Mr. Rochester by Sarah Shoemaker

Author:Sarah Shoemaker
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2017-05-08T16:00:00+00:00

We debated whether Bertha should be told, Osmon and I. Bertha now led a life quite opposite from that of the rest of us, rising at dusk, pacing through her little apartment, sometimes talking or even shouting at imagined beings, and sometimes playing childish games with Molly and Tiso while the rest of the world slept. She still had her fits of anger and attempted destruction, but she had ceased demanding my attention as a price for her imprisonment. Indeed, I didn’t believe she saw it as such. When she wasn’t at the center of a ballroom, she had always preferred dark, inclosed places, and now she lived a dark, inclosed life, which seemed to comfort her as little else could.

I was wary of disrupting her precious equilibrium with this tragic news, for I had no idea how she would react, nor if she would even be able to comprehend it. But Osmon thought that she should come to the burial as any daughter would. When we retired that night, the issue was still undecided.

In the morning, with great trepidation, I went to Bertha’s apartment. Molly let me in, and I crept into the little bedchamber, where I sat down on the bed beside my sleeping wife. As always, the shutters were closed, yet even in the gloom, relaxed in sleep, she was nearly as beautiful as ever. I did not then fully understand the weight of Jonas’ last words, for Bertha was content in her rooms, or as content as she could ever be. Surely, I thought, we could continue our life at Valley View and go on as we had.

I touched her cheek lightly, running my finger along it from her temple to her chin. I felt her stirring, and then Molly was there with a lamp so that Bertha could see me and I her.

“You came,” Bertha said, a slight smile on her lips.

“Yes,” I responded, not knowing how to tell her.

“Is this a dream?” she asked.

“No, it is not a dream. I must tell you something.” I leaned closer, smoothing her hair away from her face. “Your father…passed.”

She shook her head slowly. “It is a dream,” she said.

“No, I am afraid it is not.”

“My father?”

“Yes. I’m sorry to have to tell you.”

“But he is a young man.”

“Not so very young, Bertha.”

“Call me Antoinetta.”

“Antoinetta.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “That is my true name.” Then she smiled even more widely. “And you have come to me for love.”

“I think this is not a good time,” I said, starting to move away from her.

But she pulled me to her.

Molly set the lamp on a table and quietly left the room.

Bertha held me tight. “Say my name again,” she said.

“Antoinetta.”

And then she wept, loud, excruciating sobs, and I wept with her.

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