Page 65 of John Eyre

He appeared at the top of the stairs, half panting from the exertion. “Mrs. Rochester! Thank heaven I’ve found you. Another guest has arrived.”

She turned to him, brows snapping together in irritation. “What are you mumbling about?”

“A hired coach from Millcote. It came not five minutes ago. Though how she persuaded the driver to bring her this far, I can’t imagine. I daresay she must have paid extra for the privilege. She looks well-to-do enough for it.”

Mrs. Rochester gave the elderly butler an arrested look. “She? What she?”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Mr. Fairfax withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead. “What with all the comings and goings, I’m a trifle overtaxed. But I’ve put her in the small parlor. She awaits you there. A lady by the name of Mrs. Wren.”

Mrs. Bertha Rochester’s Journal.

6 April. Senniskali. — There is no point in writing any more letters. I have lost all faith in any of them being posted. Instead, I have resolved to write a true and thorough account here, in my journal, with hopes that one day, when I’ve at last returned home to Thornfield, I can share it with Blanche, or with my solicitor.

I have every expectation that I will see England again. My husband has, only last week, procured our passage. We leave for Varna, and thence to Athens, at the end of the month. Until then, we’re obliged to remain in each other’s company. Thus far, it has been an exercise in self-restraint.

On returning from his solicitor’s last week, he apologized for his actions. He’s sorry to have hurt me, and to have frightened me, and swears upon his honor that he won’t do so again. What choice do I have but to accept his apologies and to forgive him? I’m in no position to do otherwise. Worse than that, I must pretend he’s the same man I married and that my feelings for him are unaltered, for I sense with every ounce of my feminine intuition that—were I to confront him about his aggressive behavior—he might do me some greater violence.

As a result of this fear, Edward and I have commenced a silently agreed upon fiction. It enables us to interact as we did during the early days of our marriage. He is exceedingly civil to me. While I, in turn, do him the courtesy of pretending that he’s never before laid his hands upon me in anger. That he’s never threatened me or forced me to sign away my fortune.

It’s this unspoken agreement that allows us to coexist in a house that is now absent its servants. Where have they gone? The way of Mr. Poole, I fear. Sent away so they can’t bear witness to the mistreatment I may yet suffer at my husband’s hands.

Only during the daylight do I receive any relief from his menacing presence. Tormented by his headaches, he inevitably retires at sunrise, emerging again only after dark. It is during those brief hours that I’m free to roam about the house. On the first day after his return, I went straightaway to the front door, only to find it bolted and chained against me.

I am a prisoner here, totally reliant on the goodwill of my husband. And of that goodwill, I can no longer be certain.

Does he love me? Did he ever love me? Or was it only my money and property he desired?

It’s true I never loved him in return, but I own to mistaking his physical affections for something of a deeper nature. Not a communion of souls—I dared not hope for that—but a sympathy that transcended more mercenary concerns. I’m not the first woman to make such an error. Many before me have done so—a fact which makes the reality of my mistake no easier to accept.

I’ve been tempted to wallow in it. To excoriate myself for having fallen victim to the wiles of an unscrupulous predator. But I can think of no more unproductive way to spend my time. I’m an unwilling captive in a marriage—and in a house. The daylight hours can better be expended in formulating a way to extricate myself from this predicament.

And so I shall.

8 April. — The sun has risen and Edward has withdrawn to his room. I waited an hour before trying his door. It was locked, as it always is. On rattling the handle, I received no response, which assured me that he was asleep, and that Nosht-Vŭlk would be mine until sunset.

As yet, I’ve never fully explored the place. It’s an intimidating structure, and Edward was adamant that I not stray to the darkest reaches of its upper and lower rooms. For my own safety, he said. But now…I wonder. Is there a means of escape through one of the doors? A way to call for assistance through one of the windows? There must be, surely.

Lighting a lantern, I ascended the drafty stone staircase to the floor above. There, at the end of a long, dark corridor, a door stood open. It led to a small room, which contained no furnishings, only a cold slab floor and a high stone-framed window barred with rusted iron.

The view from the window was breathtaking. It looked down from the very edge of the cliffs to the roiling Black Sea below. But I was in no mood to appreciate its beauty. I was interested only in escape. Leaving the room, I continued my exploration of the hall. It was lined with other doors, all of them locked. I rattled the handles, one after the other, with increasing urgency. All to no avail.

A wild sort of panic rose within me. I ran back down the stairs, trying every door that I passed. Locked. All of them locked. And where were the keys? My husband must have possession of them. But how to get them from him? I could see no way to do so. Not when he and I were on such precarious terms.

When at last I returned to my room, I imposed a forcible calmness on my body, commanding my pulse to slow and my breaths to come regular and even. I cannot descend into despair. I will not. An animal may gnaw off a foot to escape a steel trap, but I am not an animal. I am a woman.

11 April. — Edward knows I am his prisoner. And he knows that I know. Our interactions have taken on the air of a pantomime. When he rises at sundown, he asks me how I’ve slept, and presses a kiss to my cheek. I’m beginning to suspect that our situation amuses him in some perverse way. As if he’s waiting to see me flinch—or to weep.

He spends his waking hours engaged in matters of business. Sometimes he leaves the house entirely, for where I do not know. When he returns, he generally brings back something to eat, and while I dine, he regales me with stories of his ancestors, and of the long-ago battles in the region. It is a land steeped in blood and conquest. A place that has rarely known peace for any length of time.

When Edward isn’t engaged in a lengthy monologue, he’s peppering me with questions about England. He wants to know everything about Thornfield Hall. How far is it from the nearest church? How close is it to the sea? He’s particularly keen on the notion that the railway may soon come to Millcote. The idea of easy access to London appeals to him, though—as I pointed out—if he desires proximity to the city, it would be far more efficient for him to simply buy a house in town than to count on a railway line being laid all the way to Yorkshire.

It was during this particular conversation that he first informed me that his finances were not what they once were. Apparently, in the last several years, his investments in the West Indies have begun to suffer. I asked him to explain, but he would say nothing more than that British law made it impossible for his sugar plantation to make a profit any longer.

I suspect he must have earned his money there on the backs of slaves. Now that the vile practice has been abolished, it seems he’s unable to acclimate himself to a new method of doing business. I had thought…

But there’s no excuse for my ignorance. As soon as he said he had holdings in the West Indies, I should have interrogated him further. Instead, I assumed only the best, just as I did in every other regard. Was there ever a woman so ignorant? So certain she had evaluated a potential mate with a critical eye, only to discover that she’s been as gullible as every other unwitting member of her sex?

The least I can say for myself is that, though I may occasionally make mistakes, I rarely make the same one twice.