Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall (3 page)

After dinner, we walked outside to see
the full moon. Mrs. Mason said it was a magical night. She assured me that full
moons cast light on our troubles and bring us our hearts’ desires. She invited
me to make a wish, which I should never disclose, until it came true. I made my
wish, although I knew it would never happen. I was glad that she was in higher
spirits, at last. I wondered what she had wished.

***

The last few months had been quiet at
Eyre Hall; my uncle had returned to Jamaica after the wedding, Adele was still
in Venice with Mr. Greenwood, and I had not seen or heard from John since the
end of the summer, when he returned to college. Jane had been busy editing the
final version of her novel, and was much recovered from her malady, which I
guessed was no longer physical. She seemed melancholic; at times it was as
though she was silently wasting away. Fortunately, Nell, with her bright and
merry character, was often able to bring a smile to Jane’s face.

I had been glad to return from finishing
school in Belgium at the beginning of the summer. I had not enjoyed my stay in
Brussels, and strangely, I was looking forward to returning to Eyre Hall. I had
never expected to feel so at home in this grand, lonely house, but I did. I
enjoyed walking about the grounds with the dogs, and wandering around the
house. I imagined how my mother must have felt when she first arrived. She must
have had difficulty adapting to the chilly dampness and would have missed the
fresh, sharp sea breeze, as I did, but now it seemed so familiar and safe. The
sturdy walls protected me as much as they had imprisoned my poor mother, Bertha
Mason Rochester.

There was no attic at Eyre Hall, but I
often walked up to Jane’s tower room, and gazed out of the window, over the
hills, where I guessed busy Millcote lay, and I wondered if my mother had had the
same view, but of course, she had been a prisoner in a windowless room, where I
was born. Perhaps that was why I couldn’t bear any type of confinement. I longed
to see the sky and smell fresh air, at all times. Could a baby remember such
early events? Could I remember my mother’s appearance if I tried hard enough?
Sometimes I thought I saw her face peering at me as she swirled her brown dress
amidst the tree trunks. She would have danced even in confinement. I was sure
she wore a brown dress, and her face was ugly and twisted like the knots on the
trees, but she smiled at me. She was glad I had come back. I would not feel so
comfortable here if she were not pleased with my presence.

I had been to the parish cemetery and wandered
around the tombstones reading the names, dates of birth and death, and farewell
lines from the Bible. The Rochesters had a great vault inside the church. I had
often observed the marble tomb and the kneeling angel who guarded them. The
first Rochesters to be buried were Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in
1644, during the civil wars, and his wife Elizabeth, over two hundred years
ago. I wondered what it would feel like to know where my ancestors lay and what
their names were.

 My mother’s remains, on the other hand,
lay outside the church, on the edge of the graveyard, below a blank tombstone.
I often went there and prayed for her and for myself, on my own. Once, Jane had
taken a longer than usual walk with Nell, and saw me sitting by the empty
stone.

“Annette, come back with us, my darling,
you’ll catch your death of cold sitting there, on the damp ground.”

“Yes, Mrs. Mason,” I answered head bent,
tearing myself away from my mother’s side.

“It would please me if you were to call
me Jane, Annette.”

I nodded and walked back to the house
with them, wondering if she had asked me to call her by her Christian name
because she had become fond of me, or because she did not like to be addressed
by my uncle and mother’s surname.

She surprised me by saying, “I’ll have
to speak to Mr. Woods about the headstone. We shall go to Millcote and order a
stonemason to cut a marble slab with your mother’s name on it, and her date of
birth and death. Would that please you, Annette?”

Her offer brought a lump to my throat
and a sting to my eyes. I could not reply, so she spoke again. “We can go next
week. You need some new dresses, and so do I. I have lost weight, and you need
to look like the young and fashionable woman you are. We will go on Thursday. It
is when Mrs. Spark, the dressmaker, is in the store.”

Jane did not seem to expect an answer. She
was obviously aware of my distress. She turned to Nell who was asking her the
names of the flowers and trees, which Jane patiently told her. They picked
various leaves and Jane suggested they dry the flowers and the leaves, and
stick them in a notebook with their names. I marvelled at her patience and
affection towards Nell. It was such a pity Jane had never had a daughter of her
own, and that Nell should have such an unsuitable mother. Jenny Rosset was so
obviously my uncle’s whore, and probably anyone else’s if they were prepared to
pay her charges. I disliked her enormously, and could not understand why she
had ever been employed at Eyre Hall. Fortunately, she spent most of her time sewing
below stairs, except when she was summoned to my uncle’s chamber.

I wondered if Jane would have cared for
me, if I had stayed at Eyre Hall, as she cared for Adele. Could she have loved
me? Did she read my mind? When we arrived back in the house, she turned to me
again and spoke softly. “Annette, my dearest, I’m very glad you are here at
Eyre Hall with me. Remember, this is your home now.” She squeezed my hand. “Will
you join us for tea in the library?” I nodded and followed them into the cosy
room.

Although we had been living in the same
house for almost six months, I rarely saw Jane, who spent most of the time in
her room reading with Nell, or writing her novel. We occasionally had lunch or
dinner together, but she seldom spoke, and ate barely enough to nourish a
sparrow.

At the end of the summer, she had asked
me to take care of household matters, such as menus and dealing with the staff,
especially weekly meetings with the imposing Mrs. Leah. I had agreed because it
was the least I could do to return her kindness to me. In any case, Mrs. Leah
ran the household more effectively than I ever could. Our regular meetings were
a mere formality.         

I had longed to be back at Eyre Hall was
because I would be seeing John once again. My feelings for John had deepened.
He was in my thoughts often, but I did not know how he felt. We had become very
close during the summer, but he told me once again when he left, that our only
relationship could be as close relatives. He would soon be master of the
Rochester estate, and he had to marry according to his mother’s wishes. I
understood his loyalty, although it pained me greatly. On the other hand, although
my uncle had assured me Mr. Rochester was my father, I was almost sure that it
was a lie. If he had already met Jane, why would he have a child with my mother,
the lunatic he had locked in his attic?

It often plagued me that I would never
know who my father was, but I knew he had to be a wicked man. Who else would
violate a helpless, mad woman in a cold, damp attic, and abandon his daughter
mercilessly? Indeed, I had no wish to ever meet such a man, but I did often
wonder who he was. Could he have been a servant? An employee? An acquaintance?
A casual visitor? A friend of Mr. Rochester’s? Who else could have had access
to the attic?

My past was a mystery, and my future was
uncertain. I could not marry the man I loved, so should I marry someone else?
It would have to be a marriage of convenience to a man chosen by my uncle or
Jane, because I would never fall in love again. Yet if I did not marry, what
should I do? I used to enjoy teaching when I was at Saint Mary’s Convent in
Jamaica. Jane would have liked me to be involved in the parish schools in or
near the Rochester estate, but I was no longer interested in teaching. I realised
I must do something to fill my days, but what? I would like to have children of
my own, and be the mother I never had, but would I be a good mother?

Last night I saw John from my window. He
had returned to Eyre Hall for the Christmas holidays. I had not heard from him
since the summer. Not a letter, not a visit, not even to see his mother. I
supposed he was too busy getting on with his own life to worry about his family
at boring Eyre Hall. I had already retired to my room when he arrived, and
although I longed to rush down and greet him, I realised it would not be
appropriate, so I tossed and turned in my bed all night and rushed down to an
early breakfast the next morning.

As I expected, I was the first to sit at
the breakfast table. Fred brought in eggs, toast, and bacon. I asked for some
of Cook’s cakes and tea. My stomach was too full of butterflies to be able to
make room for cooked food. John barged in, as he always did when he entered a
room, before I had finished my tea. I stood up and he walked over to me, hugged
me and kissed me on both cheeks as if he were very happy to see me. He was
carrying a package in his hand, which he thrust into mine.

“I hope you’ve finished breakfast,
because I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now, Annette.”

“Leave?”     

“These are your letters. I want you to
go to your room and read them right now, at once! Then come down. I’ll be
waiting for you in the drawing room.”

I looked down at the ribboned parcel,
quite stunned.

“Hurry up! Before mother comes down.” Then
he turned me around, pushing me towards the door. “And read them in the exact
order they are placed. Ignore the dates they were written.”

I walked up to my room in a daze, sat at
my bureau, undid the ribbon, and cast away the coloured paper which revealed a
red velvet box with a golden key. I unlocked it and lifted the lid, revealing a
small bundle of letters packed against the crimson silk lining.  

Dearest cousin Annette,

I hope this letter, my sixth,
finds you well. I have written to you every fortnight since we last spoke, in September.
I am sorry that you have not received my previous letters, and neither will you
be receiving this one yet, because it will remain in my possession, for the
moment. This will be my last letter, for now. I will soon be giving all of them
the freedom they deserve by offering them to you, their rightful owner.

I can hardly wait for the next two
weeks to pass, because then we will meet again at Eyre Hall for Christmas. I
have so many things I want to share with you. I discovered, as I think we both
did, the last time we were together, that our affinity was unique. Ours is a
union that is forged by our family ties and fortified by our exceptional connection.
We will always be part of each other’s lives. Whatever happens, our futures are
knotted, and that certainty makes me a very happy man.

You are more than a cousin, or a
friend, and more than my betrothed. You are my conscience, my soul, and my
mirror. I more than love you; I admire you and respect you, as I will never
respect any other woman. I long to take your hand in mine, and look into your
bewitching eyes, as you tell me all about your stay in Belgium and your plans
for the spring, because I trust you will not be leaving Eyre Hall again. It
will always be our home.

 Your loving cousin,

John Eyre Rochester

I folded the letter and wiped the tear
which had slipped down my cheek with the back of my hand.

My Dearest Annette,

Sometimes I dream, Annette. I
dream that now that poor Elizabeth has died and I am free from my engagement,
we could get to know each other better, after all, and decide whether our
attraction was a passing phase or if we have real, lasting feelings for each
other. Feelings which could grow into love and companionship. I know cousins
are allowed a special licence for marriage, and if I was to propose and you
were to accept me, then we could apply.

I would be master of Eyre Hall,
and you would be the mistress. You would make a fine Mistress of Eyre Hall. We
would have at least six children, boys and girls, some darker like you and my
father, and some blonder, like my mother and me. The first boy would be called Edward,
like my father, and the first girl, Jane, like my mother, but you will chose
the names of all the others. Does that please you? Or would you prefer the
first to be called like your father and your mother? You see, we are already
having our first quarrel! I should love to have these arguments with you, and I
should especially like to make up, after the disagreements.

I’m sure you are blushing now and
that your eyes are bright with desire, as mine are, and I want to thank you for
those unforgettable, intimate moments we have shared, which will always make
our relationship special, whatever happens in the future.

I blushed at the memory of our
closeness. We had had a great deal of time on our own. Jane was mostly writing,
reading with Nell, or absent in her own world, and everyone else was away, so
we had had plenty of time for excursions and privacy. John had showed me around
Hay and Millcote, and we even went as far as York one day to visit the Minster.
We kissed and cuddled, and more than once, I had pushed his insistent hands
away from my most intimate secrets, for fear of going beyond propriety and
losing my most valued treasure. He had said he would wait and made me promise
that I should bestow my first and only gift to him, although I was unsure whether
I would be able to keep such a scandalous promise.  

We had been invited to the Jackson’s on
several occasions for full–moon balls, where I had been introduced to many
young and eligible men. John had asked me if I would consider marrying any of
them, and I had been shocked at his suggestion. I found it hard to understand
how adamant he was about obeying social conventions and his mother’s wishes,
yet how easily he found a way of breaking the rules and getting his own way, at
the same time.