A Breath of Eyre (9 page)

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Authors: Eve Marie Mont

BOOK: A Breath of Eyre
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C
HAPTER
9
O
ne afternoon in January, Mrs. Fairfax had begged a day off for Adèle, who was sick with a cold. I agreed, but I knew I would go mad stuck inside the house all day with nothing to do. It was a fine, calm day, and I was tired of sitting in the library reading. Mrs. Fairfax had just written a letter that was waiting to be posted, so I volunteered to carry it to town.
I set out on the moors, pulling the flaps of my cloak tight against my chest. The ground was hard, and the air was bitterly cold, so I walked quickly. The road went uphill all the way to town, and I was out of breath, so I sat down on a fence rail to rest. From my seat I could look down on Thornfield, the only object in the valley below, its woods rising against the west. I stayed until the sun began to dip behind the trees, then continued on, worried I wouldn’t make it home before dark. The darkness descended quickly here, and an eerie fog was creeping in from the moors, shrouding everything in a gray mist.
I was coming around a bend in the lane when I heard a rhythmic tramping and a metallic clatter, the sounds of a horse approaching. I stood to the side of the road to let it go by, feeling a twinge of fear as I waited for it to appear through the fog, dimly recalling some Halloween tale about a headless man on horseback. I half expected to see a ghostly apparition on a black horse crashing through the night.
Just after I heard a rush under the hedge, an enormous black-and-white hunting dog flew past my legs. It ran on ahead, and the horse and rider followed close behind. My eyes followed the rider, who was no headless horseman, but a traveler dressed in black. He passed, and I went on a few steps in the opposite direction, turning only when I heard a sliding sound, followed by a heavy thud and a shout.
“What the—?” the man called out, forcing me to turn and go back.
The horse had slipped on a sheet of ice, trapping its rider beneath its heaving flanks. Seeing his master on the ground, the dog began barking and came bounding back to me, nipping at my cloak, begging me for help. I ran quickly to the man, who was struggling furiously to get out from under his horse.
“Are you hurt? Can I help?” I said. “What can I do?”
“Just stand on one side,” he said, cursing as he rose, first to his knees, then to his feet. The horse began groaning and attempting to stand while the dog continued barking. “Down, Pilot!” the man said, stooping to feel his foot and leg to see if they were broken. Apparently something hurt, because he cursed again and went to lean against a tree.
“If you’re hurt, I can get someone from Thornfield,” I said.
“Thank you. I have no broken bones, only a sprain.” Again he stood up and tried his foot, grunting.
I could see him clearly now. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, of average height, with broad shoulders and a dark face with a heavy brow. Even in the dimness, I observed that he was quite handsome. Once he’d determined that all was in working order, he glanced up and, seeing me standing there, waved me on with a dismissive flick of his hand.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I said.
“I should think you ought to be at home,” he said. “Where do you come from?”
“From below. I can run over to town for you if you want. I’m going there to mail a letter anyway.”
“You live just below? Do you mean at that house with the battlements?” he said, pointing to Thornfield. I nodded. “Whose house is it?”
“Mr. Rochester’s.”
“Do you know the man?”
“No, I’ve never met him.”
“He is not resident, then?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me where he is?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“And you are—” He stopped, running his eye over my dress, puzzled to decide who I was.
“I’m the governess.”
“Ah, the governess!” he said. “Deuce take me, if I had not forgotten! The governess!” In two minutes he rose, and his face expressed pain when he tried to move. “I cannot commission you to fetch help,” he said, “but you may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind.”
“Of course.”
“I must beg of you to come here.” He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me, limped to his horse, which had struggled to its feet and stood, head down, beside the path. Having caught the bridle, the rider sprang to his saddle, wincing as he made the effort. “Now,” he said, “just hand me my whip.”
Once I handed it to him, he dug his spurs lightly into the horse’s sides, and the horse started and reared, then they bounded away, the dog following after them. I watched their silhouettes for a moment, then continued into town. The incident had occurred and was gone. Gone, except for the face of the man, which stayed with me. It was one of those darkly rugged English faces, and it seemed somehow familiar. I was thinking about that face when I entered town and slipped the letter into the letterbox. I was still considering it as I walked down the hill and headed back toward Thornfield. Where had I seen this man before?
When I arrived at the house, I heard the clock strike six. A warm light glowed from the parlor, so I went in and saw a fire in the grate, but no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, sitting upright on the rug was the black-and-white hunting dog I’d just seen on the lane. “Pilot,” I said, recalling the name the man had called him. When the dog approached to sniff me, I gave him a pat on the head, and he wagged his tail happily.
Mrs. Fairfax entered then, and I asked her whose dog it was. “He came with Master,” she said. “Mr. Rochester—he is just arrived.”
“Mr. Rochester is here?”
“Yes, he is in the dining room, and Miss Adèle is with him along with the surgeon, for Master has had an accident. His horse fell, and his ankle is sprained.” She hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take off my things.
So, that was Mr. Rochester. I was a little annoyed that he hadn’t revealed his identity out on the lane. Then again, the rich could afford to trifle with whomever they pleased. I knew I would probably not see him again that night. Surely he would be tired from his journey and would go to bed early. I was tired myself, unaccustomed to walking four miles out in the cold. I changed into my nightgown and crawled into bed, summoning the image of Rochester’s face to my mind as I tried to go to sleep. Why did I feel I knew the man? Was it possible we had met before?
And why did I feel as if an entire world of memories was drifting farther and farther out of my reach and if I didn’t retrieve them soon, they might be lost to me forever?
C
HAPTER
10
T
hornfield was no longer a silent place. It now echoed with knocks and footsteps and bells and voices. Adèle was preoccupied and could not attend to her lessons. She kept running to the door and looking over the banisters to see if she could catch a glimpse of Mr. Rochester, speculating about what presents he had bought her on his travels.
One afternoon was wild and snowy, and we passed it in the schoolroom. At dark I allowed Adèle to put away her books and run downstairs. It seemed Mr. Rochester had concluded his business for the day.
A moment later, Mrs. Fairfax came into the room. “Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and your pupil would take tea with him in the drawing room this evening,” she said stiffly. “You should change your frock now to the gray one with the satin trim.”
“Is it necessary to change?” I said.
“Yes, you had better. I always dress for the evening when Mr. Rochester is here.”
I thought this was a bit strange; what did Mr. Rochester care what one of his employees was wearing? But I climbed the stairs to my room, and, with Mrs. Fairfax’s help, replaced my dress. As she fastened the last button at my neck, she turned me around, looking me over. “You want a brooch or a necklace,” she said.
I explained to her that I had lost the only necklace I owned, and a peculiar sensation crept over me as I tried to lock onto the fragment of a memory. Mrs. Fairfax left the room and returned with a pearl brooch and fastened it to my collar.
When we arrived at the drawing room, two candles stood lit on the table, and another glowed on the mantelpiece. Basking in the light and heat of the fire lay Pilot and Adèle. Pilot’s tail thumped on the ground when he saw me. Half-reclined on a couch was Mr. Rochester, his foot supported by the ottoman. The fire shone full on his face.
I recognized him from the night on the lane—the broad eyebrows, the square forehead, the sweep of wild black hair that looked as if it wanted to fly off his head. Again, I had the feeling I’d met him some time before.
“Here is Miss Eyre, sir,” said Mrs. Fairfax.
Mr. Rochester made no sign that he’d heard her. He bowed his head, not taking his eyes from the fire. “Let Miss Eyre be seated,” he said. Something in his manner seemed to suggest his haughty indifference to me.
Tea was poured, and Mrs. Fairfax motioned for me to take it to him, so I handed the cup to Mr. Rochester, who drank his tea and spoke only to Adèle. I began wondering why he’d invited me to the drawing room at all.
“Come to the fire,” he said suddenly after the tea tray was taken away. I sat in the chair opposite him while Adèle played with Pilot. Mrs. Fairfax sat off to the side with her sewing. “You have been in my house three months?” he said, not looking at me directly.
“Yes.”
“And you came from ... ?” I hesitated to answer. I couldn’t quite remember. “You are an orphan,” he said. “You have no family here?”
I reflected for a moment. “None.”
“And who recommended you to me?”
Thankfully, Mrs. Fairfax came to my rescue. “She advertised, and I am daily thankful for it. Miss Eyre has been an invaluable companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to Adèle.”
“Don’t trouble yourself to give her a character,” said Mr. Rochester. “I shall judge for myself. She began by felling my horse. I have to thank her for this sprain.” I glared at him then, wondering what on earth I had done to deserve this hostility. After all, I was the one who had helped him back onto his horse. “Miss Eyre,” he went on, “what skills do you have? Can you play pianoforte?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“But you write. Adèle showed me some stories this morning, which she said were yours. Fetch me your journal, if you can vouch for its contents being original.”
I glowered at the back of his head, then went to fetch my journal from the library and handed it to him. He read slowly, pushing a handful of hair off his forehead every now and then. I couldn’t tell from his expression what he thought.
The longest story I’d written was about a little bird who thought she was an angelfish because of her brightly colored feathers. The other birds were jealous of her and told her if she tried to fly, she’d fall. So she was content to float on the water all day long until a large black bird came and stole her beak. Without a voice to call him back, she had no choice but to fly after him. At first she flew beautifully, but when she remembered the warnings of the other birds, she grew terrified and fell, careening into the ocean. She tried to flap her wings underwater, but met only with resistance. She wasn’t a fish after all. If drowning was to be her fate, she knew she must stop fighting and accept the inevitable. But as soon as she stopped panicking, she rose effortlessly to the surface. Having tested her wings and proven they were flightworthy, the bird took to the air again, chasing after the black bird and retrieving her beak. Her voice and confidence now restored, she spent the rest of her life soaring through the air, singing her story to anyone who would listen.
“Were you happy when you wrote this story?” Mr. Rochester asked when he had finished.
“I was ... absorbed in the task, so yes, I guess you could say I was happy.”
“And you felt satisfied with the result of your labors?”
“Far from it. I imagined something far greater than my abilities could realize.”
“It does show some skill,” he said. “But it’s a peculiar story for a young girl to write. There you sit, so small and sedate, so mouselike and quiet. But here, on the page, there is life. Your story seems to have a voice of its own.” I felt a blush creeping up my cheeks as he passed the journal back to me. Then he said in a very abrupt manner, “It is nine o’clock. What are you about, Miss Eyre, to let Adèle sit up so long? Take her to bed.”
Insulted, I curtsied, receiving a cold bow in return, and led Adèle from the room.
What an arrogant man,
I thought. And how stupid was I to have felt elated because he complimented my writing.
When I saw Mrs. Fairfax the next day, she asked me what I had thought of the master. “He’s very moody,” I said, feeling anger course through me again. I could have said far more, but I checked myself. Anyone could see that Mrs. Fairfax worshipped Mr. Rochester.
“No doubt he may appear so to a stranger,” she said, “but I am so accustomed to his manner, I never think of it. He is used to making demands and having them done without question. You might think of addressing him as ‘sir,’ as I have always done.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Besides, if he has peculiarities of temper, allowances should be made.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Partly because it is his nature—we can none of us help our nature—and partly because he has painful thoughts to harass him.”
“What kind of thoughts?”
“Family troubles, for one thing. He broke with his family, and now for many years he has led an unsettled kind of life. I don’t think he has ever been resident at Thornfield for a fortnight together, and, indeed, no wonder he shuns the old place.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps he thinks it gloomy.”
She admitted his reasons were a mystery to her, and that what she knew was chiefly from conjecture. I wanted to ask her more, but it was evident that Mrs. Fairfax wanted me to drop the subject entirely.
For several days I saw little of Mr. Rochester. In the mornings he seemed occupied with business, and in the afternoon, gentlemen from the neighborhood called and stayed to dine with him. When his sprain was well enough, he rode a great deal and generally did not come back till late at night.
One evening after his company had left, he called for Adèle and me. Upon our arrival in the dining room, he gave Adèle a doll, telling her to amuse herself elsewhere and asking me to sit in the chair next to him.
“Don’t draw that chair farther off, Miss Eyre,” he said. “Sit down exactly where I placed it—if you please, that is. Confound these civilities! I ought to be at liberty to attend to my own pleasure. Miss Eyre, draw your chair still a little farther forward; you are yet too far back.”
His bossy, domineering tone had returned, but I reminded myself of what Mrs. Fairfax had said. He was accustomed to people obeying his every word. I did what he asked, even though I resented his expectation of obedience.
A large fire flickered and crackled in the hearth, filling the room with warmth as frozen rain beat against the panes. Mr. Rochester looked different than before, not quite so stern, much less grim. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled, probably from all the wine he’d had. He was in an after-dinner mood, relaxed and friendly, but still a bit imposing in his look. The glow from the fire cast him in light and shadow so his face emerged in planes like a great slab of granite. His dark eyes seemed to change in their depths like the ocean, some spots deep and cool, others lighter and full of warmth.
“You examine me, Miss Eyre,” he said. “Do you think me handsome?”
A direct question. Before I could think, I gave him a direct answer. “No.”
He laughed heartily. “By my word, there is something singular about you,” he said. “You look so quaint, quiet, grave, and simple, as you sit with your hands before you, your eyes bent on the carpet. But when one asks you a question, you rap out a round rejoinder, which, if not blunt, is at least brusque.”
“Sir,” I said, trying to backpedal. “I’m sorry. I should have said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Beauty in the eye of the beholder, indeed! And so, under pretense of softening the previous outrage, you stick a sly penknife under my ear! Go on, what fault do you find with me? I suppose I have all my limbs and all my features like any other man?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Mr. Rochester, forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Does my forehead not please you?” he went on, a sly grin playing on his lips. He lifted up the waves of hair that lay over his brow. “Now, ma’am, what kind of brow is this?”
“A noble one, I’d say.”
“There again! Another stick of the penknife. Noble I may have been, once upon a time, but Fortune has beaten it out of me.” He rose from his chair and stood, leaning his arm on the marble mantelpiece of the fireplace. I stared at his profile. There was something undeniably striking about his looks, some force that made it difficult to look away.
“I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative tonight,” he said. I was waiting for him to continue, but he just stared at me, his eyes dark and penetrating. “Therefore, speak,” he said.
I opened my mouth in disbelief. “I am not a dog, sir. But I’ll be happy to talk with you if you give me a topic of conversation.”
He made a grumbling noise, trying to decide if I was being impertinent. “You are quiet, Miss Eyre. Stubborn perhaps? Annoyed. Ah, that is it. Miss Eyre, I beg your pardon. The fact is, I don’t wish to treat you like an inferior. That is, I claim only such superiority as must result from twenty years’ difference in age. I desire you to have the goodness to talk to me a little now, and divert my thoughts, which are galled with dwelling on one point—cankering as a rusty nail.”
“But how do I know what will interest you? Ask me questions, and I’ll do my best to answer them.”
“Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have a right to be a little masterful, on the grounds that I am old enough to be your father, and that I have roamed over half the globe while you have lived quietly with one set of people in one house?”
“It all depends on how you’ve used that time and experience,” I said.
“Promptly spoken. The truth is, I was thrust onto a wrong tack at the age of one-and-twenty, and have never recovered the right course since.” Some awful thought seemed to grip him, and he ground his teeth and went silent. I wanted to change the subject, so I asked him how he had come to be Adèle’s caretaker.
In a rather amused tone, he told me of his adventures in Paris, where he’d had an affair with a beautiful French dancer named Céline Varens. He thought he was in love with her. But Céline betrayed him by taking up with another man. Some years later, he received word that Céline had abandoned a baby girl, claiming she was his. The child was destitute. “I took the poor thing out of the slime and mud of Paris and transplanted it here to grow up clean in the wholesome soil of an English country garden. Mrs. Fairfax found you to train it, but now that you know it is the illegitimate offspring of a French opera girl, you will perhaps think differently of your post and protégée.”
I shook my head. “You call Adèle ‘it’ as if she were some animal you’d rescued and put inside a cage. She’s a little girl. And her background is not any fault of her own. She knows neither of her parents and has never known any real affection. I shall love her even more than before.” He looked startled by my words. “Sir,” I added sheepishly. And then he laughed as if my passionate nature amused him.
“Ah, Miss Eyre, I envy your peace of mind, your clean conscience. I am not a villain—you are not to suppose that—but I am a commonplace sinner who feels the dreaded sting of remorse. And remorse, Miss Eyre, is the poison of life.”

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