Jane Steele(72)

Should I not at least essay to capture the spectacle of Mr. Thornfield wielding the aara outside my childhood home as the sun sank, however, I should consider this entire memoir a failure. He joined Mr. Singh on the lawn with a set of double-tongued metal whips about five feet in length, both wearing very loose cotton trousers fastened at the calf and nothing more, bare shoulders gleaming like cliffsides, and at a nod from his friend, they began what can only be called a dance.

They did not merely flick the deadly tongues at targets, for there were no targets; they leapt from foot to foot, sweeping the flexible steel over and under and above themselves, vicious blades passing within inches of their heads and arms. The snow exploded as they struck it, plumes flying with the sharp snaps of a thousand firecrackers, and the servants and Sahjara screamed encouragement in their native tongue. Faster and faster they whirled, sometimes falling bodily back to catch themselves, sometimes balancing on a palm after throwing themselves forward headlong, and all the while the aaras sang and snapped.

Mr. Sardar Singh was the superior; his lightness of foot and the detached technicality with which he performed a madcap dance was unsurpassable.

I could see, however, why he wrongly claimed Charles Thornfield was his better when it came to the aara, because he was riveting; he silently snarled as he flayed the ice and mud, surged from foot to foot as if a demon possessed him, and following this onslaught of fury, could flick the tip of the blade to send a scant few snowflakes delicately soaring.

I can assure the reader that I did not do anything so asinine as to fall in love with Mr. Thornfield by watching him demonstrate the aara; I had already fallen in love with him, and on that day, a feverish sheen upon my brow despite the winter’s chill, I elected to admit it, if only to myself. For the thought of confessing as much could only mean confessing far more about myself, if I truly cared for him, and I could not bear the idea that he should ally himself with evil unawares.





TWENTY-ONE



It had formerly been my endeavour to study all sides of his character: to take the bad with the good; and from the just weighing of both, to form an equitable judgment. Now I saw no bad. The sarcasm that had repelled, the harshness that had startled me once, were only like keen condiments in a choice dish: their presence was pungent, but their absence would be felt as comparatively insipid.


Perhaps the most touching passages in Jane Eyre are those after she discovers she loves Mr. Rochester and before she discovers he loves her in return. There is little unwieldy pretension and still less saccharine sentiment; she simply loves him, as I loved Mr. Thornfield, and is woeful because one cannot uproot love any easier than one can force it to flourish.

I wrestled with the identical problem, although my tactics during this period would have positively curled Miss Eyre’s hair.

A week later I was out of the wheelchair with my ankle tightly wrapped, my knee quite healed, limping gamely, and Mr. Thornfield must have supposed himself haunted by a familiar when my mobility was restored. I took his elbow when he asked me if I cared for a walk; I drew my fingertip down the silver cuff he wore; I shone in every way I knew how, and lastly, I told him the truth.

Truth in my case must needs have been partial, but I thrilled at each new self-exposure.

“Sahjara lived with my father’s sister in Cornwall when she emigrated, until Sardar and I arrived early this year,” he answered my question after a curried fish supper.

“I hated my aunt.” My nerves whistled in high alarm, but I soldiered on. “She called me cruel names and snubbed my mother perennially.”

Mr. Thornfield scowled around his cigar. “If she had such poor taste as that, failing to hate her should have been shirking, Jane.”

Further examples abound; for instance, Mr. Thornfield and I often granted Sahjara’s wish that we might all go riding together, precious windswept occasions on which water sprang to my eyes at the keen wind and the joy of galloping over hillsides; and on the first of these rides, I made the acquaintance of Mr. Thornfield’s horse—a great rusty-black stallion.

“I just adore him, I can’t help it,” Sahjara crooned, pressing the flat of her hand up the beast’s nose.

“I assume he is called Falstaff because he is so funny and charming?” I asked, smiling.

Mr. Thornfield coughed dryly, his breath clouding in the cold. “He is called Falstaff because given the choice, he would eat oats and sugar until his belly exploded and he was strewn all over Christendom.”

I laughed, as did Sahjara, and Mr. Thornfield shot me another of his queer appraising glances, the ones which sent liquid warmth pooling through my torso.

“There were times when the comfort of communing with horses was all I had,” I admitted.

“I think the same was true of me, before. I can’t remember. Oh, Charles, say you’ll give Nalin to Miss Stone—she’s better on her than anyone!” Sahjara entreated.

Mr. Thornfield tugged at her cloak’s collar until it lay flat. “Young Marvel, ordinarily I should have to box your ears for squandering my assets and forgetting Miss Stone is not in a position to keep her own horses.” He glanced at me. “But supposing that I can retain the honour of feeding and sheltering duties, Jane should consider Nalin entirely her own.”

Can I be blamed for strewing my secrets like seeds when they blossomed into such kindly responses? A fortnight had been expended on the practise before I began to run dry of tasteful confessions, and then, reader, I invented them like the lying devil I am.