Thornfield Hall Read online

  There were practical matters I had to attend to. The young boys of the vicinity earned many a penny running errands and taking messages for me. I sent to Mr Carter’s house to enquire about Mr Rochester and to ask for instructions. Mr Rochester was alive but he was very battered and damaged and was likely to be blind. He sent word that all the servants should be treated fairly and advised that his agent would bring me the funds as soon as possible. No one could say fairer. Decisive, reasonable, considerate and generous. This was the character of the Mr Rochester I remembered from better times. Not the morose, wild drunkard of recent weeks.

  Mr Merryman found a carpenter to make a coffin for the corpse that lay in the outhouse. My tongue rebelled at the falsehood of calling her Mrs Rochester. That was the identity others had bestowed on her; I did not contradict them. I referred to her as ‘the lady’ or ‘the unfortunate victim of the fire’ or some such circumlocution. Let others call her Mr Rochester’s wife. Opinion in the countryside was by this time so firmly of the belief that the dead woman and the mad wife were the same person that no one would have believed me if I had tried to prove otherwise.

  I did not dare to send word of these events to Grace or ask about James. The party would still be travelling south. Sending urgent messages to the coaching inns would draw attention to them, attention that was better avoided. The boys who carry messages are adept at breaking the seals on notes and selling their discoveries to the highest bidder. I kept telling myself that Martha was more than capable of abandoning her baby; indeed she would do it with glee. The thought that James might have been left on the third storey for the flames to devour him made my heart turn over. It was a fear I had to live with and had to bear in silence. Meanwhile the story of Bertha’s death grew so firmly settled in people’s minds that it became an accepted fact.

  MARTHA AND I JOIN THE GENTRY

  1832

  MY ACCOUNT BOOKS WERE DESTROYED IN THE fire but I did my best to calculate the wages owed to the servants and to advance them some small sums to see them over the next few days. Then I made a start on writing their references. I planned to distribute them after the funeral. My intention was that the servants would be obliged to attend the service. I was determined that Bertha/Martha should not go to her grave alone and unlamented. I felt I owed her what is called a good send-off. There should be mourners, mourners who could act as witnesses, if questions were ever asked.

  I sent Mr Rochester a list of what was owed to the servants in wages and compensation. They would need replacements for the uniforms they had lost in the fire; these were valuable items. In the testimonials I explained how they were put out of work through no fault of their own but as a result of the destruction caused by a fire. I stressed that they were not responsible in any way for the fire and had behaved with admirable calm. The unhandsome footman received full credit for his courageous rescue of Mr Rochester. As they say, handsome is as handsome does.

  Mr Rochester’s agent arrived with sufficient funds for me to pay the servants and for my own expenses. He also brought news of his employer. Mr Rochester was still at Mr Carter’s where he was recovering slowly. The agent described his injuries and shook his head in sorrow at how Mr Rochester had been mutilated by the fire. I was sorry that Mr Rochester had lost his sight, but I could not help thinking that here was an advantage for me. A blind man can hardly challenge the identity of the corpse.

  ‘Back to being the same old master in his mind though.’ The agent called me back to the present. ‘Added the money all up in his head and worked out how many notes, how many half crowns and how many shillings you’d need to give everyone his due. Generous, too. Dress lengths for the ladies and – begging your pardon Mrs Fairfax – new underthings too. He says to tell them he’ll speak for them. Anyone as wants a character can ask new master to send word. He’ll speak up for them.’

  And much good his words will do them in this neighbourhood, I thought. The Cliffords and the Dents had not taken kindly to his attempt at bigamy and the Ingrams spat at the mention of his name. Emboldened by the knowledge of Mr Rochester’s loss of sight I asked the agent, ‘Will he be coming to the funeral? I expect most of the household to attend.’

  ‘Now that’s another story. That’s when I see another side of master. He snarls and rages and claws at his collar like it’s choking him. His one eye that’s left looks like it’s going to pop out his head he’s that angry. Just bury her deep, he says. With a stake through her heart. Put stones on top of coffin. Make sure she stays there.’

  We were silent for a moment as we contemplated such hatred in a man so generous and large-minded in other ways.

  ‘He’s had a falling out with Mr Wood too,’ the agent offered.

  Good, I thought, but did not say. I do not like Mr Wood; he has taken my husband’s place but he does not fill it with distinction. Mr Rochester is not the only one who can harbour irrational hatreds. The agent went on to explain.

  ‘Parson says she’s not to go in consecrated ground. Claims she committed suicide.’

  ‘What did Mr Rochester think to that?’

  ‘He was very angry. He don’t take lightly to being thwarted. Especially by parson. Blames him for stopping his wedding to Miss Eyre. He summoned Mr Wood and gave him a dressing down from his sick bed. You could hear him all over Carter’s house. Threatened to put parson on roof and light a fire under him. See whether he waited for a miracle or whether he jumped.’

  ‘I guess he won that argument.’

  ‘Aye. Parson wasn’t happy at being bested. So he came on a new tack. Said she couldn’t go in the family vault. Claimed he had the power to decide. As it’s inside the church itself. Master goes mad. Rochesters been buried there for hundreds of years. Wives too. Parson says not this one. She’s lucky to be going in churchyard in consecrated ground.’

  ‘I guess Mr Rochester reminded Mr Wood where the butter on his bread comes from.’

  ‘He did indeed. Pointed out it’s his family’s church, his family’s burial place and his family’s living to dispose of. Parson soon saw the error of his ways. It’s decided. She’s to go in the family vault and have “Bertha, wife of Edward Fairfax Rochester” inscribed on the side. With the date of her death.’

  ‘Not “dearly beloved wife”. That would be too much. The servants will be coming to the service. I’m paying them what’s due afterwards.’

  The agent laughed. ‘Not the kind of mourners you expect at a Rochester funeral. Parson’s going to be disappointed. Gentry’ll not come. Bigamy and a mad wife. Probably nothing much to talk about in London but here in Yorkshire…’ He rolled his eyes to heaven and sucked his cheeks in to mimic the gentry’s disapproval. ‘I’ll not see you at the funeral, Mrs Fairfax.’

  ‘You are mistaken. I’ll be there.’

  ‘But I won’t. Special commission from master. Auction of Ingram Park. I’m to bid for master.’

  ‘Auction! That’s quick. The old baron’s not been dead a year.’

  ‘Aye. The young’un has set a record in how quick you can lose an estate. It’s to be sold over the new baron’s head. And his mother’s and sisters’ too.’

  ‘And Mr Rochester wants to buy it. Of course the land adjoins his. No doubt this is how the Rochesters got their hands on so much land in the first place.’

  He nodded. ‘True. But it is not the land this time. Not enough cash in the coffers to buy the whole lot. Money has been flowing out like water.’

  I restrained a smile. Thirty thousand had flowed in my direction.

  The agent went on. ‘I am commissioned to bid for the dower house. If I succeed I’m to tell the Ingram ladies they can have it as their home. Peppercorn rent. Master seems to think he owes them.’

  ‘Certainly, Blanche. He is in debt to Blanche. He wasted her good name in pursuit of Jane. I like a man who pays his debts.’

  ‘Unlike the new Baron Ingram.’

  The agent set off on his next errand.

  I was pleased to hear that the battering o
f Mr Rochester’s body seemed to have restored the working of his mind. Not only was he taking charge of his affairs, he was also busy remedying some of the wrongs he had done. I guessed he still lived in hope of having Jane restored to him. Better for him to be able to claim her with a clear conscience; she would examine him over his misdeeds as severely as a confessor. She would not forgive his sins easily.

  By contrast I wondered what poor Martha would think about the fate of the object of her affections – the bankrupt baronet. She would probably weep at his misfortune and claim it wasn’t his fault. She would blame the bookies, the horses or the colour of the jockeys’ silks for the effete nobleman’s ruin. What she did not know was that Old John had a hand in his downfall. She would not have taken kindly to such interference from her grandfather’s old friend.

  Mr Merryman brought me word that the coffin was ready. I took it upon myself to prepare the body. I wanted Martha to be in gentle hands. That was what I told myself. To be strictly honest it was a practical rather than a pious decision; I couldn’t risk anyone else identifying her. I suppose, too, like Pontius Pilate I wanted to wash some of my guilt away. Sending her to Lord Ingram’s had been my doing, though her seduction there was not part of my plan. I should have warned her against the Ingram men – and the women, come to that! As I worked I reminded the unresponsive Martha that I had given her shelter and a place to give birth when the rest of the world turned its face against her.

  When I took the pennies from her eyes her gaze seemed to pursue me with accusation. ‘That’s all very well,’ it said, ‘but you turned the key that locked me in.’ There was no answer to that. As I washed her face I saw there was little risk of her being identified. The wound on her forehead helped to disguise her features. Her poor face and hands were scorched by the fire. Black smoke had settled in the cracks and fissures scorched into her flesh. I worked very gently for fear of pulling off the fragile flaking skin and, to be honest, it suited my purposes that there should be a certain duskiness in her colouring. The word in the neighbourhood was that the real Mrs Rochester was positively black.

  When I had dressed her in a clean white gown Mr Merryman came to help me put the body in the coffin. I used the time we were together to feed him some snippets of information about the fire, details he could weave into the story he was making to entertain his customers for years to come. Mr Rochester was far from perfect but he had many good qualities. I did not want him to go down in history as a drunken sot who burned his own house down.

  ‘You remember the third-floor rooms at the front, don’t you Mr Merryman?’ Indeed he did. ‘That was where the fire started. The lady lived up there. We had some nice hangings up there. She must have set fire to them. And the bed in the governess’s room next to me. That was set on fire too. I expect she did that for sheer wickedness. I’d have burnt in my own bed if Mr Rochester had not been so prompt to save me.’ Between us we lifted the body of Martha. ‘Gently now. There. Poor girl. She is at peace now.’

  Girl! I called her a girl! I should have said ‘lady’. Mr Merryman appeared not to have noticed the slip of my tongue. My fingers trembled as I arranged her hands. I was in a panic that he would notice there was no wedding ring on her finger. He was peering closely into the coffin. I felt his breath on my neck as he leant over to examine her face. Would he see beneath the scars and the crust of grime the features of Martha, the Martha he had known briefly all those years ago when he was butler to my first Mr Rochester?

  I need not have worried; he saw what he wanted to see.

  ‘She is very dark is she not? You can see the wickedness in her face even in death. Mr Rochester is more to be pitied than blamed.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Like a lamb to slaughter he had obligingly come to the right conclusion from the evidence I had placed before his eyes. I hoped the rest of the neighbourhood would follow his example. ‘Fasten down the lid, Mr Merryman. There is no one else who will come to pay their respects to this poor creature.’

  With every turn of the screws I felt a weight fall from my shoulders. My last and greatest fear still remained like a ball of ice where my heart should be. I feared that as the ruins of Thornfield Hall cooled a search party would find among the debris a tiny blackened corpse, a little life cruelly destroyed. If baby James really had perished in the fire, by the laws of nature I should place him in this very coffin so he could rest on his mother’s heart.

  The next day the coffin was loaded onto Mr Merryman’s cart, the same one that had carried us away from the fire. As I sat on the board next to Mr Merryman I used the time to rehearse the story of the great fire at Thornfield Hall until he was word perfect. How he had arrived first, long before the fire engines, how he had seen the madwoman on the roof. Indeed he had seen Mr Rochester climb to the roof and struggle with the huge dark woman with the great mane of hair. He had seen her fall and smash upon the paving stones.

  He startled me by asking about Mrs Poole, the madwoman’s keeper; he had learned his lesson too well. I had no role prepared for Grace in the story. I could not let her be trapped in the building to be consumed by the flames. The search of the ruins would reveal no body. I racked my brains for a plausible answer. I was sure I was the only one to see both Grace and Bertha depart. The new servants were too busy with each other and their complaints about their treatment to concern themselves with the comings and goings of the residents of the top floor. They had not noticed the absence of Grace or Bertha when we counted heads before we fled the burning Thornfield Hall. How could I remove Grace from the scene without setting off a hue and cry in search for her? Inspiration came.

  ‘Gin,’ I explained promptly. ‘She had a weakness for gin. I expect she over-indulged and fell asleep. Woke to find the house in flames. Knew she should have watched the madwoman better. Fled in shame at the dereliction of her duty.’ I crossed my fingers as I spoke and asked for Grace to forgive me for the calumny.

  Mr Merryman nodded wisely and a great smile of satisfaction spread across his face. He had the perfect story for his customers now. It had drama, a hero – himself – death and fire engines. Best of all, the whole catastrophe was the fault of some women, one mad and one drunk. How they would enjoy that in the snug bar! The men would puff on their pipes, nod knowingly and order another pint of the landlord’s best. After a happy evening basking in masculine superiority they would go home and regale their wives with the story. The wives, isolated in their cottages and farmhouses, would lap up this dramatic tale of fire, death and bigamy. This authorized version would soon spread round the whole neighbourhood.

  It was a motley group of servants who collected in the church for the funeral service. The poor souls were dressed in the clothes they had scrambled into on the night of the fire, supplemented by a few garments borrowed from the villagers’ scant wardrobes. I cannot say that my well-worn and shabby clothing was what I would have chosen for the occasion. It was bitter cold in the church and we shivered in our raggedy outfits. Many of the servants wore black armbands to show respect for the mad mistress they had not met but thought they were burying.

  Considering the circumstances we made a respectable show of mourning. Sometimes appearances are more important than motive. It did not matter that it was the promise of their wages and compensation for their losses that had brought them to the funeral service. Or that I had misled them as to the identity of the body. A Rochester, even such an unsatisfactory one, was entitled to a certain amount of pomp.

  We all stood with bowed heads as the coffin was carried in. Mr Wood set a cracking pace as he strode down the aisle in front of it. It was clear that he wanted this service to be over as quickly as possible. I was surprised to see Mr Carter walking behind the coffin in the position usually taken by the chief mourner. He carried his black top hat pressed against his chest and for once he was wearing dark trousers, not his riding breeches. As he reached the front pew where I sat he did a swift left turn and came to join me.

  Under cover of all the ru
stling and coughing as we took our seats I asked him if he had come to represent Mr Rochester.

  ‘You could say that,’ he told me out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘I will say exactly that,’ I told him. ‘It is what the world wants to hear. Mr Rochester was too ill to attend his wife’s funeral so he sent his friend to take his place.’ The conventions would be satisfied.

  ‘Course, you could say he wants to be very sure that she is securely boxed up and buried very deep.’

  ‘You could say that, but we won’t.’

  Meanwhile Mr Wood gabbled his way through the beautiful prose of the funeral service. Was he taking his revenge on Mr Rochester by deliberately mangling the words? I wondered if it was any consolation to poor, silly, dead Martha that at last she was joining the gentry. Her body was to be interred in the Rochesters’ tomb and would decay in the company of the bones of the local aristocracy. She had nursed an ambition to move up in the world and in death she had at last achieved it.

  When the service was over Mr Carter said farewell to me and hurried after Mr Wood, who was speeding out of church with his surplice flapping about him. Before the cleric reached the church door I heard Carter’s great voice braying out how pleased he was that the vicar had seen reason and that he could give a good report on him to Mr Rochester. He made sure that none of us was left in doubt that the vicar took his orders from Mr Rochester rather than God.

  Afterwards at the back of the chilly church I used a pew to spread out my calculations and the coins and notes that the staff were due. Most were grateful for the generosity of their payments. A surprising number already had offers of work or were happy to return to their parents’ home until they had replaced their uniforms. The handsome footman was on his way to work for the mighty Clifford family. He was an exact match in height for one of their existing footmen. The not-so-handsome footman received a generous bonus for saving Mr Rochester from the flames. It seemed only fair. He was certainly not going to get any credit for his bravery in Mr Merryman’s version of the story; that heroic action was sure to be undertaken by the landlord himself.