Adele Varens 19

 

Chapter 19

 

Mr. Davis called Porkins, to testify how he had been attacked and hurt, and the vitriolic verbal attack upon his mistress.  Miss Thwaite gave her testimony as well, expressing her shock at such an outburst; and Mrs. Bridges testified that I had spent six years in her school, and three more nursing Sara Deleven.

“And did you know Mrs. Deleven?” asked Davis.

“Yes, she came to look over my school, to find a suitable placement for her granddaughter,” said Mrs. Bridges. “She asked me many shrewd questions about the school, being concerned for the health of the girls as well as the level of education. You could tell that she really cared about Adele.”

Rochester sneered at her.

“And what lessons do you teach?” he asked.

“English comprehension, English literature, English composition, arithmetic, geography with globes, history, French, Italian, Latin, Greek for the enthusiasts, natural sciences including botany, drawing, botanical drawing, music, various instruments, and of course, religious instruction,” said Mrs. Bridges. “We encourage mens sana in corpore sano, through play and games rather than formal sports.”

“Games, eh? What sort of games?” asked Rochester.

“Battledore and shuttlecock, tag, and other running about games,” said Mrs. Bridges, briskly. “May I ask why the subjects taught have any bearing on your slander of my former pupil? Are you suggesting anything improper in my school? I assure you that one of the trustees is a bishop, my uncle, who would be very unhappy to have his character taken away by such a suggestion.”

“I… no further questions,” said Rochester.

“So I should hope,” said Mrs. Bridges. “You are what we professional educators call an unsatisfactory parent.”

“Strike the witness’s last comment,” said the judge. “However much I may be inclined to agree with it.” He scowled at Rochester. “If the burden of your case rests on slandering everyone who has ever known Miss Varens, perhaps Mr. Davis should call you to ask whether you took her into your household for immoral purposes.”

“How can you make such a suggestion?” burst out Rochester.

“I open my mouth and waggle my uvula,” said the judge. “If you mean, why do I suggest it, why, you appear so fixated upon painting a most unpleasant epithet on Miss Varens, I cannot but wonder, as you did not accept that she was your daughter, if you bought her from her mother to train up to be what you seem to think her to be, poor child.”

“Your honour, I have a few questions to ask Mr. Rochester along those lines,” said Davis.

“Call Mr. Rochester,” said the judge.

“Mr. Rochester,” said Davis, once Rochester was sworn in, “How old was Adele Varens when you introduced a governess into the household?”

“She was six or seven,” said Rochester.

“I have the word of a number of people that you referred to her as ‘flirtatious’ and ‘wanton.’ At six or seven years old. Did you describe her in such terms?”

“Well, yes! She has always had the immorality of her mother! Why, she even tied her garter in front of me, once!” he said.

“At the age of nine,” said Davis. “When she believed you to still be blind, yes?”

“My sight was improving,” said Rochester.

“But you had not communicated this to anyone?” 

“I… no. I wanted to be sure.”

“So, it is scarcely flirtatious, if she thought herself essentially private?”

“I… I am sure she knew.”

“And why do you think that?”

“She was always too knowing! Always watching everything!”

“So, in other words, she had the curiosity natural to a child?”

“You twist everything I say!”

“I put it to you, Mr. Rochester, that you twist everything anyone says,” said Davis. “Did you, twice, force your way into Miss Varens’ house?”

“It’s not her house! It’s my house!”

“Your honour, I should like to enter into evidence the bill of sale of the land, and the directions of the plaintive to her solicitor to source period building materials where possible, and have such materials copied where not possible, to recreate a late medieval manor,” said Davis. “The signature of Mr. Rochester on the bill of sale, and the deeds of the land are quite plain, and show that he agreed willingly to the sale of land, owing to being short of cash, due to shortfalls in the tenant farmers, whose tenancies were not being properly kept up, and the land was in bad heart. Is that not true, Mr. Rochester?”

“I did not know it would go to her!” cried Mr. Rochester. “I would have sold it to anyone else!”

“But you did sell it,” said Davis.

“Yes, but she’s my daughter so it should be mine,” said Rochester.

“It doesn’t work like that,” said Davis, dryly.

“Are there any more witnesses in this essentially open and shut case?” asked the judge.

“Your honour! I am glad that you can see what a wanton piece she is!” cried Rochester.

“I’ve warned you about outbursts; thirty days for contempt of court,” said the judge. “As to open and shut, I am sure that anyone can see that you have not presented a shred of evidence to back up your preposterous slander. I intend to instruct the jury that you have not proved your case, which means they must find for the plaintiff. And I suspect that they will justly award significant damages to an innocent young girl, slandered cruelly by a man whose motives in keeping her in his household seem frankly suspicious.”

 

The jury was out for ten minutes, and came back with a unanimous verdict of ‘guilty’ on Mr. Rochester, a direction that he pay all costs, and a further sum of  five thousand pounds to me for his feeble attempts – the description of the foreman of the jury – to slander a pure young girl for having escaped his doubtless lecherous grasp. Juries are allowed to slander people; it’s privileged for being in the body of the court.

Then he had to go to prison for thirty days for contempt; which became sixty days when he suggested that the jury had decided for me because they were waiting to have a turn with me.

The look he gave me was so hateful, that I determined to hire guards when he was out, for fear of him carrying out his threat to burn Phoenix Hall.

And that was over, and he was a proven liar. 

I found Jane with Marianne, and embraced both warmly.

“It always troubled me that he described you in such adult terms,” said Jane. “I thought it was because he feared you would follow your mother’s career if not helped.”

I said nothing. I knew what I thought, and that there would, when I was enough of a woman to attract him, have been the sort of ‘little secrets’ poor Frances had.

If I was not his daughter, he could not be blamed for swiving a girl born to fall, like her mother, into prostitution.

He always was a master of casuistry.

 

 

For now, I could afford to relax.

Jane wanted to hurry back to her family, and her charges, but we embraced warmly, and she promised to come for a Christmas house party.

“Bring any of your charges who have nowhere to go, and your cousins too,” I said, rashly.

Why not? We had plenty of room at Phoenix Hall. I wanted the rooms filled with laughter and joy. I had my friends from school, who organised themselves to teach basic numeracy and literacy to the children on my estate and in the village, because they wanted to do something useful. Geoffrey and Marianne had withdrawn, promising to come again at Christmas, and bring their other son; it would be a large and eclectic party.

In the meantime, the Hunt were behaving themselves, and staying to those parts of the grounds we had said they might use. Allowing them on some of the land was worth good will with neighbours, but I had also made another friend from standing up for my rights, in Amy Ingram.

The year advanced.  Autumn’s glorious colours embraced the land, and the leaves danced in the wind, as though they were holding their own faerie ball, a pretty fancy, and whimsical, which I might laugh at, for faeries do not exist, and to give way to such whimsies is not practical at all. Yet there is something about autumn which can reach even my pragmatic heart. Perhaps it was just that I enjoyed a giddy freedom, with my case proven, and with free rein on the lands I loved, whilst Rochester served his term in prison for contempt of court. It was good to tramp out and kick through the carpet of golden leaves on the ground, without worrying.  And the most wonderful thing was tramping out with Tony.

Reader, I confess, I had said something provoking – I cannot even remember what it was – and he started chasing me with a handful of leaves.  I shrieked like a little girl, and fled, giggling wildly.  It was a challenge to run away just fast enough to make him work to catch me up and just slow enough for him to catch me in a clearing, and push leaves inside my gown.

I pushed leaves back inside his waistcoat, and we ended up rolling around on the ground like fighting toddlers.

But then, he pushed me back, kneeling over me, and our eyes met; and he was kissing me. And that was not in the least like children at play. His lips transported me to a plane of pleasure that I cannot describe and feel shy to do so.  And his hands went looking for the leaves he had forced on me, to remove them, and find out what else was there, and it was as well I had on a good wool cloak or I might have got very cold and damp without noticing for the fire in my veins.

Reader, I hated my corset that day; it was in the way. However, my skirt had ridden up somewhat, and that was definitely a new diversion.

We were interrupted by the sound of running feet, and quickly brushed each other down, getting to our feet as Nelly burst into the clearing.

“Miss Thwaite is looking for you, and you don’t want to look too mussed,” she said.

“Thank you!” I gasped.

Tony’s ring might be on my finger, but Miss Thwaite was very careful to make sure none should be able to miscall us.

Or call us accurately, to be quite honest, over the last half hour or so.

We ran back, hand in hand, laughing.

It was fine weather, and it was an idyll while it lasted, though the last days of October had filigree frost edging the golden leaves first thing in the morning, and the stars burned brightly frosty at night, as the weather turned towards the chill of November, which brought its own joys of roasting chestnuts in front of the fire, and telling ghost stories with all but one candle doused, in the foolish way schoolgirls act, with the added thrill of leaning on Tony in the dark and seeing how much we could grope each other without being caught, before everyone’s eyes adapted to it. Wind whistled shrill about the house, but not a draft came in, for it was well-built, and moreover panelled within as Thornfield had been.

Panelling which could burn so easily, which I thought of more and more as November drew towards its end.

“I am here. I will not let anything happen to you,” said Tony.

“I am afraid of him, Tony,” I whimpered. I mean, I whispered. I do not whimper. “His eyes! Oh, he is not sane, and he has lost all reason.”

“Fortunately, his solicitor has not, though it may take time for him to pay you damages,” said Tony.

“It will be another grudge he feels he owes me,” I said.

“What, do you regret going to law?” he asked.

“No, never,” I said. “But I fear this will not end until he is dead.”

“He has lost all perspective; he is likely to do something foolish which may lead to his death,” said Tony. “If not, well, he is under injunction, and we are within our rights to shoot him down like a rabid dog. Which, in many ways, he is.”

I let his arms encircle me and comfort me; and seeing me upset, Miss Thwaite said nothing about it.

 

 

I counted the days, and I hired every sturdy poacher in the district to stand guard the night he was due to come out, all of them provided with a couple of hot potatoes to keep their hands warm, and to eat as well, and mugs of tea handed out on request when they came to the back door for it.

And I slept all afternoon, or at least, I swore I had, though I only dozed, waiting to be up all night.

And we all convened in my favourite parlour, in nightgowns and dressing gowns and slippers – well trained into good habits by Mrs. Bridges who enforced the wearing of slippers strictly – wrapped in eiderdowns, and quilts, all of us bundled up together like kittens, as we had done the time our dormitory had been attacked with a leak from the tank in the box room above, and we slept in Mrs. Bridges’ parlour in borrowed bed-linen. There were men on the alert, indoors and out.

“What if he comes tomorrow instead? Or leaves us to stew for a week?” worried Mary, who was newly sporting George Eshton’s ring. “We cannot do this indefinitely.”

“You might leave someone to stew for a week because you would appreciate the strain it would put them under, if you were that sort of vindictive purpose,” said Tony. “Rochester, however, is a mad dog. He acts as he thinks.”