Thornfield Hall Page 6

  ‘I shall send for some porter straight away. Mr Rochester does not forbid alcohol. Indeed there is some excellent wine in the cellar. Perhaps a glass or two?’

  He frowned and pursed his lips, wrinkling up his young sandy face until he looked like a little blond monkey. ‘That might be a touch strong at the moment. From the bottles I can tell what medicines were given to the lady. What I do not know is how much she was given or how frequently. Could your Mr Carter help me with this?’

  ‘I doubt it. Mr Carter seldom saw the lady. To be honest he is better with horses and dogs than people. Mrs Morgan sent orders direct to the apothecary. I have the receipts. We could work it out roughly.’

  So we set to with the account books and the invoices from the apothecary. When we had finished Mr Poole whistled through his teeth. ‘There is enough to kill a horse.’

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Morgan took some of this syrup of poppy herself. She was very indolent. I was ill over the winter but when I started to visit she was often asleep. As indeed she was today.’

  ‘Let us hope so. Weaning the lady off laudanum is going to be very painful for her. We have to reduce the dose gradually. I must warn you there may be wild behaviour, screaming and crying. Things will be said that you should try to forget. My mother is very experienced at this kind of work. I leave her free to adjust the dosage. There is a certain amount of trial and error.’

  I accompanied him upstairs to check on the patient and make further arrangements. The lady still lay on the bed but the chain was gone. She was covered with a blanket as the window was open and the cool air blew in from the hills. I could not restrain myself from checking that the chamber pot had been emptied. It had. Mrs Poole caught me wrinkling my nose in distaste at the smell that still pervaded the room in spite of her attention to this basic task.

  ‘One step at a time,’ she told me. ‘Perhaps we could have some lavender from the garden tomorrow.’

  Mother and son put their heads together as they went through the bottles and boxes of medicine. The son held up each bottle in turn, sniffed it and dabbed a finger in the powders and tasted them. When he was sure of the contents he wrote their names very clearly on labels and tied them with different coloured threads round the necks of the bottles. Some of the potions caused them both to frown with dismay. ‘I would not use this to kill a rat,’ Mr Poole declared, holding some white powder at arm’s length. Once the medicaments were selected they discussed dosages and frequency. There was much talk of grains, drachms and drops.

  As they worked I took the opportunity to study the lady. She lay without moving as if the chain still bound her and she watched Mr Poole and his mother go about their business with no more interest than if they were inhabitants of the moon. She looked at them but she did not see. The only evidence of life and movement she displayed was in her hands. Her nails were grubby and broken and the skin of her hands marked with scratches and scars as if she had fought and struggled against her captivity. Now she lay back and played with her hands much as a baby does when he is first discovering them. She knitted them together and then set them fluttering loose like butterflies, enjoying the freedom of movement after the weeks of having her left arm manacled. I looked at the lady’s left hand. This time there was no manacle to distract me. Sure enough, dull with grease and dirt, there was a wedding ring. Jewellery, I thought. Genteel ladies always had some jewellery. Had I been so careless as to let Mrs Morgan carry away the lady’s other jewels?

  Mr Poole bid farewell to his mother and accompanied me to my office. Where Mrs Morgan had stood I invited him to sit. Where I had exerted power over her I listened to him.

  ‘I will write to Mr Rochester. I think it is safe to say the exchange has been successfully completed.’ He gave me a shy grin and I nodded my agreement. ‘When I write I shall point out how inadequately clothed the lady is. I shall ask for a sum of money to be advanced to equip her properly. You can deal with that, Mrs Fairfax?’

  ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  ‘My mother is a very skilled attendant and she…’ he paused to search for the best words, ‘is an enthusiastic reader. Newspapers, novels, even books of sermons, she enjoys them all. But she is not good at making the letters. No one taught her to write. Perhaps you would take on the task of writing a short report on progress to me and Mr Rochester.’

  ‘Mr Rochester does not want reports. He prefers not to be reminded about the lady.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you will keep me informed when there is something important to say. I trust to your discretion.’

  ‘Of course. I will be glad to be involved. I am ashamed of the state of the poor woman – and her rooms. I feel responsible. I thought Mrs Morgan had superior knowledge. My hands were tied until matters became desperate.’

  ‘Some people will say it was better than the asylum but to be honest, Mrs Fairfax, things are better in my asylum.’ He gave a satisfied little grin. ‘Relatives can make an enormous difference. The lady seems to have none.’

  ‘She is married. Or rather she wears a wedding ring.’

  ‘No husband has made enquiries about her?’

  ‘No. None that I know of.’

  ‘To be honest sometimes a husband can make matters worse. I’ve been approached by relatives and parents desperate to rescue daughters driven to despair by cruel husbands. They want to bring the woman into our care. If the husband refuses there is nothing they can do. They go to court for writs of Habeas Corpus and the law won’t help. The husband can keep her locked away like Bluebeard if that is what he wants.’ He shook his head at the iniquity of the world.

  ‘Perhaps she is a widow.’

  ‘Yes indeed. Let’s look on the bright side; she might be a widow. A widow, as I am sure you are well aware, is a free agent.’ He picked up his hat ready to leave. ‘If only we had a name for her.’

  ‘My master gave no name for her. Mrs Morgan seemed to feel no need for one.’

  ‘How can you exist if you haven’t a name?’

  ‘According to Mrs Morgan the lady had an extreme fear of water. I am not sure I believe her. I think it was Mrs Morgan who did not value cleanliness.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘I suppose all the weeks the lady spent at sea, totally surrounded by water, may have made her morbidly fearful of the element. Such fears can be cured. I can see you like a clean house, Mrs Fairfax. Do not concern yourself. I am confident that my mother will sort out that problem.’ With that he bid me farewell.

  To my relief Mrs Poole proved as unlike her predecessor, Mrs Morgan, as it was possible to be. She did not hide behind locked doors, nor did she demand a special diet for herself, or generally show a total lack of respect for her fellow servants. As soon as she could leave the lady, her patient – we still did not know what to call her – Mrs Poole came to my room, knocked on the door and asked me to arrange for her to meet all the servants involved in caring for the lady. This seemed an appropriate moment to tell her about the oath of secrecy Mr Rochester had demanded of us. She screwed up her face and thought for a minute. Then her face cleared and she announced, ‘The oath is not necessary for me. I do not gossip about my patients.’

  That evening we shooed the kitchen maids and the stable boys out after their supper. Only the oath-takers were left in the servants’ hall. I said a few words to introduce Grace and then sat down, leaving her free to talk.

  ‘My given name is Grace,’ she began. ‘I know that we have to abide by the rules and call each other Mrs this or Mr that when the gentry are around. I just want you all to know that my name is Grace, Grace Poole. My son is the keeper of the asylum in Grimsby. Thanks to the good offices of Mrs Fairfax here we have been appointed by Mr Rochester to look after the unfortunate lady upstairs.

  ‘I want to warn you all that we may have a very difficult few months. The lady has been given large doses of some very strong drugs; they have made her sleep much more than is healthy. My first task is to reduce the amount and number of these medications. She will be very distre
ssed by this. She will be in a kind of pain of the mind as she wakes from her perpetual night.

  ‘I do not know what form her madness took before she was drugged into apathy. As I reduce the drug her malady will probably recur. She may have fits of weeping, she may be violent, hurling herself against walls or she may try to climb out of windows convinced that she can fly. She may hear voices or tell fantastic stories that cannot possibly be true. At the moment, she is filthy, nit-ridden, silent and terrified. She does not move from the bed she was chained to. This is no way for a human being to live. I look for your help in changing this.’

  We were all silent. I had seen the state of the lady and of her room, but to the others this description was a truly shocking revelation. As servants we were dedicated to keeping everything around us neat and clean and tidy. To find we had such a dung heap within the walls went against the grain of our very existence. To my surprise it was young John, the new footman, who was the first to speak. His voice wobbled; he was as surprised by his temerity as the rest of us.

  ‘Thank you for telling us your name. My real name’s Timothy. That’s what my mother calls me. Here I have to be called John. It’s to save Mr Rochester the trouble of learning a new name every time he gets a new footman.’ He looked across the table. As usual his gaze fell on Leah. This time it was rewarded with a smile; his courage in speaking must have impressed her. ‘You don’t need to use my christened name,’ he told us all. ‘I’ve got used to John by now.’ He sat down and looked both sheepish and pleased as a murmur of respect rumbled round the room.

  ‘What can we do?’ The question was on everyone’s lips.

  ‘You can help her learn again about day and night. Bustle about your tasks in day time. Talk when you are in the room with her. Find reasons to come upstairs to us. The door to the sitting room will not be locked during the day. For the moment I will have to lock it at night. Also for a time meals must be brought up to her. It will be extra work for you but, you understand, I dare not leave her alone more than is absolutely necessary.’

  The table echoed with a gentle rumble of doesn’t matter, no trouble, a good cause sort of noise. Grace’s impassive face relaxed into a smile.

  ‘Good to hear it. The battle-axe who guarded the door is gone. Now, when you come, bring the tray into the room. Stay for a chat. Never mind that she does not speak. She has been isolated too long. Does a newspaper come to the house?’ She looked to me for an answer. I gave an affirmative nod of my head.

  ‘I’d be glad of a read of it. Better still if someone would come and read it aloud and let the lady listen in. It is good for us all to be up to date and know what is going on in the world. I must warn you though, that being in the same room with the lady is not a pleasant prospect at the moment. I hope to persuade her to have a bath soon and to have her hair cut. In the meantime, ladies, for your own sake keep your hair well fastened back and pin your cap on firmly. You don’t want little visitors in your lovely locks.’

  THE LADY

  1823

  IT WAS DECIDED THAT THE FIRST ROOM, WHERE Mrs Morgan had installed herself like a sultan with his loot, was to be cleaned thoroughly. All the bedding and the hangings were removed and washed or taken outside and beaten. Leah and John were in and out moving the furniture, helping with the cleaning and delivering the meals. I had the feeling that a friendship was beginning to blossom between them. Their happy chatter helped dispel the gloom that had attached itself to the third floor.

  In spite of our efforts the big four-poster bed in the first room proved impossible to move. Heaven only knows how they first carried it in. There was a big cabinet carved with the twelve apostles and topped with the figure of Christ crucified. I wanted that removed too; it seemed a nasty gruesome thing for a sick mind to live with. Grace granted it a reprieve. The cupboard could be locked so she would use it to store the dangerous medicines.

  Soon the lady had a chair in her bedroom, curtains at the window and a table by her bed. There was a cheerful fire in the grate when the weather was cool as it so often is in this part of the world. A kettle provided them with tea whenever they wished it without the labour of descending the stairs to the kitchen.

  I believe the kettle was much used during the night at first. The lady, deprived of her sleeping syrup was, to put it mildly, wakeful and restless. Fortunately my deafness protected me from the worst of the shrieks and wails. There was many a morning when Grace appeared haggard and hollow-eyed when the breakfast tray was delivered. ‘Snappish,’ she would say when asked how the lady was. ‘The opium is working out of her system.’

  My daily visits to the third floor were no longer an ordeal I had to brace myself to undertake. The foul stench, though not completely eliminated, was masked by the scent of lavender and mitigated by the open windows and the increased traffic through the frequently opened door. Grace disliked locked doors. What if there were a fire? she would ask.

  The topic that exercised us most was the delicate question of the lady’s personal hygiene. She had allowed Grace to wash her hands and face but that was all. Mention of the washing of her hair or a bath sent her into paroxysms of shrieking.

  Clean clothing was also a problem. There had been no word from Mr Rochester to authorize the purchase of new clothes. We had done our best from the limited resources we had. Most of the clothes of my first Mr Rochester’s wife had been disposed of. The second and third Mr Rochester were bachelors so there was no mistress’s wardrobe we could plunder. We managed to ensure the lady was decently covered but you could not say much more than that.

  Eventually a letter came from Mr Rochester. It was very brief; the delights of Paris were obviously absorbing most of his attention. He was glad his plan to approach the keeper of the Grimsby Asylum had worked so well. There was no need to bother him with details now the unfortunate lady was adequately cared for. We could contact him if there was another dire emergency. He made it quite clear that another emergency would be judged as inefficiency on my part. His letter did not reveal the lady’s name but agreed to an allowance of fifteen pounds to be spent on clothes.

  I took Leah with me to choose linen for a set of undergarments and samples of fabric for a skirt and bodice for the lady. We also looked at woollen stuff for a warm pelisse; the poor woman must have suffered dreadfully from the cold. In the shop they assumed that the clothes were for Leah and I saw no reason to disillusion them. We had decided that we would do the sewing between us to avoid calling in a seamstress. A dressmaker would want to measure the lady. This was out of the question in her present state. Even if we could get the lady bathed a dressmaker would ask many impertinent questions. She would also be sure to inform all the gentry of the neighbourhood that Thornfield Hall had a dirty new resident of mysterious origins.

  When we returned with our purchase Grace shook out the white linen fabric and held it up to show the lady. ‘This will be for you,’ she told her as if she was a four-year-old child. The lady reached out her hand to stroke the cloth. Her hand stood out against the pure white of the fabric; her skin was a dark shade of grey. Grace took advantage of the opportunity presented to her.

  ‘We always wash our hands before we handle our sewing,’ said Grace gently. ‘Shall we wash yours?’

  A bowl of water was brought and the lady’s hands were washed with scented soap. It was strange to see such large hands with such long fingers washed and dried like a giant child’s. The lady sat placidly through the whole procedure.

  Morbid fear of water! Pshaw, Mrs Morgan! I know who was afraid of water.

  It does not do to have smug thoughts; they always precede a nasty shock. Grace, grown confident by the lady’s composure, reached forward to sweep back the lady’s hair so that she could wipe her face. It was a step too far. The lady’s hands flew to the base of her throat as if to protect this most vulnerable part of her anatomy. Her face suffused with black rage. She leapt to her feet. The bowl flew across the room and the water splayed out in a great arc. She loomed over Gra
ce and made a lunge at her throat. Murder seemed a short step away.

  Grace stood her ground and looked up boldly into the lady’s face. ‘Steady, steady, girl,’ she said as if she were talking to a restless horse. ‘I see now. It is your locket. I understand. Your locket. No one here is going to steal it.’ The lady’s hands hung over her like claws ready to maul Grace’s face.

  A calm, smiling Grace held her ground, the lady’s hands dropped and she fluttered her fingers over a locket round her neck to reassure herself it was really there. We had not noticed it earlier. Among the grime and the enveloping mass of black hair, there was no gleam of gold to draw our attention. We had thought all her jewellery gone with Mrs Morgan.

  The locket was a very ordinary and well-worn item; the base metal showed through where the gilding had rubbed off. Though its monetary value would be small its sentimental value to the lady was evidently immense. Only when she was satisfied that the trinket was safe did she sink back into her seat. There she sat quietly with an expression of puzzlement on her face, and she gave Grace a very close scrutiny as if she was seeing her for the first time and was agreeably surprised by what she saw.

  I was amazed. It was the first evidence I had seen that our grubby and disordered charge was a living sentient being capable of action, thought and emotion. Later Grace and I talked about the incident with the locket.

  ‘It must be very important to her,’ Grace reflected. ‘It would be interesting to know who gave it to her. No use asking. She’ll tell us when she’s ready. She has managed to keep it out of the clutches of Mrs Morgan. That must’ve taken some doing. No wonder her hands are scratched. I hate to rub your nose in it, Alice, but I think Mrs Morgan got away with some valuables. It is a poor lady indeed who has so little jewellery.’

  I felt bad about the jewellery. Then I counted up the good things I had done. I had got rid of a nasty vicious nurse and had replaced her with a much more promising one. Grace might look cold and remote but her heart was definitely in the right place. And she appreciated cleanliness. ‘Do you think she will trust us not to steal from her?’