Thornfield Hall (9 page)

‘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

I
T 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 Grace 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?'

‘Perhaps. For a wonderful moment when she went for me I thought she might say something.'

‘That would be a great step forward.'

‘Depends. I warn you her first words may be a disappointment to you. You wouldn't believe the words some of these ladies know. They can cuss and swear like sailors.'

We soon had a set of plain white nightgowns ready for the lady. She was quite overcome when we laid the finished garments out to show her. Tears trickled down her grimy face. She looked up at Grace with a question on her face and pointed at her own bosom. ‘Yes. For you,' Grace assured her. ‘Your very own. To wear.'

To our amazement a sound came from her lips. From the mouth that we had only ever seen opened to eat or to scream in
anguish came a sound that might have been a word. None of us was sure what exactly the sound was. There was a B and TH and we each made our own interpretation of it. I was torn between Bath and Berthe, the French version of Bertha. I had once met a governess who was so named.

‘Just my luck,' said Grace. ‘I get her to say a word and it's in French.'

After supper that night there was much excitement. John and Leah ran up the stairs with hot water. Never have I seen servants lug the heavy pails with such enthusiasm. The lady had agreed to take a bath.

Grace came to give me a late-night report. The lady had indeed bathed. The operation had been accomplished smoothly and without distress.

‘I look forward to visiting her in the morning.'

‘Don't expect too much. The hair is still a problem but the rest of her is clean. She is not exactly pink and white. I kept scrubbing. I thought it was dirt until I realized it was the colour of her skin.'

‘She came from Jamaica. It is hot there. The sun makes people darker.'

‘Right enough. The sailors who come to Grimsby are all different colours. Anyway that is not the most important thing. Not only is she clean, she said some more words, quite a few more. We were both right. She wanted a bath and her name is that French one you said. She doesn't sound French, but she's not quite English, if you know what I mean. She definitely doesn't come from these parts. I've started to call her Bertha.'

By the next morning word had gone round the servants' hall. Bertha she became to all of us.

Although the late Mrs Rochester had contributed little to the lady's wardrobe, she had left a dressing set that we dusted off. A prudent Grace removed the scissors and anything else with a sharp point. She set out the silver-backed brushes and the hand mirror in the bedroom in the hope of persuading Bertha to co-operate in dealing with her hair. ‘It's a nits' nest,' Grace complained. ‘She'll have to have it cut. You can't get a comb through it and it's going to need weeks of fine-combing to clear out all those pesky little visitors.' Grace tried persuading Bertha that her hair would grow back smooth and glossy after it was cut but to no avail. She tried to keep the shaggy black mop restrained in a cap, skewering it on tight with hairpins. A battle then ensued between cap and hair. The hair always won, somehow contriving to throw off all restraint and send hairpins in every direction.