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the murmur, the shuffle of feet drawn in, the rush of skirts along the aisle. The red dress, my God, the red dress. It runs like flames, its wearer a line of fire that makes straight for the table where the holy sacrament is laid out. How can I stop her, this woman who haunts the place as the old witch once said she would? But there is no time to lose. “Come up, sir,” Grace Poole says. “We must do something before the ladies are here.” And I follow Grace, for she is right. We must do something, and do it now.
    What can I say, what can I do in expiation for the sins committed first in my name and then by myself, for the thirty pieces of silver, the thirty thousand pounds with which my poor Antoinette bought me? For the money has bought her only a cage, and like a tropical bird she is frozen to her perch, high above the hum of the household she should by rights have organized and controlled. How can I make reparation to a woman who has lost her mind, who suffers and then forgets, grows violent and then despairs, all in a cloud of oblivion—only on occasion shot through with lucid thought? I cannot love her, nor she me. But she will possess me to the end, if I do not marry and lead a life as other men. The Ingram lands adjoin Thornfield Hall. I’ll march with you, dear Blanche; we’ll grow rich together.
    Already, as I climb to the third story of the house where I saw early on in our honeymoon that the poor Creole would have no choice but to spend her days, I am forced once again to recognize the reality of my life—Grace Poole will see to it! There can be neither passion nor light for you, her solemn tread says, as she mounts the last, twisting step; take your dreams of the Frenchwoman and burn them. You need to marry and produce an heir.
    It is too late now for me to return to that state of innocence—ignorance, Céline would say—in which I dwelled when my father and brother lived and I had little to look forward to but church orarmy, refuge or barracks for a younger son. I was reared by beating and neglect; my mother, who died before I grew, was temperamentally incapable of love. My elder brother, Rowland, secure in his inheritance, bullied me pitilessly. I passed my days on the moor, shooting and hunting. “You were reared to kill,” Céline said as we sat one day in the garden of the house I built for her, the house where the scents from the mountains of the Alpes-Maritimes lingered until late among the flowers she grew there. “The birds and beasts you slaughtered were born to die a violent death, and you were from birth their executioner.” And Céline, seeing me roll my eyes in astonishment at her strange ideas, laughed and rose from the table where we sat over peaches and wine. “One day,” she said, “you will understand. When you come to this country to live, and meet those who see the truth and continue the fight for liberty and justice.” But these words meant nothing to me then; and now that I understand them, it is too late. I am a murderer and never can return to France. I have no choice but to reflect, as I follow the grim figure of Grace Poole ever upward, that the heiress I betrayed enjoys a brilliant revenge. For even Céline could not have heard the secret of my West Indian marriage. And if she had discovered it, what would she have thought of me then? It is a secret I must carry to the grave—and now the only question is, as I know too well, whether the grave will prove to be Antoinette’s or mine.
    I cannot give details of my visits to my wife. As ever before, the sheer inhumanity of her treatment appalls me. But money handed over to Grace Poole finds its way to drink and a threatening scowl if I complain. Grace holds my future, as well as my insufferable present, in her hands. No hint of the presence of Bertha, as once I called my wife, can become known. Mrs. F, my housekeeper, is obliging enough to tell visitors a