Thornfield Hall Page 11

  Plain Mr Rochester he might be, but the arrangements for the Christmas party at Thornfield Hall were a triumph. The house shone with the rich lustre normally reserved for homes that are loved and cherished by their families. I cannot say that I loved Thornfield Hall; it could be a dark and gloomy place when the weather was wild and the skies lowered. My pleasure in the place was more of a professional nature. Thornfield Hall was run to high standards; the beds were aired, the linen clean and the fires generous. Downstairs in the kitchen red-faced scullery maids and harassed cooks put the finishing touches to a lavish dinner. All that was needed to make a sparkling and memorable occasion were some pleasant guests and some lively conversation.

  I went to check on the dining room while the guests were upstairs dressing for dinner. My heart swelled with pride when I saw it. John was just finishing lighting the candles. ‘It’s a picture, isn’t it, Mrs Fairfax?’ It was indeed. The purple drapes were drawn and the walnut panelling gleamed in the candlelight, making a perfect background for the great dining table. It was covered with a white linen cloth, ironed to perfection and laid with fine china decorated in crimson and gold. The crystal glasses and silver cutlery shone so clean and polished that they dazzled the eye.

  Along the centre of the table flowed a stream of sweet-scented greenery cut from the boughs of conifer trees. These branches in defiance of nature bore flowers in red, yellow and amber, the colour of flames. Each flower was cunningly fashioned out of silk with gold stamens at its centre. They were so convincing I wanted to pick one up and smell it. All the flowers were the handiwork of Bertha, who had laboured happily in her third-storey room, her big hands twisting and shaping the scraps of silk. How strange that a mind that had been so disordered and was so feeble in its understanding could make such enchanting tiny masterpieces!

  ‘It’s a shame Miss Bertha can’t see it now while it is all so perfect.’ John blew out the taper, his task finished.

  I let him spend a moment in silent admiration before I asked him to tell Leah to come to look at the finished table, for it was she who had laid the tables and set out the greenery. She soon arrived, gliding silently along the corridor. Behind her came a tall figure in a maid’s uniform of black dress, white pinafore and cap. At first I thought it was Martha and wondered what she was doing coming to the dining room at this hour, for the dressing bell had rung. She was supposed to be upstairs pretending to dress Miss Blanche. As the figure came closer I realized it was not Martha. It was Bertha. I felt my face turn as white as my hair and my heart leap against my stays. My mind did some swift calculations and told me not to shriek out loud in protest. Silence, as so often is the case, seemed the best course of action – or inaction.

  ‘I wear a disguise,’ Bertha whispered as she slid past me. Her eyes were alight with childish glee.

  ‘Grace said it was all right.’ Leah pointed to the end of the corridor where a dark figure, which I assumed was Grace, lurked. ‘She will take her back upstairs.’

  ‘It’s so risky,’ I hissed. ‘Mr Rochester might come to make sure all is in order.’

  ‘There are so many strange servants here. He would think her one of them.’

  That was true. The house was full of familiar uniforms topped by unfamiliar faces. Bertha gazed at the dining room like a child at a sweetshop window and then allowed herself to be led away. I watched as Grace shepherded her to the stairs. I knew that I would have to pretend to be angry with one of them. But which one? And when? I had far too many other demands on my time to think about it at that moment.

  A door banged and I heard feet patter briskly down the corridor. The sound of the footsteps ceased as the owner arrived on the thick Turkey carpet of the dining room. I heard a tongue clicking tsks of annoyance and impatience and the sound of a woman’s dress rustling. I turned to see the Honourable Blanche, in her white evening dress, with her hair loose about her shoulders, attacking the table decorations. She was pulling and tugging at one of the flowers attached to the green branches.

  The events of the evening seemed to be in a conspiracy to test my self-control to the utmost. I wanted to strike the Honourable Blanche straight between her black eyes and tell her firmly to stop, tell her she was behaving like a selfish, naughty, undisciplined child and was spoiling handiwork that had taken many laborious hours to create. I did not, of course. Years of training took command and I enquired as civilly as I could manage, ‘Can I help you, madam?’

  ‘I need a flower. To finish my ensemble. This colour. It will match my shawl. I can’t get it off the branch.’ She was twisting and pulling at the bloom with her fingers. As she wrenched at the flower the greenery twisted about on the table like a demented snake, knocking over the carefully laid glasses and scattering the cutlery.

  ‘Allow me, madam.’ I took the scissors that hang on my belt and cut the poor flower free. When I handed it to her she held it to her nose to smell it.

  ‘Huh! I thought it was real.’ She looked a little less thrilled with her find until she held it against a loose tress of her hair to test the effect. The result obviously pleased her. Away she went without one word of thanks passing her lips.

  I set the table straight again and remedied the damage she had done. Fortunately nothing was broken. I don’t suppose the alteration would be seen by a blind man on a horse as my mother used to say, but for me in some obscure way the effect was spoilt. I was pleased that Bertha had seen her handiwork before the Honourable Blanche had manhandled it. After some thought I decided I would not put myself to the trouble of being angry with either Grace or Leah about Bertha’s brief visit to the dining room.

  As I turned into the corridor I stopped and melted back against the wall the way servants learn to do. Before me, very close, stood Mr Rochester and with him was the Honourable Blanche. They were both tall and their two dark heads were bent together examining the flower. Their talk was low and intimate until suddenly Blanche broke away with a laugh. She tossed her hair and brandished the flower as if she was a gypsy dancer, rather than the daughter of a peer of the realm. My master watched her as she sped away down the corridor. The expression on his face was soft and lingering but I could see the hunger in his eyes. He’s smitten, I thought, definitely smitten.

  Later that evening after the dinner had been served the master sent word to thank the servants for the magnificent meal and invited us to sit in the hall and listen to the singing. He requested that I join the guests in the dining room as befitted my rank. I slid into a quiet corner and watched as Mr Rochester and Miss Blanche sang a duet. They both had fine voices. She was very striking, tall and straight with raven black hair and an olive complexion. Her white dress was draped with an amber shawl tied over one shoulder. It matched the amber flower in her hair, the flower that she had prised from the dining room decorations; it contrasted well with the jetty mass of her curls.

  As they sang I could feel the guests around me make a match of them. The unspoken feeling that here was a pair who should be married circulated the room. For many the thought was tinged with envy. There were mothers who had hoped for Mr Rochester for their own daughters and there were men who would have liked the lovely Blanche as a prize, if they had the fortune or the mettle for such a match.

  Outside the room, in the hall, was the throng of servants; some were my old friends who worked permanently at Thornfield Hall and some were casuals, hired in for the occasion. Some had arrived only yesterday from their own houses with their masters and mistresses. I wondered if hidden among the genuine ladies’ maids, disguised in a black dress with a white apron, was a large ungainly woman whose status was still a mystery to me, a woman who was neither a child nor a mature adult; a woman who was neither a servant nor yet the mistress of the house she lived in.

  The next day the hunt came to meet at Thornfield Hall. The weather was still and clear and a light frost sparkled on the grass. The courtyard at the front rang with the clatter of horses’ hooves. Every gentleman was mounted and his groom led his spare
horse. Old John was in a heaven of delight to see the pink jackets and to hear the crack of the whips and the expectant barking of the hounds. Into this melee of men and horses arrived Miss Blanche in a black habit, riding side-saddle on a black horse. She made a magnificent sight – as I am sure she intended.

  All the gentlemen turned to look at her but it was Mr Rochester who steadied his horse and raised his riding-crop to salute her with a pretty speech about the goddess Diana. He could not have made his preference for her clearer if he had gone down on one knee and proposed in front of the assembled gentry. For a moment I contemplated my future with Miss Blanche as the mistress of Thornfield Hall. She had already displayed a nature that was selfish and impulsive. Rumour, in the reliable form of her mother’s maid, gave her credit for a formidable temper. My future looked bleak.

  At that moment Mr Rochester’s horse started. As he struggled to restrain it the horse reared and turned back towards the house. Mr Rochester’s eye was drawn upwards; something caused him to stare briefly at the third storey. When he had composed his horse he moved away abruptly from Miss Blanche and went to talk to Carter, the surgeon.

  Afterwards I learned from Grace that Bertha had been leaning out of the window to watch the hunt set off. It was Bertha who had caught Mr Rochester’s attention. Grace pulled a face as she told me; she expected to feel the brunt of Mr Rochester’s wrath in due course. He wanted Bertha kept out of sight and out of mind. Bertha seldom took much interest in the goings on at Thornfield Hall but that day she had opened the window to get a good look at Miss Blanche, who exercised a fascination for her.

  ‘It’s her complexion,’ Grace explained. ‘Somehow Bertha has the idea that her skin is dark and unattractive so she is pleased to see that Blanche, who has a similar complexion, is much admired.’

  ‘That is true. Mr Rochester gives every impression of admiring her. Does that console our Bertha?’

  ‘I hope so. She went on to ask a most interesting question. She asked if this was one of those countries where men could have two wives.’

  I raised my eyebrows and looked significantly at Grace. Was this further evidence to support Bertha’s claim that she was Mrs Rochester?

  ‘Don’t get too excited,’ said Grace. ‘The next thing she asked was the name of this country. And before you say anything, as well as going to the dining room, we did slip into the hall with the other servants to hear the singing.’

  I waved a careless hand to dismiss the matter. They had not been caught. I laid it to rest with all those other undiscovered misdeeds of servants. What concerned me now was Bertha leaning from the window. If Mr Rochester was angry about it he would no doubt summon me and I would have the uncomfortable task of passing on his displeasure to Grace. I would not be happy to do that. I had come to regard her as a true friend.

  The next evening Mr Rochester did summon me to the library. He was not his usual vibrant self; his face was pale and drawn as if with fatigue. He lay back in his chair, his feet to the blazing fire and brandy in a glass by his hand. He kept me standing while he studied the flames in the fire. Fond of him though I was, I could feel resentment bubbling up inside me. It had been two in the morning before we finished the washing up from dinner. I had found a kitchen boy, Leah’s brother to be precise, asleep on the stairs. The poor lad was too tired to make it to his bed. I coughed to remind Mr Rochester that I was still standing. I hoped he would realize that my legs were aching and that if he had any complaints they would be best kept till morning. I was in no mood to be meek and respectful. I had a mind to bite first.

  Fortunately my master had called me to express his thanks to us all. He bid me sit as he handed the tips to me. There were shillings and sixpences for the youngsters who had run errands and washed dishes. There were half crowns for the extras from The George and sovereigns for the rest of us. He made no mention of Bertha hanging out of the window.

  When we had dealt with these matters of business he poured me a glass of port and turned the conversation to other matters. His reputation in the county? How was he judged as a landowner? As a gentleman? He wanted to know his standing among the gentry. He had me flummoxed there. What was I supposed to say? I assured him he was rated highly, particularly at this moment, having entertained his neighbours so royally.

  Then he wanted to know what was thought of the Cliftons, the Eshtons. I could see where he was going. He did not pull the wool over my eyes. As I expected he worked his way round to the Ingrams last. Once there he started with the father, moved onto the mother and finally arrived at his target, Blanche. She was just eighteen. Was that too young to be married? He had met her in London where she had just had her first – very successful – season. She was much admired as a beauty and word was she had already turned down several suitors.

  That’ll be her mother’s word, I thought. In spite of all these reported offers Blanche had returned home to Yorkshire empty-handed. Perhaps her dazzling beauty had not entirely concealed the meanness of her nature nor the emptiness of her father’s bank account.

  I told him what I understood about society and marriage. It was a subject in which I could claim some expertise; my mother had drilled me in its lore. ‘I know it is very bad for a girl if a man pays her attention and then does not propose. It can damage her reputation and her chance of marriage with another gentleman. Marriage is the only goal of girls in society. For them it is a serious business. They are trained to be wives and mothers, to run households and to manage servants. It is so important for them to marry well because there is nothing else for them to do. They cannot be parsons or lawyers or join the army. Their futures depend on their reputations – and their portions. Ill-natured gossip can blight their whole lives.’

  Mr Rochester’s craggy face revealed little but he paid careful attention to my words. It was clear to me that there had been something lacking in my master’s education; it was short of a feminine influence. His mother was an invalid, dominated by her husband His father was an arrogant, close-fisted and insensitive man with little interest in society or the opinions of others. His brother was a virtual recluse with his magnifying glass and his insects and his steam machines. There was no sister to give him a glimpse into how girls were raised. I thought it only fair to enlighten him about the unkind ways society treated women. ‘People…’ (I meant women but I did not wish to slander my own sex) ‘are quick to speak ill of a girl and they are just as quick to speak ill of the gentleman concerned. If he pays attention to a girl and it comes to nothing, people will say that he has proposed and been rejected. They will nudge each other and whisper that there must be a reason. His credit is not good, his fortune is too small, insanity runs in the family. There is no smoke without fire. That sort of thing. It seems to me best if a couple behave so discreetly that when their marriage is announced there is an element of surprise.’

  I left it at that. He bid me goodnight and I was pleased to escape from the room with the coins jingling in my pocket. I looked forward to distributing them to my fellow servants with Mr Rochester’s compliments. The rest of my conversation with him I would keep discreetly to myself. I was confident that he had reached the point with the Honourable Blanche where he had to propose or risk being regarded as a blackguard by society in the county. It would be best if the announcement of his engagement came as a surprise to my fellow servants.

  How wrong I was! In the morning he announced he was leaving for the continent. To my knowledge he had no business that called him to France. Many men grow skittish at the prospect of matrimony and many an English gentleman goes abroad to take his pleasures. I did not then know the exact nature of the furies that drove him to brave crossing the Channel in the middle of winter. It was some years before I discovered the real and secret reason for his abrupt departure.

  ADELE

  1831

  FOR A FEW YEARS AFTER THE CHRISTMAS BALL, life at Thornfield Hall was remarkable only for a lack of incident. The seasons followed each other in their usual course and br
ought with them their allotted tasks. We washed and polished in the spring and in the autumn we pickled and preserved the harvest. In truth it was very dull. We even missed Monsieur Alphonse; he had brought some novelty into our lives. Now there was nothing to break up the monotony of the days, weeks and seasons. Even though I am old enough to know better I longed for change. I should have restrained myself; change is not always for the better.

  Mr Rochester came perhaps once a year. His brief visits were easily managed. He sent word in advance that he was coming so we could prepare for him without panic and he stopped entertaining. The gentry called when he was here, but there were no more lavish parties, hunt dinners or house parties for the other landowners. When he was at Thornfield he dealt with business matters and arranged for money to run the household. He pleased Old John by buying and selling a few horses and then set off again on his mysterious travels.

  As Mr Rochester was away so much we grew ambitious on behalf of Bertha and gave her more freedom than ever before. As long as she was accompanied by Grace, Leah or myself, she was free to visit the garden. She showed no propensity to wander beyond the gates and displayed no curiosity as to what lay behind the garden walls. Like a well-trained child she knew her limits and that to push beyond them would lead to trouble; either we would be angry with her or she would come up against something she could not cope with.

  Inside the house she never strayed beyond her familiar places, the third-floor rooms, and the back stairs that led to my housekeeper’s room. On the whole she remained placid and docile. Sometimes in the winter she became tearful and would stay in bed and cry a lot. Grace reckoned it was a sort of homesickness, a longing for the sunshine of her native land but this time it was in the spring that Bertha became ‘snappish’.

  Bertha raged. She threw her meals to the floor, refused to wash, and took to hiding knives and scissors. Grace’s son came and prescribed a new medicine which seemed to help. What really cured her, according to Grace, was the news that John and Leah intended to marry. They were adamant that the wedding would not take place until they could afford a cottage of their own. In the meantime Leah was working on her bottom drawer so that she would have the necessary bedding and linen. ‘Bottom drawer’ was a new phrase to Bertha but once she understood its meaning she was eager to help. She set to work hemming sheets and embroidering nightdresses.