Ever since my wife Jane published her autobiography, all manner of conjecture has been offered up to explain my side of the story. However, it has all been nothing but gossip and guesswork. While I have been content in my anonymity, she hectored me continually to set the record straight, insisting her readers would sympathize with my tale, as much as they have loved her own story.

“The curiosity of your admirers quite flatters me, my darling, but though you have repeatedly declared me the most important character in that tale, I must ask myself why you unceremoniously threw me off my horse!”

“That is what happened, is it not?” she asks me coquettishly, flashing her smile of witchery that so enchants me. Under the spell of that glance I am hopelessly in her power, and completely lose the will to argue the point.

But I did succumb to my dear Jane’s persuasions, for I am sure you know she is a very persistent creature and quite impossible to resist. With her able assistance and encouragement I have at last penned my own tale, humbly titled Edward Rochester, The Master of Thornfield Hall.

Any errors or misstatements contained herein must not be attributed to my wife, but only to me and my vanity.

Edward Fairfax Rochester