Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles Read Online Free
Author: Joanna Campbell Slan
daily.
Despite my new sense of self-possession, I have had no wish to leave this secluded, half-hidden spot. Our distance from Millcote sets us apart from our neighbors. That is fine by me. Edward has vowed that our honeymoon will shine our whole lives long. “As long as we have each other, we have little need for company,” he proclaimed.
But Ned’s arrival changed everything.
While I’d never been appreciative of society, I began to see its value. Ned would want the fellowship of other children as he grew older. On occasion, I realized I could benefit from conversing with other mothers. And although he claimed his interactions with me were quite enough, I sensed that Edward missed the society of others, particularly other men who were active in the county and its politics.
“Being closer to Millcote offers several advantages, Jane,” Edward had said. “For one thing, there’s a larger pool from which to hire servants.”
Presently, Leah juggles the duties of my personal maid, parlor maid, and kitchen help. Mary and her husband, John, have been with Edward since he was young, but time has caught up with the old couple, and they have slowed down noticeably since the harsh winter. On Mondays, a woman from two farms away comes to do our laundry. The nursemaid, Hester Muttoone, grew up on these lands, and her family has farmed the Rochester acreage for three generations. One of her brothers, Nehemiah, works part-time as our stable hand. Another brother, Josiah, whom I have seen only in passing, is said to be one of the finest judges of horseflesh in the parish. On occasion, he, too, helps with the horses.
Even though neither of us admitted it, there was a larger, more ominous reason for us to live closer to town: Our location made it difficult for Mr. Carter, the doctor, to examine Edward without making a special visit.
Due to his injuries, Edward needed examination regularly.
Outside the window, my husband sat stiffly on a wooden bench while Mr. Carter ran knowing fingers along his patient’s temple and brow, tracing and probing the angry scar. The doctor held up a series of cards and asked questions. Each of Edward’s responses struck the physician a visible blow of disappointment. The light bent around them, hopeful patient and frustrated healer, freezing the two old friends in a painful tableau.
I blinked back tears and struggled to compose myself. It would never do to let Edward know how worried I was on his behalf. To me, the loss of his sight was an inconvenience, nothing more. To him, it was a prison sentence. No jail cell in Newgate could be more confining. Increasingly, Edward’s poor vision curtailed his activities in ways that rendered him dependent.
How different my husband was from the man I first met! The troubles we have weathered have worn down his rough edges, the way nature works to soften the sharp features of a rocky outgrowth.
The Edward Fairfax Rochester who first welcomed me as his ward’s governess may have been physically intact, but he bore the unhappy imprint of a man who had suffered many injustices.
His own father had not borne the thought of dividing his estate and leaving a fair portion to Edward, the younger of his two sons. Neither, however, could old Mr. Rochester endure the thought of an impoverished heir, so he and his elder son, Rowland, had tricked Edward into marrying a Jamaican heiress, a woman whose family bore a strain of madness. As her character ripened, Bertha Mason Rochester exhibited all the grossest aspects of lunacy. Her violent outbreaks drove the then twenty-one-year-old Edward to the brink of despair. He even considered ending his own misery, but hope stayed his hand and revived his will to live. Instead of death, heescaped to Europe, where for ten long years he traipsed from one capital to another, seeking a soul mate, but never finding her.
One of his many mistresses, a French opera dancer known as Céline Varens, affirmed him as the father of her
Despite my new sense of self-possession, I have had no wish to leave this secluded, half-hidden spot. Our distance from Millcote sets us apart from our neighbors. That is fine by me. Edward has vowed that our honeymoon will shine our whole lives long. “As long as we have each other, we have little need for company,” he proclaimed.
But Ned’s arrival changed everything.
While I’d never been appreciative of society, I began to see its value. Ned would want the fellowship of other children as he grew older. On occasion, I realized I could benefit from conversing with other mothers. And although he claimed his interactions with me were quite enough, I sensed that Edward missed the society of others, particularly other men who were active in the county and its politics.
“Being closer to Millcote offers several advantages, Jane,” Edward had said. “For one thing, there’s a larger pool from which to hire servants.”
Presently, Leah juggles the duties of my personal maid, parlor maid, and kitchen help. Mary and her husband, John, have been with Edward since he was young, but time has caught up with the old couple, and they have slowed down noticeably since the harsh winter. On Mondays, a woman from two farms away comes to do our laundry. The nursemaid, Hester Muttoone, grew up on these lands, and her family has farmed the Rochester acreage for three generations. One of her brothers, Nehemiah, works part-time as our stable hand. Another brother, Josiah, whom I have seen only in passing, is said to be one of the finest judges of horseflesh in the parish. On occasion, he, too, helps with the horses.
Even though neither of us admitted it, there was a larger, more ominous reason for us to live closer to town: Our location made it difficult for Mr. Carter, the doctor, to examine Edward without making a special visit.
Due to his injuries, Edward needed examination regularly.
Outside the window, my husband sat stiffly on a wooden bench while Mr. Carter ran knowing fingers along his patient’s temple and brow, tracing and probing the angry scar. The doctor held up a series of cards and asked questions. Each of Edward’s responses struck the physician a visible blow of disappointment. The light bent around them, hopeful patient and frustrated healer, freezing the two old friends in a painful tableau.
I blinked back tears and struggled to compose myself. It would never do to let Edward know how worried I was on his behalf. To me, the loss of his sight was an inconvenience, nothing more. To him, it was a prison sentence. No jail cell in Newgate could be more confining. Increasingly, Edward’s poor vision curtailed his activities in ways that rendered him dependent.
How different my husband was from the man I first met! The troubles we have weathered have worn down his rough edges, the way nature works to soften the sharp features of a rocky outgrowth.
The Edward Fairfax Rochester who first welcomed me as his ward’s governess may have been physically intact, but he bore the unhappy imprint of a man who had suffered many injustices.
His own father had not borne the thought of dividing his estate and leaving a fair portion to Edward, the younger of his two sons. Neither, however, could old Mr. Rochester endure the thought of an impoverished heir, so he and his elder son, Rowland, had tricked Edward into marrying a Jamaican heiress, a woman whose family bore a strain of madness. As her character ripened, Bertha Mason Rochester exhibited all the grossest aspects of lunacy. Her violent outbreaks drove the then twenty-one-year-old Edward to the brink of despair. He even considered ending his own misery, but hope stayed his hand and revived his will to live. Instead of death, heescaped to Europe, where for ten long years he traipsed from one capital to another, seeking a soul mate, but never finding her.
One of his many mistresses, a French opera dancer known as Céline Varens, affirmed him as the father of her
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