Chapter 8
We left Maysbeck on a bright, sunny morning.
It had poured rain all the previous day and night, and now everything seemed washed clean—even, almost, the unpainted cottages and shacks of the bottoms. As the coach rumbled past, I gazed at them, hoping to see Alma once more, but I saw only crooked, narrow alleys, children shivering in filthy rags and adults bundled against the mid-November cold and damp, and lank dogs, snuffling amid the detritus.
Soon Maysbeck was behind us and we were in the countryside, heading toward Harrogate, and I was imagining myself at Thornfield again, not just being in the place that I had last seen half a lifetime ago, but seeing as well Cook and Knox and all the rest, if they were still there.
From Mr. Wilson’s gazetteer, I had surmised that with even the fastest of coaches it would take me a good day just to make the trip back and forth, without any time remaining to spend at Thornfield itself.
I could not think of how I could persuade Mrs. Wilson to extend her stay in defiance of Mr. Wilson’s explicit order.
And what excuse could I give for being gone so long?
Beside me, Mrs. Wilson was wrapped in her warmest cloak, and I had tucked a blanket around her besides.
In less than an hour she was snoring lightly, her head fallen against my shoulder.
The coach drove through countryside that looked so familiar that I could almost imagine Thornfield-Hall just over the next rise, with its fires lit and the silver and brass polished.
Rowland might be there, hosting a party perhaps—indeed perhaps including Carrot—and an ache came into my gut, and a longing for Thornfield and for Carrot, both.
In Harrogate, at the inn where the coach left us, I hired a carriage to carry our luggage and ourselves to Mrs. Wilson’s sister’s house, which was not so very far away.
Her sister’s companion, Mrs. Brewer, greeted us at the door in a flurry of excitement and confusion and, I noted, a kind of relief.
She directed the porter upstairs with our bags, and she led us into a small but serviceable parlor, where Mrs. Wilson’s sister was seated close to the fire.
At first she stared at us with a kind of detached curiosity, as if she had no idea who we were or why we had come, but on seeing her, Mrs. Wilson exclaimed, “Ella!” and hurried right over to give her a hug.
The whole time she was being embraced, the sister gazed over Mrs. Wilson’s shoulder at me, as if she thought she ought to know me.
Not knowing what else to do, I smiled at her and nodded, but her face remained blank.
“Who is that man?” the sister asked, and Mrs. Wilson came to her senses and turned to glance at me.
“Why, that’s Eddie,” she said.
“That’s not Eddie,” the sister said.
“Of course it is!” Mrs. Wilson said in her cheeriest voice.
“Not our Eddie,” the sister insisted.
Mrs. Wilson laughed. “No, Ella, not our Eddie. But he is still a very nice young man. He brought me here to you.” And she attempted the introduction. “Ella, this is Edward Rochester, whom Mr. Wilson has taken under his wing and who lives with us—”
“Who is Mr. Wilson?” the sister asked.
“My husband. John Wilson. You know him.” The sister looked blankly at her, but she continued on. “And, Eddie, this is my sister, Miss Little.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Little,” I said, stepping forward, making a bow.
But Miss Little shrank back, as if afraid I would strike her. “This is not Eddie, and I don’t want him in my house!”
“No, dear,” Mrs. Brewer put in, “it’s not your brother, Eddie. But he is a friend of your sister’s; surely he can stay.”
“No, he cannot,” Miss Little said, her voice rising. “I do not want him here, Cassie. He is not Eddie and there is no reason to pretend that he is, and I will not have some strange man staying under my roof!”
Mrs. Wilson glanced helplessly at Mrs. Brewer, for neither one knew how to handle the situation.
But I did. “That is quite all right, madam,” I said.
“I can just as easily stay at the inn. It’s not far and, anyway, you two sisters probably have a lot to talk about.
” Though I had no idea how that could be, as Miss Little seemed to live in another world.
“Would you mind terribly?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
“No, of course not.”
“You could come back for tea, surely,” Mrs. Wilson said, looking at Mrs. Brewer.
“Maybe it would be best if I stay away,” I said. “I seem to disturb your sister; the less she sees of me, the better.”
“But, Eddie—”
“I shall be perfectly fine,” I interrupted. “Mr. Wilson said you could stay for two days. I shall return to fetch you then.”
“But what will you do at the inn all that time?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I have a friend not far from here. Would you mind if I visit him in the interim?”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Wilson said. “It will ease my mind if I know you are occupied.”
Relieved, I turned to Mrs. Brewer. “Please don’t bother to see me to the door. I will just run upstairs and find my bag and be off.” I did not even care if I seemed to be in a hurry to leave, for, indeed, I was.
Unfortunately, I had to spend the night at the inn, as it was too late to catch a coach to Millcote, but I took one early the next morning, and shortly after noon I was at the George Inn, which I had not seen in the nearly eight years since I had left for Black Hill.
I knew I had limited time, so with most of the “emergency money” Mr. Wilson had given me, I hired a trap to take me directly to Thornfield-Hall, which took another good hour.
I was anxious all the way, almost ripping the whip from the driver’s hand to urge the horse on faster.
The George and the countryside around it all seemed so familiar that I could scarcely believe it was not a dream.
I gripped the handrail as the trap rolled over the old hills and across the little bridges, and then, suddenly, Thornfield lay before me, settled into its quiet valley, the November mists curling around it.
At the gate, the trap stopped and I descended, paying the driver and asking him to return by ten the next morning, and I picked up my small bag, opened the gate, and walked up the long drive.
All the way from Harrogate I had tried to work out what I would say to Rowland when I turned up at his door, but despite that I could not think what to say, I also could not pass up an opportunity to be at Thornfield-Hall again.
As for my father, I did have a good excuse to be gone from the mill, though perhaps not a good one to be at Thornfield.
Never mind, I told myself; I was not going to allow myself to miss this chance.
The place was quiet as I approached, no evidence at all of activity. It flew into my head that it had all been a lie of Rowland’s, that Thornfield-Hall was indeed closed and empty, but then I saw drifts of smoke coming from the chimneys, and with a lighter step I hurried forward.
It was Holdredge who opened the door for me. After nearly eight years he still appeared the same, but he clearly did not recognize me. “It is I,” I said at last. “Edward. Edward Rochester.”
He took in a sudden breath. “Master Rochester?” he said. Then: “Master Rochester! Come in. We had no idea. I am so sorry.”
I stepped into the entrance hall as he retreated to make room for me.
“I am so sorry,” he repeated. “Did you walk? We could have sent a carriage for you! We had no idea—”
“Of course,” I said. “You had no way of knowing I was coming. I had no idea myself twenty-four hours ago. I took a trap from the George.”
“Master Rochester—that is, Master Rowland—is not here,” he said, as if in apology. “It is only Mrs. Knox and Cook and a girl and a footman who are here at the moment.”
“And my father?” I asked.
“Oh,” Holdredge responded, “he is never here; he spends his time at his residences in Liverpool and in London.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, as if I had known of my father’s residences and trying not to show my relief. Just those I wanted to see, and no one I cared not to. “I had no right to assume Rowland would be here. This is an unexpected visit, and a short one.”
“Do come in,” he said. “Into the drawing room?”
“The kitchen if you don’t mind. I would like to see Cook. And Knox.”
He did not react to this at all, so good a butler was Holdredge.
“Follow me, please,” he said, and stepped forward and led the way down to the kitchen, where we found Cook and Mrs. Knox enjoying an afternoon cup of tea.
When no family was present in the house, I could imagine, this was the kind of relaxed atmosphere that prevailed.
“We have a visitor,” Holdredge announced as we walked into the kitchen.
Automatically, Mrs. Knox rose before she even turned to look. I can see her face still—shock there, and confusion, and then the dawning. “Master Rochester,” she said quietly.
“Oh, my heavens!” Cook proclaimed, rising and running around the table as fast as her bulk allowed.
“Master Rochester! Young Master Rochester!” Mindless of the flour on her apron, she pulled me to her bosom, her body suddenly wracked with sobs.
“I thought I would never see you again! I thought I would die without ever seeing you again!” When she came to herself and realized how unseemly her outburst had been, she stepped back, her arms at her sides but her face still locked on mine.
“It is,” she added, still marveling, “it truly is.”
“Welcome,” Mrs. Knox said.
“Thank you,” I replied. “I know you have not planned for me. And I can go back to the village if necessary. I only have until tomorrow morning, as it is.”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Knox said. “You shall stay here; of course you shall.”
“It would be my greatest pleasure,” I responded.
“Master Rowland is not here,” she added.
“So Holdredge told me.”
“He has gone down to Bath, with his friends.”