Chapter 11 #2
It seemed strange at the time—much less so now—but in the ensuing days I was always aware of Miss Eyre.
Much as my own business pulled at my attention, nonetheless it was as if that small brown presence carried a magnetic charge within her that attracted the iron within me.
Sometimes, when she and Adèle were in the garden or walking through the orchard, examining the trees for signs of new life, I lingered near the window of the library or my bedchamber and watched them.
Slowly my ankle healed, and more and more often I found reasons to pass near the nursery door, that I might hear the lessons in progress.
Her voice was low and calm, and even Adèle, who was always fluttering about like a butterfly, sat still and quiet as Miss Eyre taught her.
She did not make the lessons a game, as Mr. Lincoln had, but she did know how to engage the mind of a child of Adèle’s upbringing: she spoke of fairies and goblins and quoted poetry and drew sketches of mystical beings.
There was nothing at all in her voice to suggest the drama and emotion in her drawings.
It beguiled me to listen to that quiet voice, so confident, so calm.
I took pains to conceal her growing power over my attention when I met her in the gallery or on the staircase, which appeared successful since she seemed completely oblivious to my distraction and maintained her reserve.
At other times I tried to draw her out, asking more than once to see her entire portfolio, which would not release its hold on my imagination.
But she remained reserved with me. I remembered something Mr. Landes had said: One must keep one’s inferiors at a distance, or else one will lose all authority, and I guessed that perhaps someone might have given a reverse admonition to Miss Eyre.
* * *
One evening, at the request of my land agent, I hosted a gathering of landowners for the purpose of discussing how best we might control the poachers who seemed to have overrun the neighborhood.
At the end, over glasses of sherry, the conversation turned to lighter topics, and I shared Jane’s portfolio with them, for I was still in thrall with her work.
They were suitably impressed, and I confess it gave me more pleasure than perhaps it should have to hear them praise her, and me for having her in my employ.
I toasted with them my good fortune in having such a talented governess for my ward, and when my guests took their leave, I sent for Miss Eyre and Adèle, for whom a box from Paris had lately arrived.
As soon as they stepped into the room, Adèle ran for the carton, exclaiming: “Ma bo?te! Ma bo?te!”
“Yes—there is your bo?te at last,” I said.
I did try to be kind with the child but would often be thrown off course by sudden, unwelcome reminders of Céline.
I sent her off to disembowel the package, and I came to myself and glanced around.
“Is Miss Eyre there?” I asked, and then I saw her, tucked in a corner, as was her way.
“Well, come forward; be seated here.” I pulled a chair closer to my own for her, for I had no intention of being distracted by Adèle.
I sent for Mrs. Fairfax to attend to the girl’s joyous chatter, while I conversed with the governess.
It seemed the sort of moment I had enjoyed far too seldom in my life: a moment of relaxation, with the opportunity for true conversation of real depth, with a worthy—or so I hoped—conversationalist. But I could not think what to say.
For a time there was only the sound of Adèle’s chatter, and the rain driving against the window pane, and the crackle and hiss of the fire.
I grew aware of Miss Eyre’s eyes upon me, as so often I had observed her when she was otherwise occupied.
I wondered what she saw there, since I could not remember when I had felt myself truly seen and contemplated in such a way.
“You examine me, Miss Eyre: do you think me handsome?” I asked her.
Perhaps I was craving more simple praise, as I had earlier received from my dinner guests. But in that case it was a question foolishly set forth, for her response seemed to surprise us both: “No, sir.”
There is no gracious recovery from such a response, but her honesty startled me—so different from the craven flattery I’d too often heard since I joined society.
So I challenged her to announce what specific faults she found in me.
It was not so much that I wanted to hear my failings recited—both Bertha and Céline had done that sufficiently—as it was simple curiosity to know how I looked to those lovely eyes.
In all, I could not remember the last time I had been spoken to so frankly.
Was I handsome? I knew I was not, no more than she was beautiful. But she was cast in a different mold from the majority, and I found myself eager to hear her assessment, kind or cruel. But now she equivocated, worried no doubt that she had overstepped her bounds. We talked anyway, of other things.
It quickly became evident that, though her mind was sprightly and deft, she held to a moral core that could not be swayed, and was outspoken in its defense, occasionally to the point of insolence.
I did not mind—indeed, this only further lit the fires of my curiosity.
I discovered that if I played the role of master too broadly, and pushed her too imperiously, she became stubborn and annoyed, so I took care to apologize where I could, to treat her not as an inferior but as a younger, inexperienced equal, for there was something in this Miss Eyre that I could not resist prying into.
Then, of course, she began to challenge me, and I found myself engaged in a wide-ranging philosophical debate on my own sins and conscience and truth—strangely enough, one of the most satisfying, provocative, and engaging conversations I had had in many years.
This little governess was a rare creature indeed, and I found it impossible to be conventional with her.
We talked this way deep into the evening.