Chapter 10
It was January and bitter cold. Most of the gentry—the Ingrams and the others—would be in Bath by now, if not farther afield in Europe somewhere, and eager as I was to show off Mesrour, I had no mind to join them.
It had been months since I had been in residence at Thornfield, and despite the burdens I had there, I felt it was time to make an appearance, to assure myself that Bertha was still in good care and that Adèle was in good hands as well, that her new governess was not ruining her.
And, perhaps most important, I needed to assure myself that this so-called Gerald Rochester had not somehow materialized at my home in my absence.
Osmon’s revelation had bothered me, I realized, much more than I cared to admit.
The journey to Yorkshire took almost two weeks, for there was snow on the roadway and, despite my hurry, I had no intention of ruining Mesrour in the first days that I owned him.
Yet, as we neared Thornfield, coming down the causeway from Millcote in the late afternoon, I was deep in my own head, where my emotions were at war with themselves.
Even as I dreaded what I might find at the Hall—Bertha’s further disintegration or the presence of this mysterious, unwanted stranger—nonetheless I still felt that old familiar longing to see the distant outlines of Thornfield-Hall against the darkening sky, to be home again.
In my distraction, I was not paying the attention I should have to Mesrour’s footing, to the telltale slips of the hoof that foretell disaster.
We came around a curve in the pathway, where moisture from a recent rain had frozen into a thin sheet of ice.
Suddenly, Mesrour’s hooves lost their purchase, and before I could react, we were both of us falling onto the frozen causeway with the kind of crash that shatters bones.
I was dazed for a moment, as was the horse, but when I came to myself I discovered I was entangled with him, and he groaned as if he were near death, a sound that frightened the deuce out of me.
I struggled mightily to remove myself from my entanglement, swearing to myself as if it would help the effort, as Pilot snuffled around us both.
I thought I heard a voice and peered about into the gloom, but seeing no one, I was put in mind of childhood tales of woodland sprites haunting this vicinity.
Then the voice came again, more clearly: “Can I do anything?”
I looked toward the sound and saw a little thing, barely half my size: not a sprite after all, but a child.
I ordered it to one side, afraid it might get hurt, and managed to scramble to my feet, a sudden pain flashing through my ankle.
As I helped Mesrour stand and checked him for injuries, Pilot leaped and barked around us in either joy or concern.
I had just limped my way to a convenient nearby stile when I was surprised to hear the voice again, for I had forgotten that I was not alone on the path.
“If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch someone, either from Thornfield-Hall or from Hay.”
“Thank you,” I said, without glancing up, feeling instead at my twisted ankle. “I shall do: I have no broken bones—only a sprain.” Hoping to prove those words, I stood again and immediately felt a fiercer stab of pain in my ankle.
“I cannot think of leaving you, sir.”
It was only then, at this last insistence, that I truly saw the creature and realized that it was neither a sprite nor a child proper, but a young woman with a pale, otherworldly face, all bundled in a beaver bonnet and a merino cloak and a muff.
I could not fathom what she might be doing on the path all alone at twilight.
“I should think you ought to be at home yourself,” I said, “if you have a home in this neighborhood: where do you come from?”
I was surprised to hear her tell me she came from Thornfield itself.
The warm familiarity with which she spoke the name of my home struck me as both charming and rather improper—clearly she had no idea I was its master, yet she harbored evident affection for it, as I once had.
When I tried to draw out her identity without revealing my own, I was astonished to learn that she was the new governess.
“I cannot commission you to fetch help,” I said to her, “but you may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind.” She had no umbrella on which I might lean to make my way to my horse, so I asked her to fetch Mesrour to me.
I saw too late that she had no experience with horses—and Mesrour, proud beast, could tell that too.
Yet she was a determined little thing, and fearless, and knowing Mesrour was well trained and would do her no harm, it brought me great pleasure to witness a stubbornness in her nature that seemed to match that of my spirited horse.
God knows how long she would have kept at it if I had not in the end intervened, for her efforts had brought me near to laughter and it would have been cruel to keep on with it.
“I see the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet,” I said, and I begged her to assist me to the horse instead.
Apologizing, I leaned quite heavily on this slight creature, and with her help I managed to limp to Mesrour, whom I mounted without much difficulty.
Once astride, I looked down at her, struck again by something haunting in that little face, and I thanked her for her aid.
She had a letter to mail in Hay, and so we parted ways.
She did not know me still, and though I supposed she would learn soon enough that I was her master, there was something unyielding in her little spirit that made me unwilling, yet, to play my hand.
Over the rest of the way to Thornfield-Hall, despite the pain in my ankle, the encounter stayed in my mind.
It was an incident of no great moment, yet I felt somehow as if it marked a change, however slight, in my life.
The act of accepting her help had been both discomfiting and curiously pleasant.
I could not help but wonder if I had been right at the first, that she was nothing but a woodland sprite, taken shape in the garb of a fragile governess.
Her face was dissimilar to all others I had known—quiet, obedient, yet undeniably marked with intelligence and strength.
Her tranquil expression stayed in my mind until I reached the estate.
There I lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn.
I found, suddenly, that I did not like reentering Thornfield if it meant merging the world of this dreamlike sprite into one governed by the madwoman there. How could two such different women exist under my own roof?
Soon, though, Pilot could not help but announce our arrival, and John swiftly appeared to help me inside.
He sent a boy for Carter and stoked a fire in the dining room, while Mrs. Fairfax hovered over me, Adèle caressed my leg as if such ministrations would cure the sprain, and Leah scurried to the kitchen to bring tea.
I learned from Mrs. Fairfax that, to my relief, there had been no unexpected visitors in my absence, so Gerald Rochester, wherever he was, had not yet come to disturb my home.
Amid the excitement I might have forgotten the governess, but I did not. Such a delicate thing out alone at nightfall—I could not explain how I could have left her, knowing who she was, out on that icy path in the gathering gloom. I had a sudden need to know she was safe.
I turned to Adèle, at my arm. “What of your new governess, Adèle?” I asked. “What is her name? She is a small person, thin and a little pale, is she not? Tell me what you think of her.”
“Oh, Monsieur! Oui! Elle est—”
“In English, please.”
“Miss Eyre, she is fine. She is an artiste!”
“An artist?” I asked. That was not a good sign; I had had enough of artist types in Paris.
“Yes, but she is! Let me show you!”
She started to run off, but I stopped her. “Tomorrow,” I said. “I will see her work tomorrow.”
Just then Carter appeared, tutting over my accident and opening his case and setting to work.
When he had finished and given me a sedative to ease the pain, sturdy John helped me up to my room.
As he turned to leave, I thought to ask, “I have not yet seen the governess; surely she is about somewhere?”
“She has recently returned from a walk to Hay,” he said. “She is in her room, I believe. Did you want to meet with her this evening?”
“Oh no, John,” I said carelessly. “There is plenty of time for that another day.” And I settled myself in bed, closed my eyes, and drifted to sleep forthwith.