= 12 =

I led Edward forward until he reached the headstone. He gripped the coarse surface, his brow crumpling as he plunged ever deeper into his personal mire.

"Oh Bertha." he sighed. "We did have an uncanny ability for bringing out the worst in each other."

As he struggled with his memories, I recalled the only time I clearly saw Bertha – in the North Tower after our failed wedding. I had instantly recognised her as the intruder from two nights before – her long, flowing hair unmistakable – but by candlelight she had been all angles and shadow. In broad daylight I could not fail to be arrested by her beauty – her olive skin, dark eyes and high cheekbones so striking – so different from my own plain self.

So this is the spectre, I said to myself, and Edward's wife!

Bertha sat by the window, brushing her hair so demurely that if I had not seen her tearing apart my veil just days before, I would not have thought her capable of violence. Only when she leapt at me like a wild beast was her true nature revealed – that her beauty concealed a savagery so violent that it took Edward's iron grip and Grace's experienced hand to restrain.

At that moment, I saw for the first time the whole of Edward's reality – the source of his changing moods – and I finally understood. Bertha was the reason why he spurned Thornfield, why he roamed the world for ten long years in search of solace, why he had nearly been consumed by his own despair.

How lonely, how miserable, how hopeless had he been when we first encountered each other that winter? So glad was I to make his acquaintance, so grateful was I for his friendship that I did not ponder his quirks, gave no thought to how he came to be. He just was – my master, my friend, the man whose stern exterior hid a great exuberance for life, whose infectious, irresistible smile melted the coldest of hearts. I had no inkling of how rare his smiles had been, how the enormity of his burden had for years kept him buried under feet of torment – until my arrival had gradually, gently unearthed him, bringing him back to life.

I drew him closer to me. He sighed, saying awkwardly, "It would be fitting to say a prayer, a poem – something – but I know not what."

After a moment's contemplation, I replied, "There is a passage from the Bible that Helen often read to me at Lowood, whenever I complained that nothing made sense, that nothing was fair. It might not sound appropriate on that score, but I think it is remarkably befitting here."

"Tell me."

I paused, and glancing at Bertha's grave I thought of her turbulent life – and ours – as I recited,

"To everything there is a season,

a time for every purpose under the sun.

A time to be born and a time to die;

a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

a time to kill and a time to heal...

a time to weep and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn and a time to dance...

a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing;

a time to lose and a time to seek;

a time to rend and a time to sew;

a time to keep silent and a time to speak;

a time to love and a time to hate;

a time for war and a time for peace.1"

I looked up to find a hard smile upon my husband's face.

"A time and a purpose," he repeated, "A lesson for the impatient, is it not? Impatient as I had been – to love, to marry, to bed, to have my fill regardless of cost. I should have been man enough to reveal the truth to you – to refrain from hurting you. But if I had confided in you, would you have stayed? Would you have helped me care for her?"

I studied his guarded expression. Did he still not realise the depth of my feelings?

"What do you think, Edward?" I challenged.

His hung his head. "No, you would not have. You would not have stayed above a week if you knew what inmate you were housed with."

I shook my head in exasperation. "Foolish man." I muttered.

Reaching up, I stroked his scarred cheek, and then rested my palm upon it. "Did I not say that I would do anything for you? That you could always count upon my help? I would not have run away. I would have stayed to help you care for Bertha if you had asked."

"But would you have done it in the knowledge that all of this – this love, this intimacy – would forever remain unrequited?"

"Yes," I replied steadfastly, "For being with you, and having the honour of being your friend, is infinitely better than a lifetime's estrangement."

He placed his hand over mine, and gently kissed my palm. "Jane." he said soulfully, "You continue to astound me. I still have much to learn from you."

"As I from you – for your courage, your kindness of heart, and your willingness to forgive are things that I have yet to learn."

He said solemnly, "Sometimes it is the only thing one can do – forgive. In Bertha's case, there is nothing to forgive. It is I who seeks her forgiveness for the fifteen years of contempt and torment that I had subjected her to. I was a coward, always fleeing reality instead of facing it, and only when I saw Bertha there on the landing, ready to jump, did I comprehend the extent of my sins."

Then lowering his head, he whispered, "I am sorry Bertha – for everything. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me, wherever you are?"

Edward paused, awaiting an answer from the wind, the sun, the birds – but the answer was not forthcoming – all was still.

He scoffed, "Did I truly expect her to grant me absolution from beyond the grave?"

I smiled ruefully. "Perhaps this silence is a sign that she is at peace? And that the forgiveness you seek can only come from within yourself?"

"After all I have done? Impossible!"

"It is possible for you to be reconciled with yourself, Edward. After all, are you not repentant? Do you not seek to live a better life, to be a better person? You are a good man, Edward – God has made you so, so free yourself from your guilt – let yourself be forgiven."

Upon absorbing my words, I saw his face shine with radiant love. "Jane, you are a treasure! How deep you see into my heart!"

My heart leapt as he enfolded me deep in his arms. "I shall try to do what you ask, Jane," he murmured into my hair, "And with your help I may yet succeed."

Edward placed the tenderest of kisses upon my lips, and then turning back to the grave, said softly, "Thank you for helping me today, Bertha. Wherever you are, I hope that you have finally found your peace."

We arrived home in the gloaming. Dusk had cast a blue veil over the woods, the drive, and the house, broken only by the glow of the hearth visible through the parlour window. It awaited, along with a hearty supper and a well-made bed – comforts once unfamiliar, and would have remained so if it were not for the generous, warm-hearted man who dozed soundly in the corner of carriage. In the dim twilight, I could just make out his outline – his long, curly locks, straight nose, and slightly parted lips.

I smiled at this picture of tranquillity, and bringing my lips to his ear, whispered, "My love, we are home."

He did not stir, so I called again – and again.

"Very well," I sighed, turning away, "You may find your own–"

I yelped as a set of strong arms encircled me, squeezing me tight. My captor roared in laughter, kissing my hair, my cheek, my neck. Though I tried to extricate myself, his grip was much too strong for my thin arms to overcome.

"Rogue." I retorted.

"So I am," he chuckled, "But you love me nonetheless!"

I sighed. "Because I seem to have a weakness for rogue-ish gentlemen."

My disclosure only prompted more passionate kisses and caresses that threatened to overcome us both – until John's dour voice broke through our sensual haze.

"Sir? Ma'am? Do you need help alighting?"

"No, John. We are fine." I answered, finally extricating myself from my husband's arms. "We shall come in presently."

Then turning to Edward, I prompted, "Come dearest rogue, we had better get inside. It has been some time since our last meal and the smell of Mary's cooking is making me very hungry."

He grinned. "Mmm, it is her heavenly roast lamb, I daresay – I can recognise that wonderful aroma from a mile away!"

George greeted kindly us as we entered the house. As he took our cloaks, he told us that supper was ready, and then handed me a newly-arrived letter.

"From whom is it, my love?" my husband asked as I opened it, "Colonel Dent, Sir George, or heaven forbid, the Ingrams?"

"It is an invitation – from Mr. Eshton."

"Ah, Eshton! Now, what is that rascal planning – a scientific expedition?"

"No, you absurd creature! I am afraid it is only a ball!"

Edward laughed heartily. "Well Jane, your dancing career has not ended after all. And this time I shall take care to engage you in a dozen dances – in advance!"

"I am glad! For I would give anything for another enchanted evening in the arms of my Prince Charming."

He lifted his brow. "Anything?"

I giggled. "Within reason, of course."

To my delight, he wrapped his arms around me, and murmured in my ear, "And how, my princess, shall I know what is within reason and what is not?"

"My dear Prince," I replied archly, "That I shall leave you to find out!"

THE END

1 From Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

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