let him live. Dear God, let him live." I pleaded, " If not for my sake, then please, for Adele's. Do not let her suffer my fear."
