Thornfield Hall Page 9

  To his credit Monsieur Alphonse rose to the challenge. He came to my office with a long list of requirements. Extra staff were hired in from The George in Millcote. He spent hours in the kitchen with Mary, the cook, discussing dishes and recipes. His experience of eating with me in the housekeeper’s room had given him a very low opinion of the food at Thornfield Hall. It was only when Mary produced samples of his recipes that he relaxed a little. ‘You have been having what you English call a joke with me,’ he said after tasting her charlotte russe.

  The dinner was to be served in a new way. Instead of setting all the food out on the table in the traditional way it was to be served to the guests one course at a time. Monsieur Alphonse explained to me that service à la Russe, as he called it, would require fewer footmen but much more cutlery. Anxiously we counted the knives, forks and spoons; there were enough.

  Sam, John and some otherwise unemployed farm labourers were to serve the food at the dinner. Monsieur Alphonse drilled them in their duties with a thoroughness that left them goggle-eyed. He made them scrub their hands until their fingernails shone pink and white and forbade them from putting their clean hands in their dirty pockets. Then he turned his attention to their dress. Their workaday coats did not come up to his exacting standards. He scoured the house, convinced that somewhere there must be livery for footmen. I had great difficulty in keeping him out of Bertha’s quarters until I presented him with some dark green coats, from more formal times, stored in the attic. They were shaken out with a good deal of disapproving tutting on Monsieur Alphonse’s part. He sponged and he pressed, he let out shoulders and took in waists. When he’d finished with them his little band of footmen looked as smart as soldiers.

  One day when there was no hunting, he cornered Mr Rochester about the choice of wine. ‘Since you have no butler…’ he began. The master, in his careless open-handed way, passed him the keys to the cellar and full responsibility for the choice. Monsieur Alphonse spent an afternoon down there with a candle and a pen and paper. When he reappeared he brushed the cobwebs from his hair and declared, ‘If anything could reconcile me to this windswept place it would be the contents of the cellar.’

  The dinner was an astounding success. The county had not seen anything like it for years. In the absence of a hostess Lady Clifford led the ladies to the drawing room as they retired after the dinner. There they could give free rein to their astonishment. Every detail of dinner had delighted and thrilled them; the sophistication of the table, the delicious food, the immaculate service, the arrangement of the flowers! Yet there was no mistress to run the house! How had it been achieved? The maids and the footmen whispered the answer into the ladies’ incredulous ears. It was all down to Monsieur Alphonse. Every lady present made a mental note to entice Monsieur Alphonse from Mr Rochester’s service, if it was humanly possible.

  In the dining room when the cloth was drawn the men settled down to drink the port. Horses, dogs and the price of corn dominated the bachelor end of the long table where Mr Rochester presided. At the other end sat Lord Clifford with the senior guests. His eldest son moved down the table to join him and Baron Ingram. Talk turned to the Grand Tour the younger son and the baronet were to take and the tutor who was to accompany them. Lord Clifford’s loud voice boomed out to express his confidence in his choice. He turned to his eldest son. ‘He took good care of you, didn’t he, when you went a couple of years back? You didn’t come back with the pox as many of them do.’

  ‘Good God,’ the Clifford heir exploded. ‘You’re not sending them with that old tart. He tried to bugger me in Rome.’

  ‘It was an unexpected stroke of luck,’ Sam reported to me. ‘Every enterprise needs one.’

  The footmen told the housemaids and the housemaids told the ladies’ maids. The information reached Lady Clifford’s ears as her maid prepared her for bed.

  By the next evening it was all arranged. Monsieur Alphonse left with the Cliffords as the chosen companion for the young aristocrats on their way to Italy. He had assured Lady Clifford that as well as speaking French he was fluent in Italian. I suspected it was not true but I was sure he would not be caught out in his falsehood. Once he set foot in his beloved Paris, I did not expect Monsieur Alphonse to stray far from there.

  THE INCIDENT IN THE LIBRARY

  1826

  SOON AFTER THE HUNT DINNER MR ROCHESTER set off on his mysterious travels again. We did not know his destination; we guessed it was London. Since Monsieur Alphonse had departed the master had been heard to swear he would not cross the Channel again. Though I missed his lively presence in the house in some ways it was a relief to see him go. The dinner and the overnight guests had made much extra work in the house and there were many tasks ahead of us.

  My few conversations with my master had been held in haste when other people were present. He had not summoned me to check on the arrangements for the patient and I for one was glad of it. If the subject of Bertha had come up I think I would have been warm with him. Devoted to him though I was, I did not think he should leave such a responsibility to servants with so little guidance. As it was he rode off in blithe indifference while I stayed and burned with resentment.

  Bertha had languished during his visit. She had missed our comfortable afternoons sewing and her trips downstairs. True to her childlike nature she accepted the simple explanation of ‘visitors’ without needing or wishing to know more about them. She was pleased that John now had time to deliver her meal trays and chat with her and that Leah could spend time sewing.

  Once the extra servants had been packed off back to The George and the house returned to its normal calm routine Bertha could again be encouraged to explore beyond the third floor. It took weeks to coax her downstairs and months before she would venture beyond the back door. I cannot say for sure how long it took but she had put on so much extra flesh that we had to let out her black dress. ‘That’s what good food does for you,’ Grace observed. ‘Not like that stuff you gave poor Monsieur Alphonse.’ We laughed at the memory of how we had tortured the poor Frenchman and wondered where he was. I guessed he was safely back in Paris while his two charges were loose on the continent.

  By summer Bertha was walking in the garden regularly. I fretted a little that the gardeners and their boys would see her and tell others of her existence. I comforted myself with a technicality. My oath had specifically referred to telling people about Bertha. I wasn’t telling the gardeners anything; they just happened to see her. Grace and I were sure they would not gossip to the gentry. As Grace said, it is difficult to get more than a grunt out of a gardener at the best of times. In the chilly autumn sunshine Bertha kicked her way through the fallen leaves, wearing the woollen pelisse we had made her. When she came in her cheeks glowed like red apples.

  The next step was for her to go out in the brougham. At the start of this curious enterprise I had, in my ignorance, asked Mr Rochester about taking the unnamed lady out in a closed carriage. What an inspired stab in the dark that turned out to be. At the time that I asked him he had reluctantly agreed. Now I was sure that Mr Rochester, if asked, would shout No loud enough to frighten the crows. On his recent visit it was clear he wanted to avoid any sight, sound or mention of the poor woman. So I didn’t check that he had not changed his mind. In my experience as one of the so-called lower orders it is sometimes better not to ask for permission. Just assume you have it.

  Old John enjoyed polishing up the neglected carriage and giving the horses an outing. We took it in turns to accompany Bertha as we bowled down the lanes and through the villages. Safely hidden behind the broad brim of her bonnet she waved to the children who played in the road. There was no family crest on the carriage to identify us. We were just another group of ladies travelling to visit relations.

  Sundays are always difficult days for a housekeeper. You need enough staff in the house to safeguard the premises and to look after the master or attend to any visitors. On the other hand it is the right of every servant to attend chur
ch on Sunday, if they so wish. I am strongly in support of this opinion; you will remember my husband was a clergyman. Most servants did want to go. I found it was the younger servants who were most enthusiastic about churchgoing. I was not under any illusion that they wanted to hear the word of God or listen to the parson preach. They wanted a few hours off work and the chance to flirt with the servants of the other great houses.

  Grace claimed she was indifferent to religion and that she was paid extra for not having time off on Sundays. She was happy to stay in the Hall with Bertha. She didn’t need to tell me she was extremely well paid. I did the books. That is not the point, I told her. What about Bertha? Might she not benefit from hearing God’s word? Grace was not convinced. I confess I became quite rabid on the subject. In the end we agreed to try taking Bertha to the church in Hay on the following Sunday. It was my late husband’s church, a fact that gave the expedition a special piquancy.

  Our plan was quite simple. We would dress Bertha in full mourning; in effect she would wear widow’s weeds. I still had mine. No one would know who she was or what she looked like under the yards of black crepe. Her face would be completely veiled. We gave her gloves to cover her hands as we feared her dusky skin would stand out among the rest of us; we are all winter-white descendants of the Vikings. No one would speak to her or ask awkward questions. I knew that from experience. There is nothing like bereavement and misery to make people shun you.

  It went like clockwork. We sat up in the gallery and enjoyed the rare sensation of looking down on the gentry in their pews. They would not turn their heads to inspect us; they were too busy inspecting each other. The other servants nudged each other and muttered and wondered at this black crow in our midst but we knew they would not give the game away. After the service we filed past Mr Wood, the parson, who stood in the doorway exchanging compliments with some of the congregation. I had a sudden fear he might speak to us; it had been my husband’s church after all. I need not have concerned myself. He had eyes only for the gentry and stood on tiptoes to call out over our heads to Lady Clifford in the hope of an invitation to lunch. We slipped past him unnoticed.

  When we arrived back at the Hall we climbed up to the third floor and Bertha threw herself on the sofa where she writhed and squirmed. I thought she was having one of her hysterical fits. Grace had the smelling salts in her hand before we realized she was laughing, laughing fit to burst.

  ‘I did enjoy that. I felt so free. No one could see me. I just a big bundle of black. No one could see my dark skin.’ She squealed and giggled and clutched at her side; it is not easy to laugh when wearing stays. ‘It is nice being widow, isn’t it, Mrs Fairfax?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ I admitted. ‘It has its compensations.’

  ‘And you, Mrs Poole. Are you a widow too?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Grace. Her answer satisfied the uncritical Bertha but it made me wonder. Grace had always avoided telling us any details of her former life.

  We all three felt we’d got away with something rather clever. We’d played society at its own game and by its own rules and we had won. It was only later that I realized what a useful lesson we had learned.

  That November Mr Rochester returned for the start of the hunting season. When he wasn’t dealing with business he was out on the hunting field. He bought extra horses and hired more grooms to look after them so that he could hunt three days a week. So intent was he on the sport I wondered if he was hoping to break his neck.

  This time there was no Monsieur Alphonse to unnerve us and no great dinner to cater for. The few visitors were all men of business, happy to eat a roast dinner by the fire in the library. As often as not Mr Rochester would dine out after a day’s hunting. He was not short of invitations, especially from families with daughters. We managed very nicely with just an extra scullery maid and Leah’s younger brother, who was kept busy cleaning boots and fire grates and carrying coal. Even Bertha earned her keep repairing the linen.

  It was at this time I decided to make use of Bertha’s unexpected talent. She was not good with letters; we might as well have given her a bucket with a hole in it as give her a book to read. But with figures Bertha was as keen as mustard; she could work out yards and inches and the pounds, shillings and pence to the last farthing – in her head!

  In the long dark evenings she and Grace would come down to my room after supper and Bertha would check over my figures in the account books. Her eyes were much younger than mine and her addition was much more reliable. She had no understanding of the figures; she did not know if a side of beef cost three pounds, thirty pounds or three hundred pounds, but she could add and subtract fast and accurately. While she flew through her sums Grace and I would sit and knit and drink tea and generally spend a pleasant peaceful hour or two before it was time to take our candles upstairs.

  One evening Bertha could not read one of my figures. Had I written seven or nine pounds for the butcher’s bill? From memory I could not be sure. While the master was home we were buying much more meat. I went to get the invoice to check. When I found the bill I handed it to her. She held it so the light from the candle shone on it. She studied it for such a long time without speaking that I put my knitting down to look at her.

  Her finger was tracing the letters of Mr Rochester’s name where the butcher had written it in flowing script. ‘Is that an R?’ she asked. ‘And an O. What does it say?’

  ‘My master’s name. Mr Rochester. He owns this house. Did you not know?’ I did not realize what a storm I had unleashed.

  ‘He is here? In this house?’ There was no time to answer her. She rose to her feet and pushed back her chair with such force she sent the table flying. Through the door and down the corridor she went. Some instinct sent her up the main staircase, through the empty dining room and into the library, where Mr Rochester sat alone with a glass of port and a book. Her hands must have been round his throat before we had disentangled ourselves from the upturned furniture.

  By the time Grace and I arrived Mr Rochester had grappled her to the floor and was holding her wrists behind her back.

  ‘A garter.’ He waved an imperious hand at me. ‘Give me a garter. God dammit, woman, don’t pretend you don’t wear them. I want to tie her hands.’

  I have done many things for the Rochesters. I have rubbed old Mr Rochester’s knobbly hands; I have watched without comment as Mr Rowland pinned butterflies on boards and I have cared for some poor mad friendless creature without any guidance or thanks from the man who made me responsible for her. All these things I have done. But here I draw the line. I will not take my garters off for him. I set my face and stood firm and still.

  Grace saw which way the wind blew and decided to oblige him. She passed him a garter and one of her stockings. Somehow or other between them they got Bertha upright and in a chair. There was foam round her mouth as a torrent of angry words spewed out. I have never heard her say so much. And such words! I blush to remember them.

  ‘Get her out of here. I told you I never want to see her or be reminded of her. Lock her up. Throw away the key.’ His dark eyes flashed fire at us.

  Grace took her charge by the shoulder, ‘Come, Bertha.’ Mr Rochester jumped at hearing the name.

  ‘Don’t believe what she tells you,’ he snarled at Grace. He pointed an accusing finger at Bertha. ‘The truth and she are long parted.’

  Grace ignored him and continued to talk soothingly to Bertha, promising her sleeping draughts, a warm bed and feeling better in the morning. Then she held her by the arm and led her like an obedient burly child from the room.

  I was left alone with Mr Rochester. He had pulled off his cravat and loosened his collar, his hand clawing at the red marks on his neck. He leant against the mantelpiece, his chest heaving as he struggled to calm his breathing. I felt I should speak to my master, that there should be some comment made on the scene that had just been enacted. The savage expression on his face warned me to stay silent. Whatever I said would simply add fuel to th
e fire and by talking I might reveal more about my part in the incident than was good for me. Finding out Bertha had been in my room checking the accounts would not please him. I pressed my lips together, made him a bit of a curtsy and left.

  I spent a tense and restless night. I had crept up to the third-floor rooms and tested the door. It was locked. The silence behind it was ominous rather than consoling. When I rose from my troubled slumber I was in an agony of expectation. The master was sure to summon me and ask me to account for the events of the previous evening. I was mentally packing my bags and wondering where I could go.

  None of it happened. I was not summoned; I was not dismissed. There was no angry scene.

  I discovered that Mr Rochester had left first thing in the morning. He’d roused Old John from his bed and got him to saddle his favourite horse, Mesrour. He had ridden off while the frost was still on the fields. Old John was devastated. ‘Summat must have happened. For him to go off like that.’

  ‘Summat did,’ I told Old John and gave him a highly censored version of events.

  ‘Must be bad blood between them two. Fighting in library. Well I never.’ As soon as I was able I went to visit Grace and enquired about Bertha. ‘Snappish, is she this morning?’ It was Grace’s favourite understatement for the demented behaviour of her charge.

  ‘Not anymore. Last night she talked and raved and cried and talked some more. Then she wept and wept until she fell asleep with exhaustion. Now she doesn’t want to wake up.’

  ‘When she does you can tell her Mr Rochester has gone. Left without a word this morning.’

  ‘So we are off the hook.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  Grace whistled through her teeth. ‘Interesting. If you had been sitting by your library fire when a crazed creature closely followed by two of your servants came to attack you, wouldn’t you at least ask a few questions? How did she get here? Why wasn’t she watched? That sort of thing.’