Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall (27 page)

I asked her if I could read it, and it
moved me greatly to learn more about Jamaica and the naïve and troubled woman
Edward had married and destroyed. I had played my part in her tragedy,
unknowingly. If I had not met Edward, if I had never been to Thornfield Hall,
she might have lived and perhaps even recovered. Annette smiled when I confessed
my feelings of guilt.

“Jane, believe me, I have thought about
this long and hard since I arrived at Eyre Hall. I used to think you were
responsible for my mother’s unfortunate fate, but now I am sure that you are
not to blame. My mother was condemned long before you arrived at Thornfield
Hall. I would have been removed from her side in any case, and she would never
have recovered from her madness, which was no doubt increased by her cruel
captivity. Do not torture yourself with those thoughts. Her fate was sealed
long before you met Mr. Rochester. She should never have married Edward or left
Jamaica, and you had no hand in those events.”

I was impatiently looking forward to our
arrival in Jamaica, because I would recover Michael at last, and because I had
conjured in my mind an idealised picture of warm, sunny days and cheerful,
happy islanders.

  Last night the sea had been still and
silent. The captain had told us that we were close enough to see Bermuda very
soon, and then a few days later other larger islands and then Jamaica. After
dinner, we retired to our rooms. Nell usually slept with me, other days she slept
with Annette. Both our rooms had two berths, one above the other, but mine was
larger. There was space for a small desk and an armchair. Annette’s cabin was
so narrow that there was just enough room for a stool to stand between the edge
of the berth and the trunk, where she kept all her belongings. That night I had
a headache and wanted to sleep, and Nell and Annette preferred to read, so Nell
slept in Annette’s cabin.

I dreamt I was in Thornfield Hall again,
lost along its third floor corridors leading to the windowless attic, and then
suddenly I was running through the blackened ruins after the fire. Seconds
later, I was wandering around Eyre Hall, walking into rooms I had never seen with
crumbling walls, torn curtains, and rotting wooden furniture.    

Hours later, we were woken by a wild
raging storm, which tossed our ship mercilessly like a seashell on the shore.
My whole body was shaken, and turned inside out. It seemed my entrails desired
to escape the storm by tearing out of my body. I looked out of the tiny porthole
and saw a huge mass of water and dark objects spinning like a whirlpool, and I
was thrust back against my desk.

I remembered the letter. If ever there
was a time to read it, it was now, this very moment, if I could manage to
recover it. My cabin had become a greater mess than my poor stomach; papers,
bottles, and clothes flew about haphazardly. I found the chaos to be more
frightening than the pain. I could endure the pain if I was lying in my bed, as
I had done so often, but the anarchy that reigned was unbearable. I knew not if
I was standing or lying, rolling on the wall or the floor, being hit by a chair
or a candlestick. The low wooden ceiling seemed to trap me like a coffin, and I
seriously doubted if we would survive.

My vomit flew like the rest of the
objects in a whirlwind around me. I was as helpless as a dandelion in a
snowstorm. Was this the end of my life? Was Jane Eyre to die in the middle of
the Atlantic Ocean, where she would dissolve into the hungry waters, or worse
still be devoured by sharks? I saw before me, as if I were watching a puppet show,
the faces of all the people I had known; those I had loved, and those I did not
wish to see again popped up grotesquely and randomly, pulling distorted faces
at me. My aunt, my childhood cousins, John and Georgina, my present cousins,
Diana and Mary, the girls from Lowood, Helen, Miss Temple, Edward, servants at
Thornfield Hall, Bertha, and many more. They all watched me die, making fun of
me cruelly. “It is your fault,” accused Mr. Brocklehurst. “You are a liar and you
will have your portion in the lake burning with fire and brimstone!” His voice
howled in my mind. Had they come to say goodbye or to meet me at the gates of
hell?

Finally, I saw Michael, the way I loved
to see him, smiling, unperturbed, and at ease sitting by my side. I realised I
might never see him again. I remembered that I had not yet been reunited with
my daughter, and I realised I had to survive through the storm a while longer,
because I had to find Michael’s letter and read it, so he would be with me when
I died.

It had been in a locked box, which was
now lying open and empty on the floor. I dropped to my knees and felt the floor
with my palms until I recognised the long, rectangular envelope, which I ripped
open. I pulled out the contents, two letters, and started reading.

My Dearest Jane,

If you are reading this letter, it
is because I am no longer with you, but, at least, I have left you with Helen.

I would have liked to tell you all
about her discovery myself, but obviously I was not able to, probably because I
have died at sea, as I can see no other person or force of nature capable of preventing
me from returning to your side.

Every moment I spent near you or
thinking about you has been a gift, and I am sure my last and only thoughts
were of you, ‘and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.’

I trust you will find a way of
compensating Helen for her first ten years away from her true kin, and that she
will understand and forgive the people responsible for those events.

I regret the loss of our child,
and my unforgivable behaviour in abandoning you, but I trust that finding and
returning your abducted daughter will replace, or at least mitigate, your pain
with love and hope for the future.

  Your eternal servant,

Michael Kirkpatrick.

I pushed my clothes, paintings, bags,
jars, and other tumbled objects, which were burying me alive, away from my head.
My elbows were firmly pressed against the floor as I opened the second letter.
The handwriting was large and childish, as if it had been painstakingly
written.

Dear Nell,

I am your mother, the person who
saved you from death and misery and brought you up as best I knew how to do. It
weren’t a fancy life, but you always had a morsel to eat and a roof over your
head. It was all I could offer. If it hadn’t been for me and my kindness, I
have no doubt you’d be dead, so when they tell you I ain’t your mother,
remember you’re alive because I looked after you instead of leaving you in a
ditch.

When you were a newborn baby, Dr.
Carter gave you away, following instructions from your father, Mr. Rochester,
it would seem, who didn’t want no more kids at Eyre Hall. I was told to take
you to London, which I did, with my own daughter, Nell, who was just a month
older than you. I was told to leave you there in the care of a woman who looked
after unwanted babies for a sum of money, which they gave me to give her. I
remember it was 50 pounds, because I hadn’t never seen so much money before.

Anyways, shortly after we arrived
in London, you both contracted whooping cough. My daughter died, and you
survived. I told the woman it was the other baby who had died, and mine had survived,
she gave me some money, and sent me back out into the streets with you.

The rest you know. Do not despise
me. I thought no one wanted you, so I kept you for myself. You was a lovely
little girl. I’m sure you have good memories of your childhood. I do. Then,
when we came to Eyre Hall, you changed. You were with her all the time, and you
even started looking like her and acting like her, and I didn’t like it. I
always thought she didn’t want you, that’s why I never gave you back or asked
for more money, but perhaps I was wrong and she was fooled, too.

Michael discovered it all. He
threatened to have me hanged for baby theft and made me go to Australia with
Thomas, but I never wanted to leave you. He says he’ll give you this letter one
day. When he does, please forgive me.

Your loving mother,

Jenny Rosset.      

The storm was ripping my body apart, but
the letter was ripping my heart to pieces. Tears of relief streamed down my
face. My daughter was with me, had been with me, for the past fourteen months,
yet I had not realised it was her. I understood Michael’s insistence that I
should look after Nell. Nell. But where was she? She had to be in her cabin
with Annette. I crawled out of my cabin towards theirs. They were huddled
together on the bed praying. I managed to join them and we prayed on loudly,
trying to quell the sound of the sea’s fury.

Miraculously, hours later, the storm
stilled. The silence was so sudden and unexpected, that I wondered if we had
ceased to exist. I touched Nell’s arm. “Nell, are you well? Have you any pain?”

“I have a headache. I hit my head, and a
book flew into my eye.”

I examined it. “It is bruised, but there
is no blood. Anything else?” She shook her head.

“Annette, are you all right?”

“I think I have injured my leg and I cannot
move my arm.”

“Let me have a look.” Her leg had a nasty–looking
cut, and her arm was bruised.

“I must find Dr. Carter. Wait here,” I
said.

“But Jane, are you not hurt?” asked
Annette.

“I am sore all over, but I am sure it is
nothing important.”

“Your clothes are soiled,” Annette said

I remembered I had been sick. I looked
at my vomit–stained clothes and imagined it must smell dreadfully, although fortunately
the only odour which had washed its way into my senses was of brine and
seaweed.

“I will be back shortly with Dr.
Carter.”

I decided to replace my dress first. The
letter was still on the floor, where I had left it, so I put it back carefully
into the envelope, hid it in my clean dress pocket, and rushed out in search of
help.

***

Jane was behaving most strangely after
the storm. She had returned with Dr. Carter fussing around Nell and insisting
the doctor should make sure she was well. I had a bleeding cut on my leg and a
bruised and painful arm, which Jane seemed to ignore.

“Mrs. Mason, Nell is perfectly well,
logically upset after the sudden and violent storm, but I must assist Miss
Annette who has more serious contusions.”

He busied himself gently swabbing and
bandaging my wound, while Nell reassured Jane. “I am very well, Mrs. Mason,
Look, it is Miss Annette’s leg which has blood. Dr. Carter must look after her.”
  

Then Jane surprised us all by raising
her voice impatiently. “Do not call me Mrs. Mason, or say Miss Annette or Dr.
Carter again, Nell! You are to call us Jane and Annette from now on.”

“Jane?” asked the confused child.

“Yes, I am tired of hearing Mrs. Mason
all day.” She turned to Dr. Carter. “And you too, Dr. Carter. You must call me
Jane, and Annette is Annette, not Miss Mason.”

Dr. Carter seemed to ignore her comments
and proceeded to examine my arm. I winced as he turned it right and left and
pressed my skin with soft movements, which I found unexpectedly comforting.

“Well, it isn’t broken, Annette, just
bruised.” My heart skipped a beat when I heard my name on his lips. He smiled
warmly, and I wondered why I had never noticed his thick red eyelashes and
sparkling blue eyes.

“You can all call me Harry.”

“Your name is Harry?” asked Nell. He
nodded.

“I like Harry,” she said. “I have never
met anyone called Harry.”

“Pleased to meet you Harry.” I held out
my hand, which he held firmly and squeezed before taking it to his lips.

“I suppose we have survived a storm
which could easily have killed us. That should make us friends for life.” said
Harry.

We all laughed, thankful to be alive and
well.

“Now, Jane, how are you feeling?”

“Better, much better, now that we are
all well. Thank you Harry.” She hugged and kissed us all ardently and
repeatedly. I imagined that such a profuse display of warmth and affection was
the result of the build–up of the excitement of the journey and the stress of
the storm.

Hours later, we had dinner with the captain
and the mate, as usual. We were all avid for information of the events that had
occurred that morning, so he told us what had caused our predicament.

“We crossed part of the Sargasso Sea in
the middle of a tropical storm.” 

“I have never heard of this sea, Captain.
Aren’t we in the Atlantic Ocean?” Nell asked.

“The Sargasso Sea is a cool, tranquil,
motionless area, more like a lake in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”

“That is strange, a sea in the middle of
an ocean. How is that possible?” insisted Nell.

He took a pen and pencil and drew a
picture of the coast of the United States and Florida, and the scattered
Caribbean islands to the south. He then added circular lines and arrows as he
explained.