Thornfield Hall Page 15

  I knew there would be times I would regret making the offer of a safe refuge. Martha could annoy me faster than a buzzing fly in the dairy. I would have to grit my teeth and bear her irritating ways; I must reap what I had sown. As I always did when I had a problem I climbed the stairs to the third storey. To my surprise the upper door was locked and I had to knock. Grace unlocked it but kept the door half closed to warn me not to venture further. She put her finger to her lips to signal I should be quiet.

  ‘Snappish?’ I whispered.

  Grace drew her hand across her throat in imitation of a murderer’s knife and rolled her eyes. She was wan and haggard from watching her unpredictable charge. ‘A doll would help.’

  At first I didn’t understand her request. Then I remembered Bertha nursing the tiny doll, her eyes and her mind faraway and peaceful. ‘I’ll ask Adele.’

  ‘I have important news.’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘It’ll have to wait. Can’t talk now.’

  With that I had to be satisfied.

  Adele was taking advantage of Miss Eyre’s absence. She had taken to her bed, exhausted by her efforts at entertaining the house guests. Her dark curls billowed round her face as she lay back against her frilled pillows like a small empress holding court. It was a matter of regret to her that she could not join me for the evening meal but she was suffering from la grippe. Could Sophie bring her supper up to her? Of course I agreed; I wanted a favour from this tiny tyrant.

  In my experience children do not like to part with their possessions. They tend to scream and shout and clutch their treasures to their chests but my request for the loan of a doll was met by Adele with her usual perfect equanimity. She had an army of dolls; she could afford to be generous. She lined up all the candidates. This one she could not part with at the moment as she too was suffering from the grippe. That one had been very naughty and so she could not be allowed out.

  ‘It is for cuddling,’ I told her to speed up the process.

  ‘Cuddling? What is cuddling?’

  I mimed the action. ‘It is to cheer someone up, Adele. Does that help you choose?’ It did. A bébé doll, then, not a jeune fille. Definitely a bébé. She was desolate that the doll’s clothes were not up to her usual standard. I assured her that would not be a problem. I expected that when Bertha recovered she would start sewing again.

  There was much laughter and joshing in the servants’ hall that evening. We were glad to be reunited and free to talk without having to watch our tongues. John came in for lots of jibes and back-slapping once Leah’s news was out.

  ‘You’ll be making an honest woman of her no doubt.’ Old John’s choice of phrase was not the happiest; he was not one to mince his words. Mary scowled her disapproval at him. John was a farm boy, and had been courting Leah for some time. They were simply following the country custom of waiting for the baby to start before they got wed.

  ‘I’ll be talking to parson soon as I can get time off,’ John announced. Leah looked at him with admiring eyes. As he spoke, he flushed with pride and embarrassment and I saw that the boy had become a man. Marriage was a brave step for them to take. Married servants are not tolerated in many households. Mistresses expect their servants to be available at all hours, not tucked up in their own cottages at night. Fortunately Mr Rochester did not concern himself with such details. In effect I was mistress of the house – until I was replaced. I told John to take time off the very next day and used the moment to tell them about Martha. ‘Leah’s not the only one to be having a baby. I hear Martha’s—’

  A cry of anguish stopped me. Old John had his head in his hands and was wailing through his fingers. ‘Don’t tell me Martha is up the duff. We should never have let her go to those Ingrams.’ He raised his head and glared at me with his clouded blue eyes. ‘I warned you about that old goat.’ I saw tears tremble on his weather-beaten face.

  I felt my cheeks flame with guilt and a pain like a dagger cut through me. Old John was right; I had done wrong. It was a most uncomfortable moment so I took some small relief to my feelings by correcting him. ‘It wasn’t the old goat. It was the young goat.’

  They sat with solemn faces while I told them all the rest: the threatened bad character, the five guineas and the bruised arms.

  ‘I’ll make that young whipper-snapper pay,’ Old John vowed. He saw from our expressions the question in our minds. How? How could an obscure elderly groom affect a man who was now a peer of the realm?

  ‘You don’t believe me,’ he snapped. ‘Then you don’t know horse people. We stick together. Every coachman, every groom and every hunt servant will turn their hand against him. That little sprig of Satan. He likes the races. He likes to mix with the viscounts, and the colonels, and the honourable this and the dishonourable that. And he likes to show off. He’s been betting large sums on old nags. He’s no judge of horse flesh.’ I knew that in Old John’s book, this defect was the equivalent of a mortal sin.

  Old John muttered on, ‘They let him bet on credit. They know the estate’s entailed to him. They’ll wait. There’ll be interest. They won’t be so patient when we put the word out against him. They’ll be fighting to be first to get their share.’

  I was amazed; I’d never heard Old John put more than four words together in his life.

  ‘If he thinks he’ll have trouble with that old trout of a mother if she finds out about Martha, he wants to see what’ll happen when his creditors panic and come stampeding for their money. His ma’ll have something to say when they auction Ingram Park over her head and turn her out in the cold. That estate’ll go for a knockdown price. It’ll not cover what he owes.’ A grim smile came over his face.

  ‘Time for the servants’ revenge,’ Sam announced.

  ‘What’s that?’ Leah asked.

  Sam leaned across the table to explain. ‘Well, you know the whole point of our existence is to make their lives comfortable. The servants’ revenge is when instead of doing just that, the servants start to make their lives uncomfortable.’

  ‘How?’ John was a newcomer to these tricks of a servant’s trade.

  ‘We’ll tell them at Ingram Park. They’ll think of something. An important letter mysteriously delayed, the bedroom fire gone out, the tea cold – with spit in it.’

  We all felt a bit better after that. When I told them that I was going to ask Martha to come back a rumble of agreement went round the room. Old John seemed to speak for them all when he said I was doing the right thing. ‘I am sorry about earlier, Mrs Fairfax. I had a bit of an outburst like, but Martha’s father was my oldest friend. I should have kept a better watch on her. There’s no one else.’

  ‘You tried,’ Mary consoled him. ‘Martha didn’t take kindly to being told what to do. And she surely didn’t like being told what not to do. She has a rare sharp tongue on her, that girl.’ Mary shook her head.

  Old John was not to be pacified. ‘In my day if a lass swore a man was the father, he was. He had to do the right thing. That was it. No questions asked. I seen the parish constable take the girl in one hand and the warrant in the other. Church or prison. That was the choice.’

  ‘That how you got him, Mary?’ It was Sam, who could never resist a joke.

  ‘So we are all agreed?’ I spoke after the laughter died away. ‘We find a way to look after Martha here until the baby comes. After that who knows? We must do our best. John, after you’ve seen the parson, ride over to the Ingrams’ place and tell Martha what we’ve agreed. I’m sure in the circumstances Old John will let you have one of his better horses. It’s twenty miles to Ingram Park. Nothing to a farm lad like you.’

  ‘Master could get there in a morning. He’s a fine horseman. He could be there every day wooing his lady love, the lovely Miss Blanche. But he isn’t.’

  ‘Master doesn’t like to show his hand. He plays his cards close to his chest. This Mr Rochester has more than one secret.’ I pricked up my ears at Sam’s words. He gave the satisfied smirk of someone with su
perior knowledge. It could not be the fact of the existence of Bertha; all of us present had sworn the Bible oath. It must be a further secret. Had Sam discovered that Bertha claimed to be our master’s lawful wedded wife?

  Sam leant forward confidentially to enlighten us. ‘There was a rum do the other night. You remember that Mason fellow who said he came from Jamaica? Mr Rochester woke me up in the middle of the night. Sent me off in the dark to get a post chaise. Told me to make the driver stay outside the gates so the noise of the wheels didn’t wake the guests. Master sent me straight back to bed when I got back with it. I didn’t go, of course. Hung about in the dark.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘I saw Miss Eyre come out to make sure the road was clear.’ Rude whistles greeted this piece of news. ‘By the way, where is she?’

  ‘Summoned to a dying relative.’

  ‘That’s her story.’

  ‘Go on. Tell us the end of the tale.’

  ‘Well, you know that Mr Mason?’ We all nodded. ‘Master and Mr Carter came out into yard and they were sort of holding him up between them to help him walk. When they got him to the chaise, they bundled him into the coach. Mr Carter climbed in after him and they drove off.’

  ‘Sounds as if he was drunk.’

  ‘Funny,’ said John. ‘He was all right when he rang his bell late that night. Asked me if I had a key to the third storey. Told me to unlock the door.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Aye. A guest tells you to do something, you do it. He said the master knew all about it and he couldn’t wait any longer to see his sister, Bertha. He knew her name and where she was kept. So I thought it all right.’

  His sister! We were astounded. Bertha had a brother.

  We had myriad questions and many speculations. Most of our comments were not complimentary. A brother who let you rot for ten years without a visit or a letter was not much of a brother to our minds. More secrets, more Rochester secrets. One gem of information came out of it. We realized that we now knew Bertha’s second name. Bertha Mason. She was Bertha Mason. We could hardly wait to get the full story of the night’s events from Grace.

  BERTHA’S STORY

  1832

  MY MASTER LEFT FOR LONDON, CLAIMING HE was going to buy a new carriage in readiness for his marriage. He still did not give the name of his bride but it was assumed that he would marry Miss Ingram. If he had gone to Ingram Park occasionally we might have been more inclined to find the alliance credible. To be honest we all breathed a sigh of relief that he was gone and that with Miss Eyre away we could fall back into our more relaxed ways and could talk more freely without looking over our shoulders to see who was listening.

  It was a day after the master’s departure before Grace and Bertha could cope with a visit. The evening was still light and the sunset across the moors blazed a magnificent scarlet. Bertha was in the room, but not in the room, if you get my meaning. She was looking out of the window but what she saw I did not know. I was sure it was not the green fields and the great open spaces of Yorkshire. She was dressed but her hair was loose, lying around her shoulders like a big black cloud. Her eyes were rimmed with red and the scratches on her hands showed that she had been tearing at herself with her fingernails, something she only did when she was very disturbed. The baby doll Adele had loaned was nestled against her bosom and every now and then she would look down tenderly at it and adjust its position. There was no other outward sign that Bertha had suffered one of her episodes of wild and uncontrolled behaviour. Both women looked exhausted, their faces grey from lack of sleep, fresh air and exercise. This enforced secrecy was very hard on them; it’s no way for people to live.

  Since Grace seemed disinclined – or too tired – to talk I started the conversation. You know how it is when you have not seen your friend for a long time. Once you have started talking you cannot stop. There was so much to tell. First the good news: Leah’s baby on the way and John doing the right thing with love in his heart. Then the bad news about Martha.

  Grace laughed when I recounted Old John’s description of the parish constable offering a man the choice between marriage and prison. ‘Not much of a choice is it? I think I would choose prison. An unhappy marriage is worse than jail. Course now it’s not enough to point your finger at a man and say he was the one who did the deed. You have to have evidence. Still, Alice, if there’s anything I can do to keep Martha from the workhouse, consider it done. I know what it’s like in there. I would not wish it on my worst enemy. Here’s my hand on it.’

  Her hand when she gave it to me was dry and papery, a sure sign of the strain of the last few days; she had been living off her formidable willpower. ‘So you have not been wasting your time with fripperies while I’ve been locked up here?’

  I could not ignore the jibe. ‘I have not been idle. I have been running a house party.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I hear you had a late night visitor.’ Grace nodded and looked towards Bertha to make sure she was still occupied at the window. ‘Did he claim he was her brother?’ Grace nodded again. ‘Did he give you his name?’ This time Grace shook her head.

  ‘Your Mr Rochester called him Richard or Dick.’ She gave me a sour look. ‘I can think of some better names for him.’

  ‘He’s a Mister Mason. So Bertha must be Bertha Mason.’ I sat back with a pleasant feeling of triumph.

  ‘No she’s not. She’s Bertha Rochester.’ Grace had trumped my ace. I felt my jaw drop in a most unladylike way. I snapped it back shut.

  Bertha chose this moment to move away from the window. I thought she had heard her name. She came to lie on the big four-poster bed, her doll still clasped firmly to her breast.

  ‘Leah to have a baby,’ she murmured. It always surprised me, what she took from a conversation and what she ignored. ‘Will she let me hold it?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘It is so nice to suckle a child,’ Bertha said wistfully and gazed down at the doll.

  On hearing that remark Grace rose and went to sit next to her. I joined them to make a cosy circle with Bertha and her pretend baby on the bed. ‘Now Mrs Fairfax is here you might like to tell her your story, Bertha,’ Grace began, speaking earnestly and seriously to her charge. Bertha nodded and I put on my listening face.

  ‘Start with Mr Edward coming to Spanish Town,’ Grace prompted her.

  ‘We have house in Spanish Town. I live there with my father, my mother and my big brother.’

  ‘Is that all your family?’ Grace asked.

  ‘No. I have little brother but he stay at plantation. He…’ Words fail her. She twirls a finger at her head.

  ‘So you were living in Spanish Town when Mr Edward came.’

  ‘Yes. He come to see my father on business. I was young then. I go to dances, parties. I have many admirers. Nice dresses. Mr Edward not handsome but he very strong and he does business with my father. Pa call me in and say he think it good thing for me to marry Mr Edward. I have a nice dowry. Thirty thousand pounds. Papa talks to Mr Edward. It is all agreed. Everybody is happy.

  ‘First year very nice. He love me a lot.’ She stopped talking and gave me a hard look. ‘You know,’ she said and bounced up and down on the bed. ‘We do the jiggly thing.’

  ‘I know,’ I told her. ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘Then it not so nice. My mama keep asking why there no baby yet. She keep on at Mr Edward. She give me things to drink. She put magic in Mr Edward’s whisky. Every time she ask he get very angry with my mama. Mr Edward stop working in business. Papa very angry with Mr Edward. Now he drinking whisky all time. Papa sends us to live on plantation.’ She shudders.

  ‘Plantation not nice. Nice flowers and bright birds but many slaves. Sometimes my brother come and he take Mr Edward to slave cabins at night. For the women. That very bad thing.’

  She starts to count on her fingers. ‘Three, no four years go past. Baby comes.’ A great smile lights up her face as she remembers. ‘I so happy. He lovely baby. Big brown eyes, c
urly hair, strong hands. He grip my finger tight.’ She put a hand to her bosom and pulled up the locket she had fought so hard to save and had since worn continuously.

  To my amazement she opened the locket; she had never done that before. Inside was a tiny lock of curly black hair. It was different in texture from any hair I had seen before. It looked as if the inexpert hands of Martha had been working on it with an overheated curling iron. Like a dutiful child offering cake at a tea party, Bertha held out her locket for Grace to inspect and then showed it to me. We gazed in turn at the sad memento and silently handed it back to her. She closed the locket and slipped it round her neck and back into her nightgown.

  I sat frozen in my chair, dreading what might come next in her tale.

  ‘I feed him myself.’ She slapped her bosom. ‘With these. Mr Edward not happy.’

  I smiled to myself. The gentry were notorious for not letting their wives feed their own babies. The poor children were sent off to take their chances with wet nurses. This peculiar system caused much hardship – babies dead in the first three months and women pregnant and giving birth again within the year. I assumed Mr Edward’s anger was caused by his sharing this strange English prejudice against a baby temporarily taking over a woman’s breasts. I was a long way from the mark. Bertha had a surprise for me.

  ‘Baby very dark. Black really. It happens sometimes in my country. Pale lady has black baby. Black lady has pale baby. We know that it happen in Spanish Town. But Mr Edward he go mad. He point at baby. Baby cannot be his son. He tell me now he rich man in England. His father and brother dead. He say we must go to England. He need son and heir. He say he cannot take black baby to England.’