Thornfield Hall Read online

  And so I bid farewell to a second Mr Rochester. I was sad to see him go but it was the threat to my livelihood that caused me the greater anguish. And this time there would be no help from the Fairfaxes. I had crossed the line that divided relations from servants. Relatives could not be left to starve. Servants could – and did.

  The lawyers came again but this time with smiling faces. Old Mr Rochester had died without making arrangements for the estate. The lawyers scented dispute and conflict; there would be claims and counter-claims, special pleadings, counsels’ opinions and judges’ rulings. All such complications were not misfortunes for them, but opportunities for endless work and massive bills. While the lawyers rubbed their hands we servants at Thornfield Hall suffered much uncertainty. At last it was arranged that we should be put on board wages. The amount was generous compared with many other households but our fare would be plain with no leftovers from the dining table to enjoy. There would be no more finishing off a baron of roast beef with the remains of a bottle of good claret.

  Mr Merryman left immediately to take up a position with a rich manufacturer of wool in Bradford. His new master was trade rather than the gentry he was used to, but as he said, beggars can’t be choosers. He had lost two masters in quick succession and could not afford to be fussy. Some might think it carelessness on his part and be reluctant to employ him.

  Our number dwindled as those who could found other employment. Grooms and kitchen maids soon found new masters in the neighbourhood. Without Mr Merryman to insist on my following the conventions I decided to stop having my meals in the housekeeper’s room and to eat with the others in the servants’ hall. I explained the change as a way of saving Mary and Leah from extra work. It was not a time to maintain the artificial divisions between us and I was glad of the friendship and company of the other servants. We huddled together for comfort and reassurance and asked each other questions we could not answer. Who will employ us? Will the days of hard work and good food ever return? Who will pay our wages?

  I spent time persuading Martha, the housemaid, that she should follow the example of Mr Merryman. The deaths in the family could, I suggested to her, be seen as an opportunity for her to improve herself by seeking better employment. I confess Martha’s welfare was not uppermost in my mind. She had a way of looking at me that said she had not forgotten seeing me come out of the old master’s bedroom with my hair in disarray. It gave her power over me. I did not like it and I wanted to be rid of her.

  The deed still sits uneasily on my conscience. I can hear my voice and the exact weasel words I used to persuade her. ‘An intelligent girl like you, Martha, you should be more ambitious. You’ve been at Thornfield Hall longer than me. It’s not too soon to look for a new position. We’ve lost two masters. Heaven only knows who the next one will be. You could find work in a house with a mistress, a fine lady to take an interest in you and train you up. You could become a lady’s maid. A lady of title perhaps.’ May I be forgiven. I did not know how things would work out in the end. Sometimes I wake with a start, my body damp with sweat and my head filled with a dreadful roaring sound. Sometimes the palm of my right hand tingles with the memory of the slap I gave to stop her screams.

  To help Martha on her way out of Thornfield Hall I drafted letters to possible employers for her to copy and gave her a glowing reference. Some evil spirit must have eavesdropped on our conversation, for the vision of the rosy future that I painted for Martha came true. Lady Ingram, wife of a baron and one of our more exalted neighbours, offered her employment. It was a lowly position, as housemaid, but Lady Ingram hinted that in time Martha might become a personal maid for one of her daughters. She had two young daughters, the Honourable Blanche and the Honourable Mary.

  Poor naive Martha believed the vague promises of the baroness! She did not realize that no lady would endure her clumsy ministrations. To have her dress your hair would be a form of torture. Her huge rough hands were more suited to shearing sheep than arranging a lady’s coiffure. A lady’s maid has to be prompt and cheerful in answering the bell. She has to sit up till late at night while her mistress attends parties. In the small hours of the morning she must smile and listen to her mistress as she unfastens the satin gown and brushes out the dressed hair. The triumphs of her mistress in the ballroom must appear to be a real pleasure to her maid. Martha with her sour face and her love of grumbling had shown no talent in this direction at all. And the damage she could do with a sewing needle had to be seen to be believed.

  We had to endure Martha’s airs for two weeks until she worked her notice; I let her off working the full month. If I had liked her I might have warned her not to put too much faith in the promises of the landed classes but she annoyed me with her boasting and I held my tongue. At the end of the fortnight I wished her God speed and good riddance and made a note to increase young Leah’s wages when the opportunity arose. Leah was a bright, hardworking girl and very quick to learn. What a treasure she proved to be!

  Those of us who remained at Thornfield Hall waited with fearful hearts to hear what our future would be. We might dislike our masters at times and think them unjust but there is nothing in the world that a servant fears more devoutly than being without a master. It is a cold and cruel world out there unless you have a place or savings. Over us all hovered the shadow of the workhouse.

  Soon the lawyer came from Millcote and summoned us all to the library so he could explain to us what was happening. Old Mr Rochester’s younger son, who was living in Jamaica, was to inherit the estate by default. Neither old Mr Rochester nor Mr Rowland had left wills so the laws of inheritance prevailed. There were no other claimants. The lawyer must have been disappointed at the smoothness of the process; the lack of conflict had left him with nothing to do. He could not resist telling us the extent of the property involved. His eyes glowed with avarice as he listed all that Mr Edward would inherit; not just all the land that the Rochesters owned but also a coal mine, two cotton mills on the other side of the Pennines and some property in Liverpool. The Rochesters had some kind of business there that the lawyer was vague and mysterious about. Old John, the coachman, whistled through his teeth when he heard about all these other sources of income. It was news to him and he had been with the family longer than any of us.

  The lawyer had reassuring words for us. He announced that our wages and the household bills would be paid. There were some technicalities about grants of probate and funds in escrow – whatever that is – but he promised us that we would not go short of bread or meat or coal over the winter. Word had been sent to Mr Edward in Jamaica of his father’s death. Young Mr Edward, the lawyer stressed, was the sole legal heir to the whole estate. This was good news for us; we had been dreading that the Hall would be sold to some stranger. Better the devil you know, as they say.

  We were to wait for Mr Edward’s instructions. The ships to Jamaica had to sail against the wind so the news might not yet have reached him. Even if young Mr Edward decided to come immediately to claim his inheritance it would be many a long month before he arrived. We should be prepared for a delay. In the meantime we were to go about our duties and keep Thornfield Hall in good condition and ready for our new master.

  We were a joyful band that night as we ate our meal in the servants’ hall. We had much to talk about.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Fairfax, but did you know about those mills in Manchester? I always thought that a gentleman never soiled his hands with business. And the Rochesters are definitely gentry.’ John, the new young footman, was puzzled by the elaborate layers that society had woven itself into. He had come from a farm where life was more basic and such distinctions did not apply. He was learning what every good servant has to master, the fine gradations of rank. We soon learn to adjust our behaviour accordingly.

  ‘O! They are certainly gentry. They have owned all the land round here time out of mind. I did not know about the mills. Mr Rowland was very interested in the machinery. I knew the Rochesters had business
interests. That seems to be very different from trade. The gentry turn their noses up at trade.’

  ‘A grocer is trade. Is a lawyer?’ wondered young John.

  ‘No. That is a profession.’

  ‘How about a mill owner?’

  ‘A rich mill owner can hover on the edges of the gentry. If he has a daughter with a large enough dowry to attract a suitable husband, she has a chance of being accepted. She may marry a younger son, perhaps of a titled family. Someone with a good pedigree but no fortune. If they have children, their children will count as gentry. I think there was talk of finding such an heiress for Mr Edward. But nothing came of it. Old Mr Rochester kept things very close. I am beginning to realize, John, that the Rochesters kept many secrets.’

  He persisted. ‘But servants know everything. You know who’s not paying their bills and who’s carrying on with whose wife.’

  ‘Let em carry on with other men’s wives, long as they leave our lassies alone.’ It was Old John, the coachman, who was normally taciturn to the point of rudeness. He stabbed a grubby finger in my direction. ‘I hope you warned that young Martha, Mrs Fairfax. Told her not to let that old goat Lord Ingram get between her and the door. Poor girl had no mother to make her wise to the world.’ His words gave my conscience a nasty tweak. I had not thought to warn Martha that in some households the men took advantage of the housemaids. I’d assumed she knew that mistresses took a very hard line with any young girl who found herself in the family way. It was common knowledge that the girl would be put out the door to avoid the master or the son of the house coming under suspicion. I reflected that because a fact was well-known it did not follow that Martha knew it. She was a very ignorant girl who had scarcely mastered setting the forks on the left.

  Since I was caught out being in the wrong, I promptly went on to commit a further offence. It is a bad habit of mine. I think I must do it in the hope that a second crime will distract me from thinking about the first. ‘It is the pretty girls that need the warnings, Old John. You know that.’ The men sniggered. Martha was not what you might call a pretty girl. They then all turned to look at the sweet face of Leah, who blushed like a rose. The new John couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

  To change the uncomfortable subject I turned back to Old John. ‘Tell us about Mr Edward. You’ve known him for years. I only saw him briefly. He left to go abroad soon after I came to live at Hay.’ I complimented myself on a successful diversion. The young servants were keen to know what Mr Edward was like and full of hope that when he came to claim his inheritance he would bring some life and society to the hall.

  Old John scratched his head as he sifted through his memories. It was some time before he picked one out. ‘He were always fond of riding,’ he told us. I might have guessed horses would be Old John’s preferred choice of subject! I had hoped for some insight into Mr Edward’s character, but Old John had found his voice and there was no stopping him. ‘Happen he’ll buy some decent horses instead of those old nags that can scarcely pull the gig to the gates. He might even take up hunting.’ His eyes went misty with remembrance of past glory days. ‘You’ve never seen the hunt meet at Thornfield Hall,’ he told his awestruck audience. ‘A winter’s morning with a weak sun and a flop of dew on the grass. You can’t beat it. It’s a grand sight.’

  His audience was dreamy-eyed with visions of Thornfield Hall bustling with life. The clatter of horses’ hooves and the crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel path. The women’s dresses rustling through the corridors and the high commanding voices of the county aristocrats echoing in the panelled hall. There would be hunt balls, grand dinners and picnics on the lawn.

  The servants were not alone in their hopes. The whole neighbourhood was twitching in anticipation, especially those houses where there were unmarried daughters. Letters of condolence with their black borders kept arriving for Mr Rochester and the gentry started calling and leaving cards, secure in the knowledge that the new owner when he arrived would have to return the compliment. Mr Rochester on his tropical island was still in ignorance of his father’s death. He was unaware of his sudden transformation from black sheep of the family, whose existence was never mentioned, into a wealthy, young and eligible bachelor.

  Mr Edward had been a fine spirited youth, not handsome but strong-featured with wavy black hair. He was shipped off abroad when he came of age. Very sudden it was. The family was tight-lipped about it. A duel or gambling debts, I guessed. Perhaps even some trouble with a married lady. No worse than many a young fellow had got up to, a minor blot on his copybook, a scandal that would soon blow over. It was not to be. At first old Mr Rochester and Mr Rowland would wave his letters about and say he was doing well in Jamaica but they never read them out or let others read them. Questions about their contents were discouraged. When I arrived as housekeeper the letters were infrequent and soon ceased altogether. The silence about Mr Edward thickened and solidified. As I said, the Rochesters are very good at keeping secrets.

  MY THIRD MR ROCHESTER

  1822

  AND SO I CAME TO MY THIRD MR ROCHESTER.

  The first words from my new master came in the form of a letter. It was written on the thinnest paper I have ever seen. It was so fine you could see through it. What it said was so bizarre and unusual, so far from the normal duties of a housekeeper, that I kept the letter – as evidence I suppose. The task he set me was not one I relished. I folded the letter, fine as a cobweb, and placed it between the pages of the bible I carry in my pocket. By some miracle of good fortune I have both the letter and the bible still.

  Spanish Town, Jamaica.

  Mrs Fairfax,

  Little news of Thornfield Hall has reached me for some years. My father and brother were not good correspondents. I am sorry to hear of the death of your husband. He was a kind and upright clergyman. It is a matter of satisfaction to me that someone with a connection to my family is looking after Thornfield Hall. I am assured by the lawyers that you do so with great competence.

  Preparations for my departure are almost complete. I intend to set sail from this benighted island in time to catch the prevailing westerlies. With good weather I will be in Liverpool in about forty days. From there I will come straight to Thornfield Hall. There is much business to be done.

  I will have with me a companion who comes to take up residence at Thornfield. She is an unfortunate invalid who suffers from great weakness of mind. Indeed there are times when she loses her wits completely. Alert the local physician that his services will be needed for the new arrival. Remind him that his profession imposes secrecy upon him. Not discretion but absolute secrecy. I will make it worth his while.

  Prepare a suite of rooms for her so she can live independent of the rest of the household; she will not be mixing in society. My memory of Thornfield Hall tells me the third floor might provide suitably sized accommodation. Furnish the rooms so that her everyday needs are provided for. All should be clean and comfortable, but not luxurious.

  In Liverpool I will hire an attendant who will take charge of her, someone skilled in this kind of work. The patient is not one of my kin. She is merely a connection of my father’s from his business in Jamaica. I rely on you to keep gossip to a minimum and ensure the family name remains free from any hint of the taint of madness.

  Edward Fairfax Rochester

  What a family for secrets! It was shrewd of him to use his middle name and to stress my connection to him; it sealed my lips most effectively. People love a scandal. Once the neighbours got hold of this we would all be tarnished by speculation and slander.

  With the help of Leah, I set about preparing the rooms for this lady – invalid – lunatic. I knew not what to call her.

  ‘I have never been in this part of the house before,’ Leah called out in excitement as she scampered up the last flight of steps. ‘It’s an awful lot of stairs for carrying the coal in the winter and the hot water.’ We had arrived at the third-floor corridor with its row of black doors.

 
‘You sound like Martha,’ I told her. ‘She was always good at grumbling.’ For a moment Leah thought I was serious. I gave her a knowing look. ‘I expect John will give you a hand if you ask.’ I waited until she finished giggling and blushing before I went on. ‘It was Mr Rochester’s suggestion that the lady live up here. We can turn that to our own benefit. We can tell him that with so many stairs we need an extra pair of hands. You’ve been after a place for your young brother, haven’t you?’

  I unlocked the door to the first chamber and revealed a good-size room with windows that looked out over the drive. Stray pieces of furniture were scattered haphazardly about. It was large enough to contain an ugly old cabinet and a big old-fashioned bed with dusty hangings.

  ‘O look, here’s another door,’ cried Leah in excitement. She wrenched it open and ran through laughing into the next room. There she exclaimed in delight as she found another door. ‘It opens into the next room. And the next one! And the next one!’ Her voice grew fainter as she ran through the tunnel of rooms until she reached the end. ‘I’ve never seen such a thing,’ she panted after running back. ‘The rooms are nice though. Bigger than ours at the back.’

  ‘The servants always have the smallest rooms, Leah. You know that.’

  We checked the other side of the corridor but the rooms on that side were smaller. Being on the north side they were dark and cheerless.

  ‘Where do those stairs lead?’ Leah pointed to a narrow staircase.

  ‘Up to the attic. Shall we go?’

  When we had climbed to the attic we found the ladder that led to the roof. I opened the trap door and beckoned Leah up. She was nervous at first. ‘I’ve never been this high before.’

  We walked carefully on the roof leads for the wind was buffeting in from the east. Leah leant against the battlements and took in the view, the patchwork of fields, the toy cows and the miniature sheep. This, I reflected, would be a splendid place for an invalid who lived secluded from society to come and take exercise and enjoy the fresh air, though a lady who had lived on a tropical island might find the Yorkshire air bracing. Indeed I was finding it chilly myself. I wrapped my shawl round me and summoned Leah to descend the ladder. My mind was made up. The lady would live on the third floor. I would have the walls of the rooms white-washed and I would scour the rest of the house for more suitable furniture. Some wall hangings would make the room seem warm and welcoming.