Free Thornfield Hall by Emma Tennant Page A

is already wedded to the devil and beyond conversion or repair. Whether she is my child or not, her home is not here among these gentle hills and moors, but in the infernal regions. She shall leave Thornfield at the earliest opportunity: already my marriage to Miss Ingram is compromised, my fortune halved by my reluctance to propose a settlement in the course of their last visit. Nor was it ever possible to find a time to make the proposal of matrimony I had fully intended. The brat flew in, a malign sprite, on the very day my estates were due to grow in revenue and magnificence. My mother’s diamonds lie untouched in their chest here in my library—and it grieves me to add that I shall now need to lock them away, while this thieving Jacobin guttersnipe is about. Miss Ingram has gone off discontented, and Lady Ingram spoke of insult as I bade her farewell at the door of the Hall. To cap it all, one of the young blades of the party hinted that he had had designs on the lovely Blanche for some years now and that he had held off in deference to the master of Thornfield. Another, smirking insufferably, muttered something to the effect that “Mr. Rochester’s fortune is but a third of what it is said to be,” and I discovered, only this morning, that papers of mineare vanished from the strongbox here—the very same box where the jewels intended for my bride languish unoffered to her. Blanche saw to it that I must lay all this misfortune at the door of the devil’s daughter. Adèle must go; in the grime of Paris streets I have no doubt she will have the wits to survive; and should she fall by the wayside, let her do so before the future of this great estate is further threatened by the actions of one whom the French libertarians would proclaim as heir, for all she is female and born illegitimate, of Thornfield and its outlying lands. Adèle shall never prove me to be her father: if I lose all I have in doing so, I shall contest the accusation of paternity of Céline’s offspring to the end of my days.
    I pick up my handbell; the dog, Pilot, stirs by the fire at the familiar ring, but no one comes. I rise, my impatience and wrath mounting as they do daily at these evidences of indifference to my wishes on the part of the staff of Thornfield Hall. I am answered nowhere now, when I call. I am further subjected to the indignity of finding myself goggled at in the bath from the attic above, by the little brat. Worse, I could swear that the bloated features of my wife, Bertha—on that day caught and returned to her cell—stared down at me, she kneeling beside the child. However many the tricks the little fiend decides to play on me, nothing shall take Edward Fairfax Rochester from his rightful occupancy of the house constructed by his ancestors.
    I pick up the bell again, but as its chime rings out, the door opens and a small figure comes quietly in. It stands there, this elf in a gray, modest costume, its eyes lowered as befits one in the presence of the master of the greatest estate in Yorkshire. “Well, Jane,” say I—for I have come to find a soothing quality in this young woman, the newly arrived governess of Céline’s diabolical daughter. “Is there no servant to answer my command? Did you come from kindness, to minister to my needs?”
    â€œNo, sir.” Miss Eyre looks up at me, but I see she is shy and does not wish to meet my gaze.
    â€œWhat then?” I glance down at the antique rings and pendants in the box at my feet. They are still mine; they do not yet adorn the snowy bosom of Miss Ingram. And for a moment—but I am mad indeed; my fancies and illusions of past days are all the fault of the malevolent spirit unleashed on this house by the unbaptized child—for a moment I am inclined to walk over to “Miss Aire,” as the little goblin addresses her, and fasten them at her slender neck. “How do you like diamonds, Jane?” I