Thornfield Hall Read online

  It was a far cry from the storm of wind and rain that had greeted Mr Rochester’s arrival as new master of Thornfield Hall. On that day in spite of the foul weather we were full of hope for a new beginning and for a better and fuller life at Thornfield Hall. The weather, it seemed to me, had nothing to do with what was happening in people’s lives or how they felt – at least not in Yorkshire. The poets must have got it wrong. After this little grumble my mind cleared and I saw my way forward. I sent word to Mr Carter and suggested it was time he made a visit.

  It was my intention to let Mr Carter take Mrs Morgan by surprise. I was confident that he would soon appear now that the hunting season had finished. He was not a man given to forethought so it was unlikely that he would trouble to give advance warning of his visit. When he arrived I let him climb up to the third storey alone while I waited for him in the library with the brandy and hot water handy. He was soon back. He still had the upright carriage of a horseman but I could see the criss-cross pattern of red veins standing out clearly against the pallor of his face. I sat him in front of the fire and gave him a double measure of his usual brandy.

  ‘Any progress?’ I asked, well aware that there was none.

  He mopped his brow with his handkerchief and swigged back his brandy. As his complexion returned to its normal florid hue the power of speech was restored to him. I discovered it was not the dirt or the smell that had driven the colour from his cheeks. Mr Carter was probably as convinced of the health-giving properties of dirt as Mrs Morgan was. It was a treatment for madness that Mrs Morgan had suggested that had sent the hearty Mr Carter pale. She had put forward the idea of a form of surgery to a part of a woman’s body that was never mentioned in polite society; it was reputed to cure the malady of her mind. Mr Carter was outraged.

  ‘That woman had an unspeakable suggestion. I won’t sully your ears by repeating it, Mrs Fairfax. The Lord knows I’m not a squeamish man. I’ve given a hand at gelding a stallion in my time, but to do that to a woman…’ He shook his head in disbelief and finished his brandy. ‘I am at a loss as to what to suggest, Mrs Fairfax.’

  Fortunately, I was not. I outlined my plan to him.

  ‘You do that,’ he said. He clapped his hat on his head and left. No doubt he went to the stables to stroke the horses and commune with Old John until his usual doughty cheerfulness returned.

  I got out my pen and I wrote to Mr Rochester.

  I said nothing to the other servants about what I had seen in the suite of rooms on the third floor. They were still spared the sight as the formidable Mrs Morgan kept them outside. Nor did I tell them about my agreement with Mr Carter or my letter to Mr Rochester. I intended to take Mrs Morgan by surprise; it was an essential part of my plan. The Rochesters are not the only ones who can keep secrets.

  The day after I posted my letter I climbed the stairs to the third floor. For the sake of that poor wretch chained to the bed it was vital that I did not antagonize Mrs Morgan. I did not believe her to be capable of reformation but I was sure that, if offended, she would vent her spleen on her defenceless patient. I wore a smile determinedly stuck to my face and carried in my hand a bunch of flowers gathered from the garden.

  Mrs Morgan was not pleased to see me but she let me in without protest. We exchanged civilities. In the process I learnt a great deal about her: her rheumatics, the poor quality of Yorkshire coal and the laziness of the servants at Thornfield Hall. After a decent interval I enquired about her patient. She vouchsafed that the lunatic was still asleep. I expressed surprise. It was four o’clock in the afternoon!

  Mrs Morgan prated at me with an air of professional confidence. Not at all unusual in such cases. Some lunatics slept the clock round. Lay people, like me, just didn’t understand.

  I understood all right. A sleeping patient is a quiet patient; she is no trouble, needs no attention. The room was littered with bottles of laudanum and other witches’ brews. I waved the flowers in front of my nose. ‘I brought these for the lady. I think Mr Rochester would approve of such a gift, a reminder of God’s bounty and His mercy to us all.’ Mrs Morgan is not the only one who can turn a platitude to her advantage.

  I had taken the precaution of bringing a vase with me. A silver one. Glass seemed an unwise choice. Broken glass could provide a dangerous weapon. Mrs Morgan perked up at the sight of the precious metal. More loot for her. I held it out. ‘If you would be so kind. Some clean water.’

  As I had guessed, clean water was the one commodity she did not have. The mad lady, she declared, had a terrible fear of water, screamed at the mere sight of it. There was no accounting for mad folk; some were terrified of sparrows and spiders while others made a pet of a rat. With this she lumbered off in search of water for the flowers. It would be perfectly safe for me to wait, she assured me. The lady was not only asleep. She was chained.

  Taking my courage in both hands I went into the second room. I held the flowers to my nose as I stood in the doorway and inspected our unusual house guest. She was, I noticed, a tall lady. Her feet hung over the end of the bed. I looked under the bed for her shoes – in vain. But I was gratified to see that the chamber pot had been emptied since my last visit.

  She lay face down on the narrow bed. The skin on the manacled arm was so soaked in grease and dirt that it looked more like leather than the covering of a human being. The nails were jaggedly broken and the hand itself was etched with scars and scratches. Her only garment was a grubby linen shift that did little to conceal the sharp outlines of her bones; they stuck out in her meagre flesh.

  The great mat of dark hair I saved to the last. I was not confident of having the stomach to look at it too closely. There were sure to be plenty of living things that had their dwelling in there. As I crept closer, to my horror, the black mass began to move. It heaved and undulated on the bed. Soon a slice of face appeared and a reddened eye focused on me. My heart gave a great lurch of fear. I was staring straight at the madwoman.

  The sound of gasping breaths and heavy footsteps told me that Mrs Morgan was returning. She bustled in complaining about the stairs and brandishing the silver vase. As she heaved into view the woman on the bed struggled to raise herself. The loathsome chain clanked as she struggled to sit up. The rest of the face beneath the hair was revealed. I could not distinguish the features. All I could see was an expression of pure terror.

  ‘No screaming now,’ commanded Mrs Morgan. She waved the vase in the air. ‘This is not for you,’ she told the terrified creature on the bed.

  ‘It is a vase for the flowers,’ I explained. I snatched the vase from Mrs Morgan’s hand and thrust the flowers into it. God knows what foul torture masquerading as medicine had been administered to the helpless body of the poor lady. What frightful purgings and emetics, what blisters and cuppings had she endured? I put the vase on the windowsill where it could be seen from that place of pain that was mockingly called her bed.

  ‘There’s nothing quite like flowers to cheer a room. I’ll make sure you have fresh flowers every day, every day,’ I crooned to her, the way a mother does to soothe a fractious child or a groom to calm a skittish horse, as I took my leave. I wanted to convey to the poor woman that she was not entirely alone and that I would return.

  I was as good as my word. Every day I climbed the stairs to the third floor. I varied the time; sometimes morning, sometimes evening. On occasions I carried up a meal tray myself to ensure the invalid got her share. It might be lunch or breakfast. Sometimes I appeared with an unscheduled treat. A fresh cake or an ice-cream in the hot weather. Mrs Morgan was never quite sure when I might appear. Every time I took flowers.

  In the weeks that followed I like to think there was some improvement in the poor woman’s condition. She gained some flesh and had clean linen. I did broach the question of a bath but Mrs Morgan was adamant. Her list of the perils involved in bathing and the dire consequences to the patient was long and vehemently expressed. I do not believe clean lunatics are more unruly than dirty lunatics bu
t I gave way to her; she obviously had a horror of hot water and a profound belief in the beneficial effects of dirt. I was prepared to lose a battle as long as I won the war.

  Weeks passed before I received a reply to my letter from Mr Rochester. I expect he took the opportunity to check with Mr Carter; the surgeon would not have stirred himself to write of his own accord. My master was now convinced that Mrs Morgan would have to leave his employment. I was pleased, but not surprised that he agreed to my suggestion about finding a replacement for her. The course of action I had outlined required no great exertion on his part. No doubt if the plan worked he would claim the credit. If it failed, it would be my fault. After the exchange of some letters with the keeper of the Grimsby Asylum a date was fixed for the expulsion of Mrs Morgan.

  When he arrived the keeper of the Grimsby Asylum proved to be a monochrome young man. Everything about him was a pale sandy colour. His hair, his eyelashes and his whiskers were all a faded beige. He seemed much too young for his line of work. My opinion was reinforced when he introduced me to his companion, a strong-looking woman with red hair. She turned out to be his mother, a Mrs Poole. Was the boy not fit to travel alone?

  I soon changed my mind about him. He wasted no time in getting to work and preparing for the task ahead. Word was sent to Old John to have the gig ready to deliver one departing servant to the staging post on the turnpike road. Young Mr Poole advised me to calculate her wages and have the money counted, ready to put in her hand. Then he questioned me closely about the patient. I was ashamed by how little I could tell him about the lady – not even her name.

  ‘A connection of Mr Rochester’s, you say. From Jamaica? Not a relative? The lady has no family who have sent letters or made enquiries about her welfare? Well, they do say an Englishman’s home is his castle. It seems to me very wrong that she should be shut up here for so long without anyone in authority knowing. Well, I am here now. And I bring her the best nurse I have.’ He turned to smile at his mother. Then he turned to me. ‘Perhaps you will lead the way. Yours is the only face that is familiar to the patient. I do not wish to alarm her unnecessarily.’

  My heart fluttered as I led the way up to the third floor. I expected much shouting and noisy protests, even some scuffles. Sam and John were standing by in case force was needed. In the event the three of us were through the door and in the room before Mrs Morgan had her eyes open. She was sprawled in an armchair where she’d been sleeping in front of the fire. Robert Poole leaned over her. I thought him very brave to go so close to the evil-smelling wretch. His mother meanwhile went straight to the window and flung it open, letting in a rush of fresh air. A woman after my own heart, I decided in that instant.

  The young man fixed Mrs Morgan with his pale washed-out eyes. ‘I am the keeper of the Grimsby Asylum and I have a letter from your master delivering the lady into my care.’ With a deft movement he produced the letter from his pocket and wafted it in front of her face. ‘Where is the patient?’

  Mrs Morgan’s mouth worked like a carp feeding but no words came out. Just a pop, pop, popping sound. She managed to raise an arm. The flesh on it wobbled from side to side as she pointed to the door that led to the adjoining room. Young Mr Poole gestured to indicate that I should go first.

  As I went through the door I realized my hands were empty; I had forgotten my customary bunch of flowers. Yesterday’s cornflowers in the silver vase brought dabs of blue to the otherwise drab and cheerless room. They were the only sign of freshness and colour in the noisome chamber. The hideous chain still tethered the lady to the bed but today her face was not concealed behind the great mass of hair, for she lay back upon the pillows I’d provided.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told her, ‘I’ve forgotten your flowers.’ She seemed to listen to me. I even fancied her to be disappointed about the flowers but pleased to see me. I drew close to the bed and gestured to young Mr Poole who had followed me into the room. ‘I have brought you a better gift than flowers. This gentleman is skilled in healing. He is going to help us look after you.’

  Her bloodshot eyes swivelled in her hollow face and fixed upon her unexpected visitor. He bowed as seriously as if I’d introduced him to a duchess at a ball. ‘First, ma’am, if you agree, I think we must free you from this chain.’

  He waited politely. She said nothing. ‘I shall take your silence as your consent. Mrs Fairfax, would you be so kind as to get the key from Mrs Morgan?’

  I ducked back into the first room where a strange tableau met my eyes. Mrs Poole and Mrs Morgan were locked in a silent tussle by the open window. Mrs Poole held Mrs Morgan’s wrists in a fierce grip while the fat nurse twisted and struggled to get free. They were eyeball to eyeball and were exchanging killing looks.

  Mrs Poole kept her voice low out of consideration for the patient but her words and her temper were high. ‘This poisonous creature has just thrown the key out of the window,’ she hissed. ‘It is an act of sheer spite. It means the poor wretch in there will have to endure the blows of the blacksmith’s hammer.’

  Mrs Morgan smirked at her captor. ‘You are stealing my place. I’ll not make it easy for you. You’ll be sorry when that wild woman in there starts her screaming – and fighting. She is as strong as a horse. You’ll have your hands full then.’ She gave Mrs Poole a loathsome leer.

  My fingers itched to wipe the self-satisfied smile off her face. It took all my years of hard-won self-control not to slap her with my bare hand. I consoled myself by thinking of the revenge I planned to take on this foul creature. I was going to hit her in a place that would really hurt her. Her pocket.

  ‘You’ll pay for the blacksmith. From your wages.’ I laid heavy emphasis on the word to remind her that her wages were still under my control. She stopped struggling. ‘Let her go, Mrs Poole. Then she can collect her belongings.’

  I turned to the now-docile Mrs Morgan. ‘When you have assembled what belongs to you then you can come down to my office. I will pay you what we owe you.’ When she turned her back I slipped the spare key the blacksmith had given me to Mrs Poole. She accepted it with a nod and glided quietly into the next room.

  I stood over Mrs Morgan as she collected up her belongings. I did not want her to have the chance of stealing the lady’s clothes. A flash of clean white linen amid the dingy grey petticoats caught my attention. I took the garment from Mrs Morgan’s grimy fingers and held it up; it was a muslin dress of the kind ladies used to wear some years ago. It was a garment more suited to the warm climate of the West Indies. Far too long and narrow for the squat and billowing Mrs Morgan. I held it up against her. Even she could see that claiming the garment as her own was beyond belief. Of her own volition she handed me a couple of similar garments. As the drawers emptied I began to realize how few clothes the lady had. Just a few flimsy nightdresses. No shawl, no pelisse. How had she survived the Yorkshire winter? I was under no illusion about which of them sat in the room with a fire.

  Once her bag was packed I marched Mrs Morgan wheezing and huffing under her load down the stairs. In my office I sat at my desk and left her standing on the other side of it like a naughty schoolchild summoned to the head teacher for punishment. I pointed to the pile of golden sovereigns and silver coins on my desk. The sight of the money seemed to cheer her. With a great show I removed a sovereign and a shilling from the pile. ‘That is to cover the cost of the blacksmith. I was not consulted about the chain. You ordered it to be fitted so you pay for it.’ Very slowly and with great deliberation I removed two more sovereigns. ‘That is for your washing. It was agreed when you first arrived.’

  Her face suffused to an angry red and she clenched her fists. I was glad I had taken the precaution of making sure John and Sam the footmen were in earshot. Her mouth opened and instead of the expected deluge of profanities she made that popping sound again. I fixed her with my best gimlet stare and dared her to say she had been with us the best part of a year without having washing done. I saw her think about saying it. And then she thought again. />
  ‘The gig will take you to the toll road. You can pick up the stagecoach there. You will not be getting a reference.’

  She opened her mouth to complain but nothing came out. Not even the popping sound. She had collapsed into a sack of rags; all the fight had gone out of her. I followed her to the door and watched as she heaved herself into the gig. Old John clicked his tongue and shook the reins. In minutes, she was gone.

  I thought of sending Leah to take his payment to the blacksmith. I had promised him his money the day the wearer of the chain was released. I dismissed the idea as the kind of frivolous and interfering matchmaking old women go in for. Instead I sent John, the footman. He was sick with love for Leah, but too young and inexperienced to do anything about it. Handing money over to his rival might give him a moment of power and encourage him to be more active in his wooing instead of just looking at his beloved with puppy eyes. Besides I needed Leah for the cleaning.

  ‘The sovereign is for the blacksmith and the shilling is for you for your trouble,’ I told John. His smile was all the thanks I needed as he scampered off. For a moment I forgot my burden of responsibilities and shared his carefree delight in a trip outside the confines of Thornfield Hall. As I turned back to the house I picked up my burdens again. The dreadful Mrs Morgan was gone but the poor mad lady remained.

  Young Mr Poole came to have a bite of lunch with me. I sent up bread and cheese for his mother and the lady. ‘It is important for the lady to eat and regain her strength,’ young Mr Poole told me. ‘If you have porter in the house that would be splendid. It builds up weakened constitutions. And to tell the truth my mother is very partial to it. It’s like feeding children. A mouthful for me and now a mouthful for you. Just to get them back into the way of eating.’