Chapter Text
I had nearly found sleep this time when I was jarred awake. The carriage collided with another pothole. This one sent a rattle down to my bones, and a worried “oomph” escaped my lips. The coachman’s voice soon followed, but not with an apology for the rough journey.
“We have just entered the estate, mademoiselle,” he announced over the vehicle’s groans. I wondered if the poor coach would survive the trip. “We will reach Chateau de Sainte-Cécile shortly.”
I was tempted to inquire how long “shortly” was. I’d accustomed myself to endure all manner of physical and emotional discomfort in my ten years at Lowood Charitable Institute, but the journey from England to Le Havre and now to Boscherville had tested even my limits. The stormy sea crossing and now the arduous carriage ride into the French countryside had nearly depleted my reserves of patience–-enough to make “shortly” feel like a vague statement.
But instead of harassing the coachman, I offered him a “thank you” and redirected my attention to the letter in my hands.
It was well-worn now, having been my primary reading material during my travels. I held it again to the light of the coach lamp, which swung to and fro under the force of the shaking conveyance, and read it for what must have been the hundredth time:
"If Jane Eyre, who advertised in the Herald of last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered her where there is but one pupil, a little girl, under ten years of age; and where the salary is fifty pounds per annum under the employment of the Comte de Rouen. Mademoiselle Eyre is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction: —
Madame Giry, Chateau de Saint-Cécile, Saint Martin de Boscherville.”
Brief as it was, the letter was my salvation. I was finally free of Lowood! I was traveling to be a governess in the employ of French nobility . In the past forty-eight hours I had left the country of my miserable birth for the first time and seen more of the world than I’d seen in my twenty years of living altogether. What did the roughness of the road matter when my horizons had broadened so significantly?
The letter did its work. Even though the real horizon was shrouded by the darkness of the countryside at present, I was content.
I could tell by the length of the journey that the estate was extensive; the carriage rolled on for some time and I had nearly fallen asleep again before the coachman rapped at the window once more to announce that the chateau was in view. I rubbed my eyes and let down the glass.
Chateau Sainte-Cécile wasn’t at all the image of a fashionable French manor house. My journey, which had run through Paris and past a few other estates, had led me to believe that French nobility preferred light and highly gilded buildings. Chateau Sainte-Cécile, by contrast, was a dark stone palace that appeared to date back to the medieval period. The exterior was free of ornamentation with the exception of the imposing battlements lining the tower and uppermost story.
The abode was decidedly unwelcoming. It had been many years since a battle had made it to the rural outskirts of Rouen, but Chateau Sainte-Cécile looked ready to withstand a military assault even now. As the carriage traveled under the shadow of the watchtower, the building seemed to regard me and the ragtag team of coachmen as a threat. Everything on this estate–-the house, heavy forests, and pitted roads–-seemed designed to repel visitors.
My nerves increased as the carriage rolled into the cobblestone courtyard.
I had lived with fine people once, but I was miserable with them. My Aunt Reed had thought it the worst crime imaginable that I numbered among the things left her by her husband, my uncle. I suppose she hoped that her obligation to me had perished along with him, and my father and mother before him. The grandeur of her home was matched by her cruelty to me before she finally deposited me at Lowood Charitable Institute.
But no time for these thoughts, I told myself, shaking my head fiercely. You're starting anew now. And when the carriage stopped in front of a lamplit door manned by a finely-dressed older woman, I put all exhaustion and reservations behind me and alighted cheerfully.
“You must be Mademoiselle Eyre,” the woman said, stepping forward to greet me in English. “Welcome to Chateau de Sainte-Cécile. I am Madame Giry.”
My first thought regarding Madame Giry was how unsightly I looked in comparison to her. All my life I’d been called plain; it hadn’t changed overnight. I was sure my natural deficiencies were only accentuated by my travel-worn clothes, ruffled chestnut hair, and overall youth.
Across me, Madame Giry was the picture of elegance. The length of her tall, slim form was clothed completely in black. Her plentiful hair, which was pulled back in a bun, was as dark as her clothing with the exception of a single streak of grey. Her hand clutched a large walking stick with a silver lion’s head, though she didn’t seem to need its assistance judging by her ramrod straight posture.
When she cast a glance over my less-than-appealing features, she was satisfied enough to offer a gracious smile.
“Madame Giry, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I responded in her native tongue. “I’m quite comfortable conversing in French.”
She assented and motioned inside the house to a manservant, who started removing my luggage from the carriage. She then ushered me through the door with a graceful wave of her hand.
“Come in, my dear.”
The lady led me through the threshold and into a massive kitchen. To my surprise, the room was fitted with new cabinetry, a marble tiled floor, and even electric lighting––a welcome change from the chateau’s medieval exterior.
“I trust your journey was pleasant?” Madame Giry asked, turning to face me.
“Quite,” I lied, “but the arrival is the best part.”
“I’ve arranged for your luggage to be brought up to your room and a fire prepared,” Madame explained. “Would you like anything to eat or drink after your journey?”
I smiled gratefully. “Thank you, but I think I would prefer to rest more than anything.”
“Poor child, you must be so tired. Chateau Sainte-Cécile is a long way from Paris, let alone England”––She looked me over––“And you’re already so thin. Would you like to sit down?”
"I’ve been sitting for so long I think I’d enjoy stretching my legs before I lay down for the night.”
“Wonderful! I’ll give you a brief tour and then we’ll end with your room.”
Heels and cane clicking, Madame Giry led me through the kitchen, past a corridor with equally updated but empty servants’ quarters, and to the main house.
The restorations and improvements I had seen in the service quarters extended to the rest of the chateau. The great hall clearly dated back to the early Normans with its stone walls, vaulted ceilings, and massive mantelpiece displaying the Carriere family arms. But the dark wood paneling, floors, and ceiling beams all seemed recently refinished and showed no signs of age. Pacing through it with echoing footsteps, I imagined myself in this room when it had hosted royalty, armored knights, and the great characters of French history.
Off that imposing hall, Madame Giry pointed out the locations of several rooms–-the library, the Comte’s study, and a first-floor parlor–-before guiding me to a stairwell. Upstairs, another grand hall awaited us. This one lacked the high ceilings of the great hall that connected the main house and kitchens, but it too was well-preserved and improved with electric torch lighting. Tall, latticed windows lined one half of the room, though they offered no view but darkness at present. On the opposite wall, the floor-to-ceiling wood paneling sported a long row of large family portraits.
One after the other, the pretty faces of Carriere ancestors stared back at me as I passed. Every woman on that wall seemed to epitomize the standard of beauty for her time. Some were fair haired, blue eyed, and Rubenesque; others were delicate brunette beauties or milky-faced medieval women with high foreheads. Yet, the portrait of each male heir regarded me with uniformly dark eyes and angular jaws.
Madame Giry caught my slackened pace and looked behind her to find me observing them intently, though from my vantage point they seemed to be the ones peering steadily into me.
“The Carrieres are a very ancient family,” she remarked. “Some say they even have ties to Rollo the Walker, the first Comte de Rouen.”
“Hmm,” I murmured in reply, as another set of deep, almost black, eyes looked into mine. Coming to the end of the line depicting more Comtes, I asked impulsively, “Is the present Comte’s portrait hung here as well?”
“No.”
“When did the title pass to him?”
Madame Giry seemed to consider the answer. “About six or seven years ago.”
“How long have you been with the family?” I ventured. "I'm sure you have a great deal of knowledge."
“I spent most of my life in Paris, in fact. It was the present Comte who hired me; I followed him when he inherited.”
“And is the Comte much at home?”
“His business requires him to travel occasionally, but he spends the majority of his time here," she answered. "He keeps to himself, though. You’re not likely to see much of him.”
“He is not involved in his daughter’s education, then?” I wondered aloud.
“Daughter?” The word stopped Madame Giry in her tracks. She eyed me closely. “Your pupil, Adele, is Monsieur le Comte’s ward. She's of no relation.”
“I’m sorry, I thought–-” I trailed off, too embarrassed to complete my sentence.
Truth be told, I thought the Comte was a widower. Since Madame Giry’s letter had not mentioned a comtesse, I had assumed (reasonably, I thought, at the time) that he must have recently lost his wife and required a governess to complete his daughter’s education. Now, however, I scolded myself for my naivety. If I had shared my misunderstandings with anyone else during my travels, I would’ve easily made my employer a subject of gossip. Luckily, I hadn't spoken to anyone en route to Rouen.
“I promise, I--I haven't suggested to anyone...” I fumbled. "I do apologize."
We passed a window that offered a close view of the round, fortified tower that had distinguished the chateau’s silhouette from afar. Madame Giry ignored my mumblings and stopped to direct my attention toward the structure.
“The master would like you to know that the tower is restricted to his own use. Employees are not allowed there, with the exception of myself.”
“You may often hear music coming from that area," she continued. "The Master takes a great interest in his music; he does not brook disruptions. And the tower holds many valuable instruments that we are neither to look at or touch. But he has provided a piano and harp in both the schoolroom and study for your use, and if you have any additional needs, you can bring your requests to me.”
Her voice was firm, and I felt that my previous blunder prevented me from inquiring further about the tower or about the Comte’s musical talents. Rather than cause any further damage to Madame Giry’s opinion of me, I simply nodded.
"Yes, I understand. The Comte is very kind."
Her expression softened by a fraction at my anguish.
“You haven’t seen much of the world, have you?” she questioned, continuing our swift march into a corridor of bedrooms. “But I suppose you can’t be much more than eighteen years old.”
“Twenty.”
My eyes were fixed on the hardwood floors, but I could feel her gaze on me again.
“You were underfed,” she remarked. Her voice was sympathetic.
“I was educated in a charitable institution for orphans.”
My response was hardly a direct answer. Neither had she posed a question, technically. But she nodded, and I knew that we understood each other.
“Adele is an orphan as well,” she said. The shock of her statement was enough to make me lift my eyes in curiosity. “She’s the daughter of one of the master’s business associates in Paris. When her parents died, she had nowhere else to go.”
I waited for her to say more, but she offered no further explanation. Instead, she led me to the door of one of the bedchambers in the hallway and opened it in welcome.
The space was nothing like the austere, medieval rooms through which we had just passed. It was surprisingly…cozy. Unlike the dark wood paneling in the formal areas, the walls were papered in an elegant floral pattern that matched the plush satin comforter on the lit-bateau bed. My trunk lay waiting at its foot. Across it, two finely upholstered armchairs atop a Persian rug made a sitting area near the fireplace. And a small dressing table and mirror were pushed against the windowsill opposite the door, facing a large row of windows.
“I hope you’ll find this room acceptable?” Madame Giry asked. “You can’t see much now, but it overlooks the garden.”
My feet carried the rest of my stunned body into the suite. In my twelve years at Lowood, I’d forgotten what it was like to have my own room. Even before my Aunt Reed had rid herself of me, she'd relegated me to a small bed in the corner of the nursery long after her own children graduated to private rooms.
I knew faintly that my education made me what they called "middle-class" now. That meant I was a step above a common servant, but still low enough for an aristocrat like the Comte to crush beneath his heel without even noticing. Whatever my calculations, I'd never expected a place so fine and--despite Madame Giry's former mention of a fire--so warm after the wintry dormitories of Lowood.
I looked up at Madame Giry, not bothering to mask the emotions evident in my face.
“I—This is all for me?”
“Of course. The washroom is next door, and my bedroom is on the other side of it if you have need of anything.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Madame. This will suit me perfectly.”
“Lovely. We will breakfast early tomorrow morning and then I will introduce you to Adele. I hope you rest easily tonight.”
She made to leave, then lingered in the doorway before turning around again to face me. Not for the first time that night, I felt her appraising me closely as if she could glean my whole history from my face and figure.
“You’ll find that Chateau Sainte-Cécile is unusual as far as French estate homes go, Mademoiselle Eyre,” she finally added, her guarded expression somehow still lined with sincerity. “This is a quiet house; there aren’t many servants, and the Comte enjoys solitude so we do not see much society. But it is also…a refuge. I hope you will come to think of it as such.”
“I—I hope so too,” was all I could muster as the physical and mental exertions of the day began to cave in on me. “Goodnight, Madame Giry.”
She slipped into the hallway, closing the door softly behind her.
As I prepared for bed and then finally laid my head on the pillow for the night, I fell asleep feeling both relieved and puzzled. I had made it to France and kept my promise to escape the confines of England and its unhappy memories. I'd found a quiet situation in one of the country's premiere estates. And now for the first time in twelve years, I had a warm bed, a fire, and the promise of a hardy meal in the morning.
And yet after a friendless and loveless existence at Gateshead and then Lowood, it all felt too good to be true. What manner of man was my employer that he lived so unlike the rest of the aristocracy? Who was this strange nobleman who rescued orphans, restored ancient houses, and took chances on a penniless schoolgirl governess from another country? Why had Madame Giry called Chateau Sainte-Cécile a refuge, as though more than one inhabitant here was seeking safety?
I slept well that night, but I went to bed praying that my luck was not a dream.