My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(78)

“I’m back now.” Jane turned to Rochester. “Explain yourself.”

“Please, please come with me.” Rochester held out his hand. Jane didn’t take it. He dropped his hand. “I will show you everything.”

“You shouldn’t go with him,” Helen said.

“I have to know.”

Jane and the rest of the wedding party followed Rochester out of the church and down the hill and back to Thornfield Hall.

They all entered the manor in a flourish. Housemaids and servants threw rice and flower petals at the couple.

“Curse your happy wishes!” Rochester growled. “There was no wedding today.”

The staff scurried away like roaches in a sudden light.

Jane and company followed Rochester up the spiral staircase to the top floor of the east wing, where Jane had gone so many nights ago when Mr. Mason was injured.

When Helen realized where they were going, she turned around.

“I’ll wait down here,” she said. “I can’t stand being in that room.”

Rochester did, indeed, lead them to that very anteroom where Mason had lain, bleeding. Inside, Grace Poole was sitting near the sofa, fabric on her lap, a needle in her hand. She put down her embroidery when everyone walked in. “How is our charge?” Rochester said.

“She’s a might touchy, sir,” Grace Poole answered.

“Please show us in,” Rochester said.

Grace frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. She’s rather snappish of late.”

Jane remembered the noises coming from beyond that door the night Mason was injured. The rattling of the knob. The moans that mingled with the wind. A shiver ran through her as she watched Grace open the door.

Rochester stepped through the threshold, followed by Jane and the rest of the party. Inside was a large bed, draped with deep red fabric. Red tapestries hung from the ceiling. One such tapestry was sticking out of an open window as if someone were going to attempt an escape, but they were too far up. In the corner, a small table stood. On top of it were two glasses. One lay on its side, liquid pooled around it.

Jane couldn’t see anyone in the room, until a strong breeze forced a gossamer drape aside, and behind it was a woman with ebony-black hair, sitting in a chair. She was thin to the point of being malnourished. There were scratches and cuts up and down her arms, and her head hung low as if she were asleep. Even so, Jane couldn’t stop looking at her. She was luminous, as if a brilliant glow came from deep within her.

“Meet my wife,” Rochester said. “I was married to her before I found out hysteria runs in her family.”

At his voice, the woman raised her head. “You are not my husband,” she said wearily. Then she noticed Mr. Mason.

“You.” She lunged for the man, but wrist restraints jerked her back. “You promised to stay away! Tu as promis!”

She repeated herself in French, Jane noted.

“Bertha, it is all right. This is your brother.” Rochester turned to Mason. “You’d better leave. You’re upsetting her. In fact, we should all leave.”

“No!” Mrs. Rochester cried. “No. This is not my husband. Please.”

“See?” Rochester gestured to her. “There is no cure for this kind of madness. She is hysterical. Now, everyone kindly leave so I can tend to my wife.”

Mrs. Rochester looked frustrated. Exhausted. Resigned.

But she didn’t look crazy.

Reader, you might have noticed there was a propensity at this time to label women as “hysterical.” The term was thrown around quite frequently, and, in the humble opinion of your narrators, far too easily. Then it became a vicious cycle. The more they protested, the “crazier” they were labeled. We are going on record here to say that we feel this treatment was completely unfair.

Mr. Blackwood took a step toward Rochester. “We will be waiting for you, sir.”

Mr. Mason, Mr. Blackwood, Charlotte, and Jane left.

“She attacked me that night,” Mr. Mason said. “I had no idea such madness had overtaken her.”

Jane took Charlotte’s hand. “I am feeling rather faint.”

“Yes, poor Jane. You have been traumatized.”

Mr. Blackwood and Mr. Mason bowed as the ladies walked out, as if pre-Victorian protocol mattered a whit at this point.

Charlotte walked Jane to her bedchamber. They were quiet as Charlotte helped Jane unbutton her gown and fold it carefully, and take off her veil and place it on top of the dress.

Jane put on her usual gray dress and then they both sat on the edge of her bed.

“So I was possessed?” Jane said.

Charlotte nodded. “I can’t believe he did that to you. He should be arrested.”

“There’s no way they would believe it.” Jane could hear the exhaustion in her own voice.

“Do you remember anything while you were possessed?”

Jane shook her head. “No. One minute I was talking to Mr. Rochester, and the next . . . nothing.”

“And then you find out he has a wife,” Charlotte said. She pulled her notebook out of her pocket.

“Really?” Jane said.

Charlotte blushed and set it aside.

“We must leave here at once.” Jane went to her wardrobe, took out her other dress, and began to fold. “About the wife. Mr. Rochester kept saying she was mad, but I didn’t find her to be so.” She hoisted her trunk onto the bed. “Frustrated, yes. Exhausted, yes. But mad?”