CHAPTER IV - OUT OF THE DARKNESS

The house appeared a lot friendlier in the daytime. When I arrived the night before, I had been a little afraid, as the corridors had been dark, solely lit by candlelight, flickering in the wind, shadows dancing on the walls, like they, too, were secret-keepers, sentinels to ward off any prying eyes. This house appeared to be filled with mystery, and I knew the greatest secret of all. The question was, would I admit upfront that I had heard of Bertha Mason, or would I play the "ignorant, simple girl card," meaning would I slip into the role of the unworldly simpleton? That would certainly not do! It would hurt my pride, and besides, I was too stubborn to subject myself to anyone's will. So, I thought it best to be as honest as I could, leaving away only one detail – that I had come from a different time in the 'real world.' This place was fictional Victorian England, after all, unless I were to assume that Charlotte Brontë's story had suddenly come alive, that there was some kind of purpose to me being here, and of Jane being absent. I could only think of one feasible reason, really, and that was for me to bring Jane and Rochester back together, but this should have happened naturally. Why was I to be involved?

These thoughts were crossing my mind as I headed down the giant staircase, my footsteps muffled by the lush, wine red carpet. I spluttered with laughter when the image of myself in a giant white ball gown suddenly flickered before my mind's eye. I wasn't one for poufy gowns, nor was I a princess headed to a ball, but right now I felt a little bit like Cinderella, mostly because of my gown, simple as it was. I never really wore dresses much. I was easy-going, straight-forward and I often identified with Jane because of this. She had known hardship, misery and mistreatment, until she had met Helen Burns who became her one guiding light. My past had also not been free of its unbearable moments, but I, too, had survived them. Perhaps it was the likeness between Jane and I that had finally brought me here today. Perhaps I truly had it in me to make myself likeable to Mr. Rochester, and to be let into his inner circle of trust. I was not infiltrating this castle; I was to become part of this household.

Mr. Rochester was known to be a moody, unpredictable, angry character. This was the reason I felt uneasy. It would be difficult to gain his trust. He was a respect-inducing man. I believe intimidation was his way of gaining respect and perhaps even bending people's will, so they would do his bidding. He was a master of games, of manipulation, and a man who would not tolerate any secrets being kept from him. I would be tested when I met him and I would have to be careful about what I revealed to him and what was better to be left unsaid. Meeting him in person was bound to be interesting, but I truly hoped I had enough backbone to stomach his severity. What I needed now was confidence.

As I headed towards my supposed inevitable doom (laugh if you will, but this was how I felt at that moment), I could hear the most saccharine tune drifting from one of the rooms downstairs. Following the piano music, I found my way to a giant oak door, which stood ajar. The source of the tune lay just beyond this door. I pushed it open carefully, as if I awaited a beast beyond its threshold. The music was so gentle and sweet that it may have lulled me into a false sense of security, but I felt like I was entering a dragon's den.

"Halt, Adèle. Someone has come," I heard a harsh voice blurt out as I entered the drawing room. A fire was crackling in the fireplace where two armchairs stood neatly side by side. A dark figure was seated in one of them. As I took a look around the room, I could see the walls were covered with bookshelves. The man in the armchair, who I could only assume was Mr. Rochester, had his nose stuck in a large book. Perhaps it was an encyclopaedia, judging by its size. I heard the pattering of feet as Adèle skipped away from the piano and approached Mr. Rochester in an attempt to persuade him to let her stay.

"Now, now, Adèle. We have a guest," Mr. Rochester said firmly, "Go and play with your dolls while I have a chat with your new governess." How had he known it was me who had just entered the room? Was he some sort of psychic? A shiver ran down my spine as I felt all loss of control. Mr. Rochester was an imposing man, indeed, but I could not allow him to intimidate me with little tricks like these. Adèle obeyed him wordlessly, though, heading out of the room through another door next to the fireplace. I felt overcome by a sudden sense of déjà-vu, as if I had experienced this moment before. Of course, I knew why I felt like this. It was because I was now reliving a novel I was very well acquainted with. I was to be interviewed now, just like Jane had been, by the man himself: the master of the house.

"Come now, Ruby!" Mr. Rochester then growled from his seat by the fire, adding gruffly, "and shut that lousy door behind you. I can feel a draft coming in." Apparently, he had unlearned his manners or perhaps he had never had any. Rudeness was one of the character traits that irked me the most. I could not let anybody speak to me like this, but for now it was best to obey orders. He could hear my opinion later.

Maybe the reason for his rudeness lay in Jane's absence. She had appealed to his softer side and the only way to soften the blow of his hard-heartened manner was by remaining calm and collected. That was why I remained silent while I did his bidding. I hovered uncertainly for a moment before approaching him, until he barked: "Well, don't just stand there! Sit!" I wished I could tell him where to get off. I was not a dog and I despised being treated like one. Nonetheless, I did as I was told, deciding not to provoke the man. I would have to lay my pride aside for now. I knew better than to start an argument with such a stubborn specimen, a man who was now my "master" by all accounts.

"So," Mr. Rochester began in a getting-down-to-business type of manner after I had taken my seat opposite him, "your name is Ruby Bunting, and you are a governess, like my Jane was?" He shook his head, as if confused, "Sorry, like Jane is I mean," his voice drifted off momentarily. I could hear a hint of that soft tone of voice smoothing over its usual roughness once more, as I had done at our first encounter at Mr. Rochester's mention of Jane. This small sign of his humanity gave me hope. I became slightly more sure of myself. "Yes, Sir," I replied in a no-nonsense manner that I thought Mr. Rochester would respect. I was sure Jane would be proud of me. I was facing the dragon, as it were, I just had to avoid being burned if he spat fire.

I still couldn't clearly make out his face at this point. I was sure this was all part of his attempt to remain mysterious, even dangerous, proving his unpredictability. The man could jump out at any moment if he pleased. Leaning forward then, Mr Rochester let the light from the fire flood to his face. The curtains were still drawn in this room, so it was rather dim. Why hadn't he opened them? The day had only just begun. Peculiar was merely one word to describe him. After a series of probing questions, ranging from where I was from to why I had intended to visit Jane, which I answered as vaguely as possible, mostly by lying through my teeth (a habit which I seemed to be improving nicely!) I kept my poise, though, and I must have been convincing enough for Mr. Rochester to believe me, as he did not ask me any follow-up questions (phew!). I basically pretended to have been a figure like Helen Burns to Jane, one she had never mentioned because she believed me to be dead as well.

I knew that Helen Burns had really been Jane's only friend. One person suffices to change your view of the world. When you feel all is dismal and hopeless, all that is needed to change your perspective and give you hope, is one act of kindness. It was Helen Burns who showed Jane that she was not alone, who proved that there was goodness in the world, even though all that Jane had experienced up to that point was pure misery. I also had those kinds of people in my life. I was lucky to have two of them, the most trusted people in the world to me: Amanda (my best friend) and my father.

I wondered in that moment what Jane might be doing right now and how well or badly my father had dealt with her arrival. It was only the first day after all. Mr Rochester must have noticed my thoughts had drifted off, as he suddenly demanded: "Do you have secrets, Ruby?" I jumped in my seat. I had at this point managed to avoid mentioning Bertha Mason's name or any other secrets that might be harmful to my reputation. Once I had calmed down, I replied slyly: "Doesn't everyone have their secrets, Sir?" Mr. Rochester nodded gravely, "Yes, indeed." He looked at me probingly, laying the encyclopaedia aside and placing all his attention on good old me. (What luck! I loved being stared down.) What was he trying to do? Weed out any insecurities? Perhaps. He was an intelligent man, after all.

"What secrets do you speak of, Sir? Why do you mention them?" I inquired. "Well, Miss," he began, "you have a look about you, a look of someone who knows loss and pain, a look of someone who has seen much suffering. That is the kind of person who knows how to harbour secrets, because it is these persons who know how to conceal their pain, but they are also able to conceal many other things. It is the act of deception they have learned in order to survive." I weighed my words with caution before saying, "You seem to speak from experience, Sir," Mr Rochester looked me directly in the eye then and said gravely, "Yes, indeed. Sadly...," his voice trailed off, as he suddenly seemed lost in thought, a tormented look crossing his face.

"Sir," I mused, feeling uncomfortable in the sudden silence, "did you ask me about secrets, because you are worried I know about yours?" He looked at me blankly, "I mean," I continued, "are you trying to assure yourself that I can be trusted, even though Jane might have told me your best-kept secret?" He frowned at me. "Speak plainly, Madame. I have no time for riddles." I sighed heavily, then said, "I know of Bertha Mason, Sir." A quiet smile crossed Mr. Rochester's face, but his eyes remained stern. "I am aware of this, Miss," he said simply after a brief pause. "But-" I spluttered stupidly, "how could you know?" He grinned mischievously from ear to ear, relishing in my surprise, "It was Jane herself who told me." He laughed out loud now at my shocked expression. Muddled thoughts began buzzing in my head: How could Jane have told Rochester anything? She was tucked away safely in real-world Blackfield while I was stuck here in fictional Victorian England. Mr. Rochester seemed highly amused at my confusion, relishing in his power. The knowledge he possessed gave him the upper hand now, knowledge he was deciding whether or not to bestow on me. In the end, he must have chosen to trust me, for he began to explain at last: "Well, I must confess that I have been testing you, Ruby. I may call you Ruby, Miss, mayn't I?" he asked courteously. I nodded briefly. "I must confess that I have been toying with you and I apologise," Mr. Rochester admitted, "but I needed to see if you would offer up the truth of your own accord. Gladly, you did," he looked at me a little more kindly, then.

"You see," he continued, "my secret is, that I know Jane has told you about Bertha. You know everything, Ruby. I know this, because Jane wrote me a letter, which arrived only this morning. God knows where exactly it came from and why I received it under such strange circumstances…" Mr Rochester trailed off and I gave him a puzzled look: "What do you mean, Sir?" He elaborated then, "You see, there was no postman to deliver the letter, it simply lay on a table in the attic one day. Grace Poole then proceeded to deliver it to me. You can imagine that I suspected the letter to have been forged, perhaps a trick of Bertha's. The circumstances were so peculiar, even you could have written the letter, Ruby. At least, that was what I thought before reading it," he sighed, then proceeded, "but I know my Jane better than anyone and I am familiar with her handwriting. So, once I had read the letter, I was convinced that Jane was its author. Not only was it her handwriting, but the letter also contained information only Jane could have known," Mr. Rochester finished, sighing.

When I finally exclaimed, "Oh, wow!" after gaping at him stupidly, Mr. Rochester cocked his head, amused. "You seem as surprised as me, Ruby, but now we know for certain that we can trust each other, and more importantly, that I can trust you, Miss," he nodded his head in my direction and said in a celebratory tone: "Welcome to the household!" He beamed at me expectantly, as if he was waiting for me to jump for joy or give him a high-five (how taken aback he would be if I did this!)

I could now feel how changeable a man Mr. Rochester could be. It was quite strange. This whole interview had felt like an initiation into a fraternity or a cult of some kind. Why was Mr. Rochester never upfront? Why was he always playing mind-games and testing people? Had he so little faith in humanity? It seemed so. I would have to be careful not to be sucked into his world, not to become lost in promises I made him. I would have to tread lightly around him. Giving me a brief smile, he then left the room swiftly, his coat billowing in his wake. I stood there alone for a moment until Marie came to escort me to Adèle's classroom.

I felt winded now. As we walked out into the hallway, I blinked in the bright sunshine flooding through the windowpanes. It had been so dark in the living room, that I had felt suppressed, somehow cornered, but I had now finally been released. I was free! I sighed in relief, as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders, hoping the hardest part was now over.

XXX

I knew the first meeting with Mr. Rochester was always to leave an impression, but I had felt so exhausted after his inquisition that I could hardly concentrate on Adèle's lesson that day. This was another thing. I did not really know how to teach anyone anything, but I did speak French and I knew how to help myself, so I asked Adèle to explain what she had learned up until this point, so I would know where she had left off. I would be responsible in educating her on all fronts from English grammar to geography, relying on my general knowledge. I had enough faith in myself, of course, that I would be able to teach her the basic facts I myself had learned in school or by enhancing my general knowledge by delving into the odd book. It would be fine, but I had no Wi-Fi here for obvious reasons, so I could not simply check the odd thing on Google like I was used to doing.

But I had never been one of those people anyway who were always stuck with their heads in their smart phones. Those kinds of people always looked like zombies to me. It seemed that modern technology had a way of making people dumber. The more dependant one becomes, the less one thinks for oneself. The world I had grown up in, a world of Snapchat, Twitter, Facebook and Tinder was a world of social networks, making us "unsocial," as it were, in real life. We become more and more disconnected, the more we "connect" via these artificial fast-paced forms of communication. They may be useful tools, but when it comes down to it, you can't forge real connections online. You can only do this in person. Funnily enough, living without an internet connection made me feel a lot more alone, but also a lot calmer, and a lot more centred. It was generally a little strange being so cut off from the "real world." I noticed this more and more as the weeks passed me by. I felt like I was an alien, an enlightened alien as it were, and that everyone else here was in a sense 'backward.'

Sometimes I wondered what had fascinated me so much with this world, a world I didn't really belong in after all. Was it simply the manners and the habits of courtship that fascinated me, or did I believe that the fact that it was a simpler time would somehow make life easier in general? Well, I was wrong! I began to miss my old home more and more each day, and when Mr. Rochester left suddenly on one of his voyages, I felt like I was merely wasting my time.

Can you believe that after everything he went through to prove his love to Jane, he was now visiting none other than Blanche Ingram? Again?! Jane and Rochester were supposedly already to have sorted everything out between them. They were a couple. Then why was Mr. Rochester continuing his courtship with Blanche now, if he was in fact aware of her true intentions and actually did not love her? She was only after his money, this was clear, and she did not appreciate him as a person. Why was he running back to her now? He was falling into old habits simply because Jane was gone. I was sure of it.

I wondered if he had given up hope. Perhaps he believed Jane would never return to him. I could not possibly believe he would visit Blanche if he thought otherwise. Maybe all of this had something to do with the letter he had received, a letter Jane had apparently written. Since that first day when Mr. Rochester had told me about it, I had been wondering how on Earth Jane had managed to send it here and why it had arrived in the attic (of all places.) I could only think of one explanation, and that was that Jane had found another portal into this world, perhaps she had slipped the letter under a hidden door somewhere. It must have been her need to communicate my trustworthiness to Mr. Rochester that had opened another portal into this world for her. Would I be able to communicate with Jane as well, if I pleased? I longed to sneak upstairs into the attic to see if I could find a portal or doorway that led me to Blackfield there. I was hoping to talk to Jane, but the attic was the most dangerous place in this house. It was also guarded by Grace Poole. How would I be able to slip past her unnoticed? I would have to come up with a plan. If there was more than one way of getting back, I needed to find it!