from Thornfield,” I said.
“Thank you. I have no broken bones, only a sprain.” Again he stood up and tried his foot, grunting.
I could see him clearly now. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, of average height, with broad shoulders and a dark face with a heavy brow. Even in the dimness, I observed that he was quite handsome. Once he’d determined that all was in working order, he glanced up and, seeing me standing there, waved me on with a dismissive flick of his hand.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I said.
“I should think you ought to be at home,” he said. “Where do you come from?”
“From below. I can run over to town for you if you want. I’m going there to mail a letter anyway.”
“You live just below? Do you mean at that house with the battlements?” he said, pointing to Thornfield. I nodded. “Whose house is it?”
“Mr. Rochester’s.”
“Do you know the man?”
“No, I’ve never met him.”
“He is not resident, then?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me where he is?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“And you are—” He stopped, running his eye over my dress, puzzled to decide who I was.
“I’m the governess.”
“Ah, the governess!” he said. “Deuce take me, if I had not forgotten! The governess!” In two minutes he rose, and his face expressed pain when he tried to move. “I cannot commission you to fetch help,” he said, “but you may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind.”
“Of course.”
“I must beg of you to come here.” He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me, limped to his horse, which had struggled to its feet and stood, head down, beside the path. Having caught the bridle, the rider sprang to his saddle, wincing as he made the effort. “Now,” he said, “just hand me my whip.”
Once I handed it to him, he dug his spurs lightly into the horse’s sides, and the horse started and reared, then they bounded away, the dog following after them. I watched their silhouettes for a moment, then continued into town. The incident had occurred and was gone. Gone, except for the face of the man, which stayed with me. It was one of those darkly rugged English faces, and it seemed somehow familiar. I was thinking about that face when I entered town and slipped the letter into the letterbox. I was still considering it as I walked down the hill and headed back toward Thornfield. Where had I seen this man before?
When I arrived at the house, I heard the clock strike six. A warm light glowed from the parlor, so I went in and saw a fire in the grate, but no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, sitting upright on the rug was the black-and-white hunting dog I’d just seen on the lane. “Pilot,” I said, recalling the name the man had called him. When the dog approached to sniff me, I gave him a pat on the head, and he wagged his tail happily.
Mrs. Fairfax entered then, and I asked her whose dog it was. “He came with Master,” she said. “Mr. Rochester—he is just arrived.”
“Mr. Rochester is here?”
“Yes, he is in the dining room, and Miss Adèle is with him along with the surgeon, for Master has had an accident. His horse fell, and his ankle is sprained.” She hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take off my things.
So, that was Mr. Rochester. I was a little annoyed that he hadn’t revealed his identity out on the lane. Then again, the rich could afford to trifle with whomever they pleased. I knew I would probably not see him again that night. Surely he would be tired from his journey and would go to bed early. I was tired myself, unaccustomed to walking four miles out in the cold. I changed into my nightgown and crawled into bed, summoning the image of Rochester’s face to my mind as I tried to go to sleep. Why did I feel I knew the man? Was it possible we had met before?
And why did I feel as if an entire world of memories was drifting farther and farther out of my reach and if I didn’t retrieve
“Thank you. I have no broken bones, only a sprain.” Again he stood up and tried his foot, grunting.
I could see him clearly now. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, of average height, with broad shoulders and a dark face with a heavy brow. Even in the dimness, I observed that he was quite handsome. Once he’d determined that all was in working order, he glanced up and, seeing me standing there, waved me on with a dismissive flick of his hand.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I said.
“I should think you ought to be at home,” he said. “Where do you come from?”
“From below. I can run over to town for you if you want. I’m going there to mail a letter anyway.”
“You live just below? Do you mean at that house with the battlements?” he said, pointing to Thornfield. I nodded. “Whose house is it?”
“Mr. Rochester’s.”
“Do you know the man?”
“No, I’ve never met him.”
“He is not resident, then?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me where he is?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“And you are—” He stopped, running his eye over my dress, puzzled to decide who I was.
“I’m the governess.”
“Ah, the governess!” he said. “Deuce take me, if I had not forgotten! The governess!” In two minutes he rose, and his face expressed pain when he tried to move. “I cannot commission you to fetch help,” he said, “but you may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind.”
“Of course.”
“I must beg of you to come here.” He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me, limped to his horse, which had struggled to its feet and stood, head down, beside the path. Having caught the bridle, the rider sprang to his saddle, wincing as he made the effort. “Now,” he said, “just hand me my whip.”
Once I handed it to him, he dug his spurs lightly into the horse’s sides, and the horse started and reared, then they bounded away, the dog following after them. I watched their silhouettes for a moment, then continued into town. The incident had occurred and was gone. Gone, except for the face of the man, which stayed with me. It was one of those darkly rugged English faces, and it seemed somehow familiar. I was thinking about that face when I entered town and slipped the letter into the letterbox. I was still considering it as I walked down the hill and headed back toward Thornfield. Where had I seen this man before?
When I arrived at the house, I heard the clock strike six. A warm light glowed from the parlor, so I went in and saw a fire in the grate, but no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, sitting upright on the rug was the black-and-white hunting dog I’d just seen on the lane. “Pilot,” I said, recalling the name the man had called him. When the dog approached to sniff me, I gave him a pat on the head, and he wagged his tail happily.
Mrs. Fairfax entered then, and I asked her whose dog it was. “He came with Master,” she said. “Mr. Rochester—he is just arrived.”
“Mr. Rochester is here?”
“Yes, he is in the dining room, and Miss Adèle is with him along with the surgeon, for Master has had an accident. His horse fell, and his ankle is sprained.” She hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take off my things.
So, that was Mr. Rochester. I was a little annoyed that he hadn’t revealed his identity out on the lane. Then again, the rich could afford to trifle with whomever they pleased. I knew I would probably not see him again that night. Surely he would be tired from his journey and would go to bed early. I was tired myself, unaccustomed to walking four miles out in the cold. I changed into my nightgown and crawled into bed, summoning the image of Rochester’s face to my mind as I tried to go to sleep. Why did I feel I knew the man? Was it possible we had met before?
And why did I feel as if an entire world of memories was drifting farther and farther out of my reach and if I didn’t retrieve
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