Midsummer at Eyre Hall: Book Three Eyre Hall Trilogy Read online

  Midsummer at Eyre Hall

  By Luccia Gray

  Text copyright © 2016 Lucia Garcia Magaldi

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-84-608-7173-6

  This novel is a work of fiction based mainly on imaginary and some real people, places and events, which have been modified for literary purposes.

  Dedication

  For Sofia, who prefers happy endings.

  Rediscover the world of Jane Eyre…

  Midsummer at Eyre Hall is the third and final volume of The Eyre Hall Trilogy, which chronicles the lives of the residents of Eyre Hall from the beginning to the height of the Victorian era.

  Following the death of her second husband, Richard Mason, Jane is finally engaged to the man she loves. However, her oldest son, John Rochester, will do everything in his power to stop the wedding and take over Eyre Hall and the Rochester Estate, with devastating consequences for Jane.

  Romance, mystery and excitement will unfold, based on the lives of the original characters, and bringing to life new and intriguing ones, spinning a unique and absorbing narrative, which will move the action from the Yorkshire countryside to Victorian London, and magical Cornwall.

  Midsummer at Eyre Hall is part of a series, and although it can be read as a standalone novel, readers will have a more enhanced reading experience if they read The Eyre Hall Trilogy in the following sequence:

  All Hallows at Eyre Hall (Book I)

  Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall (Book II)

  Midsummer at Eyre Hall (Book III)

  Meet the Cast of ‘Midsummer at Eyre Hall’

  After Edward Rochester’s death in All Hallows at Eyre Hall, Jane was blackmailed into marrying Richard Mason, who died in Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall. Michael Kirkpatrick was a servant at Eyre Hall, who later joined the navy. He proposed to Jane, and in Midsummer at Eyre Hall, Jane and Michael are about to be married.

  John is Jane and Edward Rochester’s son. He left England and moved to Boston after his mother’s engagement to Michael.

  Annette Mason was born in Thornfield Hall while her mother, Bertha Mason, was married to Edward Rochester and locked in his attic. Although Rochester claimed he was not her biological father, Annette has remained at Eyre Hall as Jane’s ward.

  Helen is Jane and Edward Rochester’s daughter, who was kidnapped at birth. Michael discovered her true identity and Helen was reunited with her mother in Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall.

  Archbishop Templar was a close friend of Mr. Rochester’s and had been John’s mentor since his childhood. He is a frequent guest at Eyre Hall.

  Adele Varens was Mr. Rochester’s ward. Jane Eyre was first employed at Thornfield Hall as her governess. Adele is married to the widowed poet, Mr. Greenwood. They live in Camberwell, London.

  Susan Kirkpatrick is Michael’s sister. She is married to the painter, Dante Greenwood, Mr. Greenwood’s son. They live in Camberwell, London. Susan has a baby, William, and is pregnant with her second child.

  Mr. Smythe is Jane’s solicitor.

  Dr. Carter (Harry) took over his father’s practice in the area when his father died.

  Diana and Mary Rivers are Jane’s cousins. Diana married Admiral Fitzjames (he was captain in Jane Eyre), and they live at Thorpe Hall in Morton. Mary married Mr. Wharton, a vicar, and they live at Thrush Cottage in Kilpeck.

  Blains is a friend of Michael’s. They met in the navy. He lives in St. Ives, Cornwall. Shirley Blains is his sister.

  Mr. Maximilian (Max) de Winter, is the owner of Manderley, a large mansion in an estate in St. Ives. He lives with his son, also called Max. (In the future, young Max will have a son, who will be the main character in another novel, Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier).

  Mr. Poole is the superintendent at Grimsby Retreat. His mother was Grace Poole, the servant who looked after Bertha Mason in the attic in Jane Eyre.

  Mrs. Leah is the housekeeper at Eyre Hall. She worked as a maid at Thornfield Hall in Jane Eyre.

  Simon, Beth, Daisy, Christy, Fred, Cook and Joseph are servants at Eyre Hall.

  Isaac das Junot is a Sin-Eater. He is a sinister character who appears when there is a death at Eyre Hall.

  ***

  Contents

  Dedication

  Rediscover the world of Jane Eyre…

  Meet the Cast of ‘Midsummer at Eyre Hall’

  Contents

  Part One: Season of Darkness

  Chapter I – Abodes of Horror

  Chapter II - The Best of Times

  Chapter III – Betrayal

  Chapter IV – Winter of Despair

  Chapter V – The Worst of Times

  Chapter VI – Fugitives

  Chapter VII – Nothing Before Us

  Chapter VIII – Hell is Empty

  Chapter IX – The Age of Foolishness

  Chapter X – Wrath

  Part Two: Spring of Hope

  Chapter XI – Locked out of Heaven

  Chapter XII– Everything before Us

  Chapter XIII – Epoch of Incredulity

  Chapter XIV – Stairway to Heaven

  Chapter XV Pride, Greed, and Lust.

  Chapter XVI – The Agony and the Ecstasy

  Chapter XVII Manderley

  Chapter XVIII – In Search of Helen

  Chapter XIX The Road to Hell

  Chapter XX – First Love

  Part Three: Season of Light

  Chapter XXI – Persuasion

  Chapter XXII – Seashells and Puppies

  Chapter XXIII – Present Blessings

  Chapter XXIV – Mr. de Winter’s Request

  Chapter XXV – Thunder Moon at Eyre Hall

  Chapter XXVI – Susan’s Inferno

  Chapter XXVII – James Eyre Kirkpatrick

  Chapter XXVIII – Max and Helen

  Chapter XXIX – The Light and the Darkness

  Chapter XXX – Return to Eyre Hall

  Epilogue– Midsummer at Eyre Hall

  The Eyre Hall Trilogy

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Afterword

  Part One: Season of Darkness

  Hell is empty

  And all the devils are here.

  The Tempest by William Shakespeare.

  Abodes of horror have frequently been described, and castles, filled with spectres and chimeras, conjured up by the magic spell of genius to harrow the soul, and absorb the wondering mind. But, formed of such stuff as dreams are made of, what were they to the mansion of despair, in one corner of which Maria sat, endeavouring to recall her scattered thoughts!

  Maria or The Wrongs of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft

  Chapter I – Abodes of Horror

  Grimsby Retreat, 16th December 1866.

  Please, Lord, do not let me lose my mind in this dreadful place. Help me preserve my sanity. I must return to Michael and Helen at Eyre Hall. I have been removed to this terrifying house in a most fraudulent manner, deprived of my freedom, and caged in an infernal cave, like an animal.

  I was dragged to this disturbing place and ensnared in a cage twelve nights ago by a group of armed men who barged into Eyre Hall while I was alone. I resisted, but they forced me into a carriage and brought me here in the dead of night. I have no idea where I am, except that it is over four hours’ drive from home.

  I was maliciously confined, and even if I had managed to escape, I did not know in which direction I should flee. There are thick woods to the north, east and west, and I have no idea what lies to the south, as I have not yet seen that part of the house or grounds. I realise I have only been here for a short time; my captivity is already proving un
bearable.

  My first days were distressing. I wasn’t allowed to wash or wear clean clothes. They said they were waiting for my trunk, but I told them I didn’t want a trunk, because I wanted to go home, and they brought me a grey flannel dress, which was so long that the skirt dragged along the floor and so coarse that it scraped my skin like sandpaper.

  When I asked Mrs. Mills, the person who seemed to be in charge of us, if I could wash, she laughed and said the showers were only for those who caused trouble. I was given a basin and some cold water, no soap or ointments. My face was dry and my lips were parched, so I asked for the toiletries I was accustomed to using, and that was when I discovered where I was. Mrs. Mills laughed again and told me it was not a guesthouse, but an asylum for the mentally insane.

  I was shocked when I heard the sinister nature of my abode of horror. Why had I been removed to this mansion of despair? Could it be a nightmare conjured up by my wondering mind? How could I suddenly find myself in this sea of misery and madness?

  My first visitor had been a tall, angular man with a sallow face and weary eyes, who said his name was Dr. Stevens. When I told him I already had a doctor, he told me he was a special doctor for people who were ill, such as myself. I assured him that I was not unwell, although I was missing my family and my home. He asked me whom I missed most, and I told him it was Michael, my betrothed, and Helen, my daughter. He shook his head and said that I was a widow and could not remarry without my son’s approval. He said that I only had one child, a son called John Rochester, and that Helen was not my daughter, but a servant at Eyre Hall, as Michael had been.

  “You cannot leave here until you admit that it has all been a fabrication of your feeble mind, Mrs. Mason. Michael was a servant you once had, but he is no longer at Eyre Hall. You have fashioned an infatuation with him, but he abandoned your service some time ago. Helen is another servant’s daughter. You have imagined that this poor girl is the stillborn daughter you lost ten years ago.”

  I was perplexed and asked him who had informed him of these details.

  “Archbishop Templar has always taken an interest in Grimsby Retreat, where you are now staying. He is your son’s mentor and now that his father, your husband, has died, and you have lost your mind, the archbishop is obliged to make sure Eyre Hall and the Rochester Estate are preserved, until your son returns from his visit to America.”

  Was it possible that the archbishop had fabricated these lies and convinced these people that I was a madwoman? What was his purpose in making me prisoner? I could not yet fathom the answers to these questions.

  “Where is John? When can I see him?”

  “In due time, when you are recovered. We will take good care of you, Mrs. Mason. Your confusion is understandable. You have lost two husbands in a year, your only son left home, your miscarriages and stillborn child have added to your sorrow.” He patted my hand and smiled. “But worry not, you will recover. We will take good care of you.”

  I raised my hands to my hair and felt for my hairpins. I knew Michael was as real as the little silver butterflies with crystal pendants I was wearing. They were his favourite. I stroked the long pin and made sure it was firmly fixed on my hair. I imagined that as long as I could feel it, Michael would find me. I smiled demurely at the foolish doctor and thanked him kindly. What else could I do while I prayed Michael would find me and take me away?

  The following days were long and drawn out. The house grew colder and gloomier every minute. In the mornings we had breakfast in a large hall where there was a small fire covered by a huge grate, insufficient to heat the chill room. Porridge, gritty brown bread and tea were passed around the long table. I drank the tea, but hardly touched the food. Dinner was tasteless and tough, stewed meat and soggy boiled vegetables, which did little to encourage my waning appetite.

  I was required to spend the mornings in the icy room with the other residents on my floor. There was nothing in the behaviour of these women to suggest that they were any more unstable than I was. They were all well-dressed and reasonably groomed. My brief conversations with them revealed to me that they had all been admitted as a result of disagreements with their husbands, fathers, or sons, due to matters related to finance or love. Mrs. Pengilly and Miss Short sat by the fire reading one of the tattered books on the neglected bookshelves, while Miss Fowler and Mrs. Black knitted by the window. There was an out of tune piano in the corner, which Miss Craft played occasionally. A young girl called Katy, who refused to eat or speak, drew pencil sketches of angels and demons. I had never seen anyone else, but I knew there were more prisoners on the other floors, because I heard their cries at night and fits of demoniac laughter echoing from below during the day.

  As one monotonous day rolled into another, I was beginning to sink into despair. I felt as if I had been buried alive, unable to eat or sleep, until I realised that these first days had been a holiday in comparison to the events about to take place. Chaos was about to send Satan on his way to ruin me. I prayed my flaming warrior and his sword would save me from despondency.

  One morning, when I heard Katy crying, I approached her and asked if she would like to talk to me about what ailed her, but she shook her head fiercely. “Be quiet. Don’t tell anyone,” she chanted.

  That evening, I heard muffled cries coming from her room, which was across the hall from mine. I jumped out of bed and listened behind the door, not daring to open it. I heard her feet dragging along the floor and a man’s voice said, “You know the rules.” I rushed to the window and even in the dead of night, I imagined I saw her wild-looking, terrified eyes and shackled hands as he pulled her across the garden into a shed.

  The following morning, when Katy was not sitting at the breakfast table, I asked Mrs. Mills if she was unwell.

  “Unwell? Not at all. She has been discharged. Her parents took her back home yesterday.”

  Miss Craft raised her hands and moved her fingers in the air, playing an imaginary piano. “That’s good news,” she said and dropped her hands back to her lap.

  “I’ll miss her,” said Miss Pengilly, and Miss Short nodded.

  Miss Fowler’s terrified eyes glanced at Mrs. Black who shot up, knocking her chair to the floor. “She didn’t say goodbye. She should have said goodbye. I knitted her a scarf. She was my friend. Friends say goodbye when they leave!”

  Mrs. Mills made eye contact with each one of us before speaking. “Silence or I shall call Dr. Stewart. He will not be pleased.” She paused, stabbing me with her eyes. “I hadn’t realised you were such a trouble maker, Mrs. Mason. You will stay in your room until further notice.”

  The following days were short and gloomy, merging into one long night. I watched the motion of the moon glide under the clouds, and I even imagined I saw a shadow in the grounds. I whispered Michael’s name and cried bitterly; little did I know that the real inferno was about to begin.

  It started with a knock on my door one stormy afternoon, some days after Katy’s mysterious disappearance. I had found a worn copy of David Copperfield, and took pleasure in stroking its weathered pages, for I had trouble focusing on the words. Bitter tears spilled from my eyes, smearing the ink, as I remembered my conversations with Mr. Dickens at Eyre Hall and in his London home.

  “May I intrude, Jane Eyre?”

  I jumped out of my chair and turned abruptly, surprised to hear my maiden name in a voice I did not recall. Neither did I recognise the large overfed body or bulging blue eyes, which stared back at me.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Are we acquainted?”

  “You do not remember me?”

  I would not have forgotten his reptilian eyes, which didn’t seem to blink. “I’m afraid not, but please sit down. It is not often I have company, sir.”

  I waved towards a rickety chair by the writing desk and sat down again myself. My visitor nodded and obliged. His corpulent presence filled the tiny room and there was a sour, repugnant odour.

  “I hope you are comfortable here, Jane Eyre, for t
hat is your name, is it not?”

  “I am Mrs. Mason, at present.” I wanted to tell him that soon I would be Mrs. Kirkpatrick, but I remembered the doctor’s words. “My husband died almost a year ago.”

  “You were once called Mrs. Rochester, I believe?”

  “Yes, Mr. Rochester died over two years ago. Did you know my husband, Mr…?”

  “Yes, I met both your husbands, madam. Mr. Rochester and Mr. Mason both employed my mother’s services at Thornfield Hall. Do you not remember me? My name is Poole, Mr. Daniel Poole.”

  I looked at him more carefully. His veined cheeks, bushy grey eyebrows and fuzzy beard suggested he was Richard’s age. I tried to imagine what he might have looked like twenty years earlier, but no one came to mind.

  “I’m afraid I cannot recall having seen you at Thornfield Hall, Mr. Poole.”

  “I visited my mother on one occasion. You were the governess at that time.”

  “Poole?” Could Grace Poole, Bertha’s drunken keeper, be this man’s mother? I was reminded of a grim, unfriendly woman with a prim cap perched on her large head, and a coarse, gloomy face, wearing a brown stuff dress and white apron. Mrs. Poole had spent most of her time in a low-ceilinged, oaken chamber of the second storey at Thornfield Hall, where she sat and sewed, and drank port, gin, or whatever spirits were available.

  I jumped out of my chair at once. “You are Grace Poole’s son?”

  “The very same. I was but a lad then. I was already employed at Grimsby Retreat, but of course, you wouldn’t remember the likes of me. You were too busy enticing the master of the house, weren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Funny isn’t it, how the wheels of fortune turn unexpectedly? You were a quaint little thing. An ethereal waif, tantalising all the men in sight.”

  I trembled in the realisation that he had not come as a friend.

  “You wouldn’t have noticed me then, would you? I wasn’t good enough for you, was I? Answer me.” His eyes bulged even more as he moved towards me.