Thornfield Hall (11 page)

Grace started her campaign by putting crumbs for the birds on the windowsill. As the sparrows and blue tits found them and landed there Bertha sat and watched the birds pecking happily. When the birds flew away she'd stay at the window and direct her attention to the world outside. The window gave onto the main drive up to the house. There were few visitors to the front door and few calls for the carriage to entertain her. Old John liked to keep the horses in practice so he'd drive round with the gig most days. The butcher's boy would come whistling up the main drive and give a cheery wave to the figure on the third floor. His sharp young eyes were the only ones to spot her. He'd come round to the tradesmen's entrance and ask when we were letting our prisoner out. Did we feed her bread and water?

‘Only on Fridays,' I'd tell him. ‘Don't you be so cheeky.'

The first trip down the back stairs was a tense affair. Bertha, kept confined on one level for so long, had to concentrate on where to put her feet and to keep her balance on the narrow twisting steps. She obviously found them strange and troublesome. So much for Grace's theory that she might have been a lady's maid. A lady's maid would be accustomed to using the back stairs. I was sure that Bertha was more familiar with the wide sweeping staircases of the main house.

After the first flight we had to cross the corridor to take the next flight down. She showed no curiosity about the lofty bedrooms that lined the corridors stretching to the right and left of us. The ground-floor rooms were easier to pass by as the stairs gave no more than a glimpse of the breakfast room. In the safety of my room she took a quick glance through the window and then spent a happy half hour examining the contents of the room. She flicked open the books as if looking for pictures. She did not read them. My knitting seemed to interest her more than anything else.

‘I like your house, Mrs Fairfax,' she informed me in all seriousness.

‘It is not my house. It belongs to my master.'

I thought she might enquire about my master but her attention was caught by the embroidery on the fire screen and she said no more on the subject. Soon it was time for her to climb back into her eyrie. Grace said that her charge was as tired that night as if she had tramped five miles.

For some months we made this discreet secretive visit two or three times a week. Bertha still showed no desire to explore further or find out about the owner of the house. One Thursday Leah came flying towards us as we were clambering down the back stairs to bring Bertha to spend an hour in my room.

‘Mrs Fairfax, Mrs Fairfax! Go back. Go back. There's a stranger in your room. A foreigner. I didn't get his name. Says he's the master's man.'

I told Leah to calm down and to help Grace get Bertha back upstairs. Bertha took some persuading. Changing plans at short notice was not one of her strong points; she tended to get into one of her states if asked to do something unexpected. Then I hastened down the stairs. Outside my room I smoothed my hair and wiped the panic off my face. After a couple of deep breaths I was able to open the door and confront my visitor.

A man sat in the armchair by the window contemplating the view that we had hoped would lure Bertha into venturing outside the house. The man rose to his feet to greet me. I could see at once that he was dressed with an elegance seldom found in Yorkshire. He gestured at the landscape beyond the window.

‘I am pleased to see that my master has extensive grounds. It is not unknown for gentlemen to exaggerate the extent of their estates when trying to attract one to their service. I do not think I will regret my choice of employer.'

I cannot describe to you how angry he made me feel. The two words ‘my master' hit me in the stomach like a blow from a pike. His foreign accent added insult to injury. He is not your master, I wanted to scream. He is my master. He is my third Mr Rochester. I did not choose him as if he were a sweet from a tray. I came with the house; he inherited me. Suffice it to say I simply bid him good morning, introduced myself, and asked the languid creature his business.

He produced a fine linen handkerchief and sniffed it delicately before he spoke. He claimed he was a gentleman's gentleman. To be precise he was Mr Rochester's French gentleman. My face must have shown my incomprehension for he went on to explain his function.

‘One sees to the wardrobe. One advises about society. Where to go. Whom to cultivate. My master needed a great deal of help when he first arrived in Paris.'

‘Would one like tea?' I asked, all innocence. One would. I rang the bell. I do not often ring the bell. The kitchen is so close that if I am not in the mood to go for myself, I will open the door and shout down the corridor. Leah arrived in response to the summons. Her pink face and breathlessness were evidence that she had seen Bertha back up the stairs and had run back down again. ‘Ask Sam to bring in tea, please. For me and…' I looked towards my unexpected guest.

‘Monsieur Alphonse.'

Leah's mouth opened to protest that she would bring the tea. I raised my eyebrows meaningfully. ‘Sam can do it,' I told her. ‘There is no need for him to change.' Sam was not the most efficient footman but he was the most widely travelled of us all. I wanted his opinion of the new arrival.

Whilst we waited for the tea I quizzed Monsieur Alphonse about Mr Rochester's plans. ‘My master rests in a town called Manchester. It is a very dirty city. One is come in advance to make preparations for his arrival.'

My heart turned over. We had grown slack over the last couple of years. It was so long since Mr Rochester had visited and our attention had been focused on the care of Bertha rather than the dusting. A heavy feeling like lead in my stomach told me I should not offer Bertha's name to Mr Rochester as an excuse for slack housekeeping. He was not interested in her progress or lack of it. I consoled myself with the thought that Mr Rochester, as a man, would not notice the dusting or the lack of it. The consolation was short-lived. The little popinjay in front of me was exactly the kind of person to run his finger along a bookshelf and grimace at the result.

Sam arrived with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hair disarranged by the wind. I guessed he had been chopping wood. While he clattered about with the tea things I introduced him to Monsieur Alphonse, as we would have to call him. The days of our informality were over – for the moment.

‘Mr Rochester always looked after hisself,' Sam barked. ‘And his father and his brother before him. We washed their linen. We polished their boots. They had clean clothes. They didn't need people to fasten their buttons. Not once they were out of nursery.'

Pain passed through the gentleman's gentleman. We watched it travel through his slender frame and wince its way across his face. Eventually the power of speech returned to him. ‘Here it might suffice. The capital cities of the world demand a higher standard. Clean linen is not sufficient for society to open its arms to a newly arrived country gentleman. A gentleman with no title, one must point out. One is there to advise on the nuances of fashion and behaviour. How to tie the cravat. Whom to visit, whom to avoid. When to arrive late. When to leave early.'

‘Well I visited a lot of capital cities when I were in navy. I managed all right.' Sam stared at the well-dressed little man. It was clear there would be no meeting of minds between these two so I intervened.

‘We shall need a room for Monsieur Alphonse. Mr Merryman's room is unoccupied. He could have that, could he, Sam?'

‘Aye. He could. It's next to mine. I'll show him later.' Sam stomped off.

The empty room in the menservants' sleeping quarters puzzled Monsieur Alphonse. When he learnt that Mr Merryman, the previous butler, had not been replaced, he was shocked.

‘A gentleman always has a butler. Who decides on the wine? Who serves it?'

‘Well, I expect you will. Is Mr Rochester bringing guests? Will there be a house party?'

‘One believes not. Hunting and horses seemed to be foremost in my master's mind.' Monsieur Alphonse did not need to add the word ‘unfortunately'. The downturn of his mouth told us what he thought of hunting and horses.

‘Has he sent instructions for Old John?' Monsieur Alphonse appeared puzzled. ‘Old John looks after the horses and the stables,' I explained.

‘No. He said nothing about an Old John.'

Now here was a puzzle. If there was one thing Mr Rochester was exact about it was his horses. As I took the little man to meet the other servants I pondered on Mr Rochester's motive in sending him on ahead like John the Baptist. For all his fine talk, he was only what we would call a valet. A valet, that's what he was. I looked forward to hearing what Sam thought of him.

‘He's a spy. That's what Monsieur Alphonse is.' Sam was adamant. ‘He's here to report on us. Make sure that we keep the great secret and are not drinking the claret.'

We were huddled in the butler's pantry whispering to each other. John's head appeared in the serving hatch, causing us to start guiltily.

‘Don't panic. The French gentleman is out of the house and on his way to the stables. He's not very happy about the mud. It will ruin the polish on his shoes.'

‘Sam thinks he's a spy.'

‘A French spy!'

‘Nah. War's over. A long time since. He's a spy for Mr Rochester.'

‘Then why did Mr Rochester send him on ahead? Why give us warning? Give us time to hide stuff, plaster over the cracks. Much more likely the master would creep up and take us by surprise. Catch us with our trousers down, so to speak. Begging your pardon for language, Mrs Fairfax.'

‘That sounds more like master.' Sam thought for a bit. A smile illuminated his face. ‘I know. My guess is that Mr Rochester's fed up with him. He's finding him annoying. He were all right in Paris. Could show him the ropes and speak the lingo. Now he's back in England he seems a bit stupid, foppish like. I bet master wishes he'd left little chap in Paris. He don't want to dismiss him. Bit hard to cut him loose, being a foreigner like. But he just wants him out of his hair – literally.'

‘So he may not be a spy.'

‘Mr Rochester may not have sent him with the intention that he spies on us, but that is exactly what he will do. Valets are sneaky little creatures. Take my word for it, he will spy on us. And he will creep round master dropping poison in his ear. He has to be useful to keep his place. Fastening buttons and brushing hairs off jackets is not enough to earn his keep here.' Sam pursed his lips and nodded his head up and down as he tested the strength of his theory. Then, apparently satisfied, he turned to John and me.

‘We'd best be careful, specially about Bertha. As far as we know he's not taken his bible oath, like rest of us. Until Mr Rochester hisself says so, we'd best keep mum.'

John tapped his top lip with his forefinger to show he intended to keep his lips sealed.

‘That's right,' said Sam, ‘and batten down the hatches.'

We did not feel it necessary to return to the subject. Here in Yorkshire we are naturally suspicious of strangers. We look askance at visitors if they come from a different county in England so there was little hope for the Frenchman. Especially since he was generally thought to be a spy. The sooner Monsieur Alphonse removed himself from Thornfield Hall the better.

My last task that day was to visit the third floor. Bertha was asleep. The interruption of her visit downstairs had disturbed her. It took only a ripple in the smooth surface of her life to upset her thoroughly. She'd had a fit of temper that was quickly followed by a bout of weeping. Grace and I decided against telling her of Mr Rochester's imminent arrival. As Grace said, he was not interested in her, and she was not interested in him. She had never enquired as to the identity of our master or even the name of the house in which she was living. For his part Mr Rochester had made no effort to inform himself about the welfare of his mysterious house guest.