Chapter Six
Mr Rochester
My employer was home that night and wanted
to meet me in the sitting room after dinner. I attempted to look my most formal
– proper shoes and hair swept off my face. I took a novel I was reading in case
he just expected me to sit by the fire and there were too many empty pauses.
‘Mrs Fairfax, I’m not really used to making
conversation with older men,’ I’d whispered.
‘Oh, Anne, he’s not that much older. He is a
younger son and inherited when the older brother died. Before that he was in
America living quite the bohemian life. He went to an expensive college; he wanted
to be a film director. Instead, he produced some films and ran around with a
very fast crowd.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘He’s
not usually one to converse but when he does; he’ll do all the talking. Don’t worry,
I doubt he’ll expect too much; just a progress report on Sophie.’
An
hour later, I was in the sitting room with Sophie, reading, while she played
with her dolls.
‘I need a new one,’ she exclaimed as she
braided the doll’s blonde curls.
‘Oh Sophie, I have never seen so many
dolls! Your doll’s house is overflowing and so is the play room. Soon we’ll be able
to fill all of the rooms in the house with your toys,’ I joked.
The
little girl looked up at me and smiled. She’d just lost her front teeth which
made her look even cuter. Sophie was a naturally affectionate child, in a way I’d
not been. She wrapped her hands around me, and then pulled the clip out of my
brown hair, spreading the length of it across my shoulders.
‘Bien, good,’ she said. ‘I want to play hairdresser.’
‘No Sophie. Remember, tonight I’m going to
be busy - for a while.’
‘Talking to Papa?’
I’d already guessed the younger Rochester
was her father. Nobody had ever told me; it just seemed to be an obvious
conclusion to reach. Sophie was a little girl from France who was all alone in
the world and had been adopted by a Rochester? Of course, he had to be her father;
she was way too young to be his sister. Besides, I was pretty sure adoption
regulations would never allow Nathanial Rochester to drag a child from another
country just to keep her in the lounge room like a prized possession.
As if on cue, the music coming from the
drawing room stopped. I heard the rustle of feet. The owner of Thornton brushed
past me as he entered the room and patted Sophie on the head like a pet. I
couldn’t see his face. Sophie went to hug his leg but he pushed her off gently.
He seemed otherwise engaged.
‘Where is the new tutor?’
‘I’m here,’ I said, standing up from behind
the sofa and placing my novel on the table.
Mrs Fairfax, knitting in a comfortable
leather arm chair, gathered Sophie and took her to the farthest corner of the
room. I’d already been warned that grown men such as Rochester had little patience
with young children. I hoped he had more tolerance talking with me because what
I’d already heard about Rochester put me slightly on guard.
The fire provided most of the light in the
room; and seeing him from behind, in shadow, at first I thought Sophie had
lucked out. Nathanial Rochester was a tall, dark, (his photos made him look
handsome in a gruff and uncompromising way) and dominating presence. I knew he
must be seriously rich, that was obvious. While most of the stately homes in
Britain were downsizing, he’d left all of the chandeliers on in the hallway and
most of the skeleton staff remained; some even lived at Thornton, which was
unusual in this day and age.
When the man looked up, I was unnerved to
see he was the stranger I’d met in the country lane that afternoon. He even
appeared to be limping from his accident.
‘You must be Anne Eyre. I’m Nathanial
Rochester. I think we’ve met before.’
I gave a hesitant nod.
He
smiled and gestured to Mrs Fairfax.
‘This girl made me swerve my car, Edwina;
I nearly sprained my ankle from slamming on the brakes to avoid hitting her. What
do you make of that?’
Mrs Fairfax looked quite alarmed.
‘Never mind,’ he laughed, ‘those country
laneways can be quite tricky.’
‘I hope it’s nothing serious?’
‘I should be fine in the morning.’ He
changed the topic now that he had my attention. ‘Do you drive Anne?’
‘No.’ I said, truthfully.
‘Ride?’
‘No,’ I added.
‘Well, you’ll have to learn to drive in the
country. If you want to ride as well, you
should take lessons while you are here, with Sophie.’
I was slightly afraid of horses, but I had
to agree that learning to drive would be useful.
‘Sophie, I bought you a present,’ he said
as an afterthought.
‘Merci!
Merci! Bien! Oh yes, please,’ Sophie said, running over to Rochester, she
took his hand. He distracted her with a huge gift he’d brought all the way from
America.
Her face lit up as she pulled the doll from
the wrapper and so did Rochester’s.
Mrs Fairfax gathered the child and said, ‘Come
Sophie, it’s time for bed. You can add this to your collection up in your room.’
‘Bonne nuit et fais de beaux reves!’
Rochester said. I guessed he didn’t realise we’d had a pact only to speak
English.
‘Bonne nuit,’ Sophie replied, kissing him
on both cheeks. Then she looked at me and said in perfect English, ‘Good night,
Anne.’
Sophie reluctantly left Rochester, after
reaching up to kiss him again on the cheek. He brushed this show of sticky
affection off, but I thought it was nice to see the sweet child show such an
obvious liking for someone who clearly didn’t want others to know how fond he
was of her or that he was even capable of affection and emotion.
He poured himself a drink and offered me
one. I shook my head.
‘What have you done with Sophie?
‘I wrote our schedule here; you can read
it if you like.’ I handed him the piece of paper, scented and pink at Sophie’s
instigation. He raised his eyebrows.
‘Never
mind, I already have. You’ve taken a lot of care with her, Anne. She’s
frivolous.’
‘In her defence, many children are
frivolous.’
‘And what are you, Anne? A teenage girl?
Where did you learn all your child psychology?’ He teased.
‘From being one, from being around them,’
I said. I’d bet I’d minded more children than he had prior to his being stuck with Sophie.
‘Tell me what you did before you arrived
here. Most of the staff who come to stay here, in the middle of nowhere have…
let’s just say, something they are hiding from or running to.’
I was embarrassed by his comment, his
partially accurate assessment of me.
‘I was in school, like most people my age.’
‘I
can see that,’ he said, glancing at my CV. ‘You went to a very expensive ladies’
college in London. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be summering in Europe
with all your little friends?’
‘I
needed a job for the summer and I like working with children.’
‘Yes,
I can see that,’ he looked away. ‘The previous girl who came to us was fleeing
from an abusive boyfriend. Just wondering what your story is?’
‘I’m eighteen years old; I have no story.’
‘Well, you are the only other literate female
in this house apart from Mrs Fairfax – and she’s heard all of my old stories. I
just thought you might be good company for me this evening. You left your
sketches lying around in the kitchen - or Sophie did,’ he chuckled.
I was alarmed and slightly irritated that
he’d seen them. I would’ve preferred him to have had access to my email than to
have been the first stranger to pour over my private drawings. Sophie and I had been sitting in the meadows
taking turns to sketch each other from a distance then close up, hands and
feet. Then I’d turned to the meadow, drawing lush images of the surrounding
estate. They were personal images, displaying more of my internal world than I
would have cared to show him at this point.
Sophie’s drawings were the colourful, childish
outlines of a six year old. I didn’t want to admit it, but she had little
artistic inclination, although she seemed to enjoy picking the flowers that
afternoon and practising her cartwheels, I remembered that. Besides, little aptitude
didn’t seem to hinder her enjoyment of art, nor did I feel it should. We’d set up a picnic with Mrs Fairfax in the
low light of the meadow; the sun had shone brightly by lunch time and we lolled
on the blankets. It had been one of the nicest afternoons in recent memory.
‘She has no talent,’ he said truthfully.
‘Pardon?’ I was miles away in the
firelight, thinking of the meadow.
‘Sophie, as I said, has not a scrap of
talent; but you do. She is not academic; I know she is only six but you can
tell these things about a child. She is vain and frivolous. You are neither, yet
you both seem to get along so well. ’
‘Perhaps our differences complement each
other. Sophie is one of the sweetest children I have met,’ I said in her
defence.
He smiled, a little sarcastically, I
thought.
‘She’s manipulative like her mother, like
most women. Anyway, how many children have you met recently? You’re barely more
than a child yourself,’ he trailed off.
I
decided to be assertive.
‘Many,’ I replied. ‘For years, I was in
foster care. I had loads of foster siblings who were much more difficult to
handle than Sophie.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘And the school?’
‘When I was twelve, an unknown benefactor
paid all of my expenses to attend the college until I completed my A-levels,
and then I was flung out onto the street.’
‘Ah,’ was all he said. I noticed a new tone,
almost like respect in his voice when he spoke next. The fire flickered
alongside us and he turned down the large, flat screen that was left on,
playing an old movie that Mrs Fairfax had been watching earlier.
‘I think we can turn that off. She’s
probably seen it before,’ he joked.
