Thornfield Hall Read online

  We cried a lot in the days before she left. On the day of her departure Adele behaved gallantly and strode off with her little chin in the air. She wore a new outfit that Bertha, in intervals between breastfeeding, had made especially for her. Solemnly Adele showed me the grey dress with its white collar. Her hair was tied back severely with a black ribbon. ‘Do I not look the part?’ she asked as slowly she turned to show me the back view. ‘Even Miss Eyre would approve.’

  I promised to write as I handed her over to the servant the school had sent to accompany her. Although she looked a sensible sort of woman with a kind face, at that moment I wished Jane Eyre was still governess at Thornfield Hall, that Mr Rochester had never fallen in love with her and that Adele was in the nursery upstairs, playing with her dolls and fussing with her hair. Then I watched as Adele pointed at her luggage and the school servant obediently followed instructions. I had underestimated the child. By Christmas Adele would have won many hearts among her fellow pupils. The chances were she would be spending the holiday with one of them, the daughter of someone with a fine house and most probably a title.

  All this time letters were passing backwards and forwards between us, the lawyer in Grimsby and Grace’s son He had taken the lease on a house for us, a good substantial merchant’s house in a quiet market town. There was a fine drawing room, we were told, with bay windows, four good bedrooms and ample accommodation for servants. It was exciting to think that I would employ servants on my own account and I vowed I would be a firm but fair mistress to them. Behind the house was a large garden with apple and pear trees and even a coach house. We had decided we would have our own coach. No more begging a grumpy coachman if he could spare a horse for a trip out of an afternoon!

  There was a sad irony in the fact that I would live the life of a woman with a comfortable income and her own carriage. Mr Rochester, in the meantime, would be left to the mercy of disgruntled servants who did not know his preferences or lacked the skills to provide them. His stables were empty and through neglect and extravagance his bank balance would soon be in the same condition. He was spending money like water on his search for Miss Eyre. Every wayside beggar who claimed to have caught a glimpse of her was handsomely rewarded and promised more gold for keeping his eyes open. The footmen were sent hither and thither, hiring horses to chase false trails. I had no doubt that most of the so-called sightings of Miss Eyre would be at inns where the landlord would have to be interrogated at length.

  When Mr Rochester’s agent came to bring him reports or ask for decisions he was sent brusquely away. I took him to my room and there we consulted earnestly. The agent shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands in horror at my tales of Mr Rochester’s reckless distribution of money on the search for Miss Eyre and the complete lack of supervision of how it was spent. He could not help me. In his opinion, although I might have some control over the household expenditure, Mr Rochester was entitled to spend his money as he wished. If he wished to spend it on fools and rogues that was up to him. His verdict was no surprise to me. I nodded miserably.

  The agent had his own problems. Collecting the rents was proving more troublesome than it had been for years. ‘They’re full of excuses. The cow died, the corn failed. The usual sort of thing. Truth is, they know summat is badly wrong with master and they’re taking advantage.’ He stared thoughtfully into the fire before he picked up his hat. ‘Ah! Well. We mun just soldier on.’

  Another gentleman came to call on me at Thornfield Hall. This time it was a much more cheerful occasion than my meeting with the agent had proved. One of the new maids brought a well-dressed man to my room. She could not announce him as she had neglected to enquire his name and ran off before I had a chance to scold her.

  ‘Don’t you recognize me, Mrs Fairfax?’ The man stepped forward so I could see him in the light. He was a well-built man of fifty or sixty with very little hair and a broad smiling countenance. He wore the clothes of a prosperous country man and carried his cap in his hand. Even after this inspection I was none the wiser. ‘I’m Merryman. I used to be butler here. For old Mr Rochester.’

  I was disbelieving. This could not be the solemn butler who had introduced me to the formalities I had to follow in the realm of the servants. Some great change had come over him. ‘Your pug face! You’ve lost your pug face!’

  He beamed at me. ‘I don’t need it now. I am my own master. I can smile as much as I like. In fact it’s almost obligatory. I’m a landlord now. At the Rochester Arms. Just two miles across the fields from here. It is longer by road.’

  ‘Sit down, sit down and tell me all that has happened.’ Few people can resist that particular invitation so I rang the bell to order tea. No one came. I rang again.

  ‘I take it Leah has gone. I can just about remember her. A good girl. You would not have to ring twice for her.’

  Briefly I explained that Leah was now a farmer’s wife and was soon to give birth to her first child. Then I went to the kitchen to snap at the maid. I used my absence from the room to work through in my mind how much I could tell Merryman. The mad wife and the interrupted wedding were public knowledge. Martha’s baby and Bertha’s trust fund were not.

  Once we were settled with our tea Mr Merryman told me about the rich wool merchant he had worked for in Bradford. Life had been very comfortable there and Merryman’s knowledge of the ways of the landed classes had been much appreciated. So successful had he been in teaching refinement and table manners that the daughter of the house was now married to an impoverished nobleman. Mr Merryman had been generously rewarded for his part in bringing this about. ‘A good employer,’ he concluded about his Bradford wool merchant, ‘but not a gentleman.’

  ‘That word means less and less to me these days,’ I told him. Mr Merryman, like the rest of the county, knew all about the present Mr Rochester’s misfortunes. We spent a few moments lamenting the decay of the house of Rochester.

  ‘Old Mr Rochester would be turning in his grave at the waste of money,’ said the old butler when we went out to the drive where his pony and trap waited for him. He gave a penny to the boy who held his horse’s head. ‘Don’t forget, Mrs Fairfax, a warm welcome awaits you at The Rochester Arms.’

  I laughed at the thought of my walking two miles across the fields to drink with the labourers at his inn. Grace and I had plenty of porter. Mr Rochester did not concern himself with counting bottles. Meanwhile I had plans of my own to pursue.

  It took some weeks to deal with all the arrangements before the date could be set for Grace and Bertha to leave Thornfield Hall. The post chaise was booked to arrive in the afternoon to take them to the turnpike road. There they would pick up the stage in the early evening. It was agreed that I should stay behind for a few more weeks in the hope that Mr Rochester’s condition improved. I thought the departure of his wife might help his recovery; he blamed her for all his troubles. Many times in the past he had threatened to close down Thornfield Hall. Now he clung to the place; it was his sole link with his beloved Jane.

  Mr Rochester no longer made any pretence of dealing with his business affairs and I was left to struggle with his correspondence. One day a letter arrived that enquired after the whereabouts of Miss Eyre. Mr Briggs, the solicitor who had interrupted the wedding, wished to contact her. With much trepidation I brought the letter to Mr Rochester’s attention. His rage was explosive. I might just as well have thrown gunpowder on the fire.

  No one wanted to know the whereabouts of Miss Eyre more earnestly than he did. If that snivelling lackey of the law had not put his nose into business that was no concern of his and if the wind had obliged him by dashing the ship that carried that lickspittle of a brother against the rocks then Miss Eyre’s whereabouts would not be a mystery that woke him wailing at his loss in the small hours of the morning. She would be reigning as queen of his heart and the world would acknowledge her as the rightful Mrs Rochester.

  I wrote to Mr Briggs myself, regretting that I was unable to help him. If he d
id manage to trace Miss Eyre I would be pleased if he would write to Thornfield Hall so that I could contact her.

  You will see from his reaction to Mr Briggs’s letter that Mr Rochester was still in a state of despair about Jane. In spite of his frantic efforts there had been no news of her. I had employed the servants’ unofficial – and probably more efficient – grapevine but to no effect. We knew she had gone north on the stagecoach but after that we had lost all track of her. The few big houses in that part of the country were so widely scattered that there was little traffic between the servants. At the farms and cottages our enquiries had met with sullen silence and suspicion.

  I hoped that Mr Rochester would gather his wits and begin to take charge of his affairs again. Already in my head I was rehearsing the conversation I would have to hold with him before I could leave; I was not looking forward to it. I decided I would begin by reminding him that his beloved Jane did not tolerate self-pity; she regarded it as an indulgence. She believed in hard work and discipline. If I was allowed to continue – which I doubted – I would insist that he get help from some other reliable person. He had been a good employer in many ways; his unfortunate marriage was the source of all his flaws. Incidentally I was pleased to note I no longer thought of him as ‘my master’. That particular bad habit had been cured.

  The problem of Martha still nagged at me. I fretted about it so much to Grace that in the end she sat me down and wagged her finger at me. She gave me a very stern talking to. ‘Forget about her. I will deal with Martha. You feel guilty about her and so you are too kind to her. You pussyfoot about. I don’t feel guilty about her. She’s had more luck than I had in a similar situation. Leave her to me. Not long now before we go.’

  I asked Mr Rochester if he wanted to say farewell to ‘the lady’, the unwitting cause of so much distress in his life. The mere mention of her brought a snarl to his lips and made his black eyes flash with fire. This brief sign of ferocious life was preferable to his usual gloomy silence. ‘Tell me the day of her departure,’ he ordered me, thumping his desk for emphasis. ‘Tell me the day and I will make it my business to be out of sight and earshot of Thornfield Hall.’

  The momentous day of Bertha’s departure dawned. It was more than ten years since she’d arrived, a wild stranger driven demented by grief and ill-treatment. Grace had packed their few belongings. There was little they wanted to take to their new life. There was only one important item of luggage – baby James. It was taken for granted that he would go with them; they had fed the baby when Martha had refused to do so. The feeling was that in saving his life they had acquired the rights of a parent. No one asked Martha if she was accompanying them. It was assumed she would. Where else could she go?

  Once she had recovered from childbirth I had kept her on the books as a laundry maid. It had not been difficult given the chaotic nature of the household. I had not moved her to the servants’ sleeping quarters; the new maids were unhappy enough without having to endure Martha’s bragging. I had let her continue to sleep in her room on the third storey. There Bertha fed the baby both night and day while Martha enjoyed long hours of untroubled sleep.

  During the day she swanned around the house, pretending to work and making eyes at the handsome footman. My suspicions of her were not confined to flirtation. I had fears of a darker and more sinister plan brewing in her twisted mind. Somehow she had sniffed out that we now had money, though I do not think she realized how much. We were women of substance and any fool could see that James would prove a powerful lever to use on us.

  In the event when the post chaise arrived Martha followed Grace and Bertha out. Bertha carried the baby and Martha carried the suitcases. Martha’s eyes were very red. It was a subdued departure; I was alone in seeing them off. Gone were the familiar faces of those who had taken the bible oath; they were all launched on new and better lives. Mr Rochester had been as good as his word. He’d walked to Mr Carter’s house in the morning.

  Grace embraced me to say goodbye, or rather au revoir; we would be reunited soon in our new home. She whispered in my ear that Martha had agreed to be employed as a nursery maid on a generous salary. As Grace said, we could afford it.

  To my surprise Martha came to embrace me. ‘I will so miss Thornfield Hall, Mrs Fairfax. You have all been so kind to me. I don’t know how I’ll get on. I’ve never been out of Yorkshire before.’ Tears streamed down her face. She seemed genuinely distressed at parting. She took a long look round the courtyard before she climbed into the chaise. I think she’d been hoping for a farewell kiss from the handsome footman, but she was disappointed. He did not appear. Once she was settled on board she sobbed and hiccupped into her hanky.

  I heard Grace telling her to pull herself together and to listen to instructions. ‘In future, Martha, at the new house I am Mrs Poole to you and this lady is to be addressed as Mrs Mason. Every time you speak to us, remember Mrs Mason and Mrs Poole. You should start now and get into practice. And this young man will be Master James. You understand me. I warn you, Martha, old servants make bad masters.’

  My room felt very empty when they had gone. I did not venture up the back stairs to the third floor, their territory. It was too sad. It was no use seeking solace in the servants’ hall. All the faces there were new and I regarded them with suspicion. Long years of keeping secrets had left their mark on me. For distraction I set about chivvying them. I found dirt in obscure places, stains in teacups, fireplaces without coal. I felt much better after that.

  At six o’clock there was a commotion at the front door. It was Mr Carter’s servant with a dog cart. In the back was Mr Rochester’s dog Pilot, and Mr Rochester himself. He was very much the worse for drink. Pilot slunk off into his kennel in the yard as if he was the culprit. Mr Carter’s man stood, twisting his cap in his hands, and surveyed the figure slumped in the back of the dog cart. ‘He’s not that bad,’ he consoled me. ‘Mr Carter can’t understand how your master got rid of all his horses. Might as well be dead as not have a horse, he says. Wouldn’t hear of Mr Rochester walking home.’

  I summoned the two new footmen to help Mr Rochester up the stairs. Mr Carter’s man unscrewed his cap, popped it on his head, and was off. No one enjoys seeing the mighty fallen.

  I spent a sad evening alone in the housekeeper’s room. No Adele or Miss Eyre to keep me company. No Grace with her glass of porter and her pipe or Bertha with her sewing and her swift and accurate arithmetic. Even Pilot would not come in from the yard to keep me company but stayed in his kennel with his head on his paws. I spent my time calculating how soon I could leave Thornfield Hall and prayed I would not be long delayed.

  When darkness fell I checked on Pilot outside in his kennel, locked the big front door behind me and made sure the windows downstairs were all closed and fastened. They had been open all day; it was harvest time and the weather was wonderfully warm. I climbed the stairs with my candle and looked in on the library where Mr Rochester was sprawled in a chair, pretending to read his unopened book and drinking yet more brandy.

  For old time’s sake I climbed up to the third floor. I checked the big sitting room with its elaborate hangings and four-poster bed where we had sat and sewed in the afternoon while Leah read to us. I went through to Bertha’s room where I had first seen my unusual house guest chained to the bed, a poor starved deranged creature at the mercy of the frightful Mrs Morgan. That name evoked the memory of the foul stench that had pervaded the chamber, which was now clean and fresh. I went no further. Beyond was Grace’s neat and nun-like bedroom which I knew would be stripped bare. The next room had been Martha’s. I did not want to torment myself by seeing the chaos, disarray and dirt in which I was sure she had left it. That could keep till the morning. I’d heard Grace taking her in hand, outlining her future duties to her. If anyone could teach Martha discipline and order it was Grace.

  I retraced my steps and descended the stairs to the floor below. Out of habit I locked the door that closed off the staircase. I smiled as I remem
bered how pleased I was that I had done so on that fateful wedding day. Tonight there was a harvest moon. The great disc hung low and glowed in the evening sky. There was enough light for the labourers to work late to bring in the last of the corn. Soon the farmers would start burning the stubble and the air would be full of foul black smoke.

  As I lay down to sleep I counted my blessings, as has been my habit for many years. Sometimes I’ve struggled to find a single one but that night I had to use my fingers to count them all. Bertha and Grace. Leah and John. Old John and Mary. Sam with his Sophie. They were all launched on new lives that were more suited to them and more comfortable than their previous ones. Adele, I was not so sure about. School would not be to her taste. I had every confidence that in a few years she would quickly arrange matters to her satisfaction. She would charm her way into having a fine house and an extensive wardrobe. Mr Rochester might improve now that Thornfield Hall was free of the incubus of his wife. He could not live for ever in his state of morose gloom. I was looking forward to my new life as a woman of independent means.

  THE HARVEST

  1832

  IN THE SMALL HOURS OF THE MORNING I WAS woken by shouting in the corridor outside and banging on my door. Mr Rochester erupted into my room. I sat up in bed, dazed and startled. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted his orders straight into my face. ‘Get up. Put shoes on. The library is on fire.’ I thought it was one of his mad drunken fantasies. I smelt no smoke. He reeked of brandy but his speech was clear and his movements were brisk.

  ‘You must help me get the servants out. I will turn my back for thirty seconds. Then you must be ready. If not, I swear I will dress you myself.’ I pulled my dressing gown over my nightgown and had the sense to pick up my little bible and thrust it into my pocket. I climbed into the first pair of shoes I could find. Mr Rochester lit a candle and handed it to me.