Thornfield Hall (12 page)

Grace agreed with the general view that Monsieur Alphonse posed a threat of an unspecified nature. We decided it was safer, while the little Frenchman was here, to keep Bertha confined to the third floor and to put a stop on her little expeditions. We did not think she would protest or complain. She was happiest leading a very quiet life with a regular routine.

The valet was to sleep in the old butler's room in the men-servants' corridor. Although this was on the third floor it was at the back of the house, well away from Grace and Bertha, whose rooms were at the front. It was possible to prevent his seeing them during the day as long as he did not go exploring in the night.

We worked very hard for the next few days. We cleaned and dusted, polished and waxed. The beds were stripped and the sheets were boiled. The meat was ordered and the vegetables were pickled. The extra hands I had recruited from The George to help with the cleaning ate their meals with us in the servants' hall. We had to go back to our formal ways – and highly uncomfortable it all was. We had to call each other by our official names as we went about our duties.

I entertained Monsieur Alphonse to dinner in my room as etiquette demanded. Mary obliged by sending us the worst food she could create in the hope of encouraging him to leave. We fed him porridge, boiled mutton, cabbage and the coarsest bread we could find. Whilst he struggled to swallow the tasteless slops and chew the hard tack we offered him, Grace slid secretly down the back stairs for her bread and cheese and a pint of porter.

To keep our monsieur busy we set him to sorting out the clothes accumulated by two generations of Rochester men. He tutted and fussed something shocking. He ran the garments through his fingers lamenting the old-fashioned styles and the heavy material. He made the mistake of criticizing the locally woven broadcloth that had clothed the Rochesters for generations. His biggest mistake was to do this in the hearing of Old John. The coachman promptly joined with gusto in the unofficial campaign to make life as unpleasant as possible for poor Monsieur Alphonse.

‘Master'll want you to ride with him when he goes to hounds,' Old John informed the valet with malice aforethought. ‘Now he's got his own gentleman he'll want him out in the field with him. All the gentry bring their personal servants. Case they're needed. Help carry them home if they breaks their necks.'

The little man blenched so thoroughly he was positively transparent.

‘We'd better be thinking of a mount for you.' Old John was relentless in his torture. ‘Nothing too big, but able to handle the hedges. A good jumper. I've got a nice little filly would just suit you. A bit young and frisky but she'll soon learn. Come round stables this afternoon and give her a try.'

By the end of the week I was beginning to feel sorry for Monsieur Alphonse, especially when John the young footman told his story to me and Sam. There'd been a knock on his door at night. He'd opened it to find the little Frenchman on the threshold. For some reason Sam chose this moment to slap his forehead as if he'd forgotten to tell us something very important.

‘I don't know why he came to me,' John continued. ‘Except I'm the only one as hasn't been actively nasty to him. I've not spat in his food or terrified him with horses. Anyway he wanted to know where he was. Poor chap didn't seem to know. I told him Yorkshire. I had to explain to him it was a whole big county. All he wanted to know was how far he was from London. And how soon could he get there. From London he wants to go to Dover. Apparently there's a boat that'll take him back to his own country.'

We looked to Sam for enlightenment. Sam had sailed the world. He would know where London was.

‘Must be several hundred miles. Old master used to do it by post chaise in two days, but that were pushing it. He'd be black and blue from the shaking about. And it costs. Specially for a seat inside. It's not so much to ride on top but it's cold and wet up there. I'm beginning to feel sorry for the poor little beggar.'

‘If only the railway had got to York. They say them steam trains can go at thirty miles an hour.'

‘If wishes were horses then beggars would ride,' I told John. I was brisk with him as I felt bad about the way we had behaved to Monsieur Alphonse. He had come to us as a stranger and we had not welcomed him in. It was time to offer him a friendly hand. ‘Tell the little chap, if he has the fare, he can get the stagecoach from the turnpike road. We'll find a way to get him there.'

‘There must be a chaise or a cart going to the turnpike road soon. Stands to reason. Someone from round here must be going.'

We sent word round the servants in the big houses. Every delivery man passed the message on with the laundry, the wine or the hay for the horses. The groom told the agent, the butler told his master, the dressmaker told the mistress. By the time Mr Rochester was due to arrive information was filtering back to us. We knew not only who was going to the turnpike road, but also that young Lord Ingram was to be sent on the Grand Tour. A younger son of Lord Clifford's was also ready to undertake the journey. The two were to travel together with a tutor appointed by Lord Clifford. There was, it seemed, a chance for Monsieur to return to the continent.

‘We have Martha to thank for telling us about young Lord Ingram,' Old John told me. ‘She sent to say that she misses Thornfield Hall. The Ingrams are hard taskmasters.'

‘Send her my thanks. Is she a lady's maid yet?'

Old John sucked on his pipe. ‘Not quite. She still has hopes.'

‘Mmmm. We'd best work on the Cliffords. The Ingrams are such cheese-parers. Who rules the roost in the Clifford household?'

‘By all accounts, she does.'

That evening I visited Grace to keep her up to date. Bertha was sleeping and Grace was puffing contentedly on her pipe by the fire. They had not been too lonely. Leah had come in the
afternoon and they had done some sewing. Grace showed me the nightdress they had finished. Bertha had embroidered it with strange flowers and exotic birds – the like of which we had never seen before. We decided she must remember them from her own country, Jamaica. The work was exquisite, the stitches neat and the colours and the design well-chosen.

‘It is a shame she cannot meet the Frenchman. He is good with colours too. And he dresses very smart. Not really suitable for here in the country, but you can see he has a knack.'

Grace and I exchanged meaningful looks. ‘I am sure Lady Clifford would want her son to be a credit to her in the capitals of Europe,' I told her.

Mr Rochester's arrival caused us less consternation than Monsieur Alphonse's had. We had gone into training with the valet and were battle-ready for the master. When he arrived Mr Rochester strode across the gravel to greet us as we waited at the door. It was clear he was in the peak of health and high spirits. There was an indefinable gleam to him that we had not seen before. His black hair was glossy and his eyes sparkling. His clothes fitted him to perfection and his linen was snowy white. I looked at Monsieur Alphonse with increased respect.

I was standing with my back to the house as Mr Rochester greeted me. I saw him glance up at the third storey. ‘Everything is in good order here,' I told him and gave him a significant look straight in the eye. ‘Absolutely everything. The house is ready if you wish to entertain your neighbours.'

‘No doubt the whole county is agog to see the returning prodigal.'

He gave me his winning smile, which emboldened me to answer, ‘You could say that, indeed you could say that, sir.' As I followed him in I felt the house come alive to welcome its returning master.

The plan fell into place as we hoped it would. A word here, some gentle pressure there, a whispered suggestion, a subtle promise and people will do what you want as long as you work with the grain of their characters. The French valet wanted to go home; Lady Clifford wanted the best for her son. Mr Rochester wanted to enjoy his wealth and position and not be reminded of his responsibility for a deranged woman. The ingredients for our plan to work were there; all we needed was some luck.

Our master spent his days hunting or dealing with business matters. Once Monsieur Alphonse discovered that Old John had been playing a joke on him and that his attendance on the hunting field was not obligatory he languished with nothing to do but clean muddy boots. The unhappy valet must have felt completely marooned on a hostile island. We consoled him by dangling before him the prospect of accompanying a sprig of the grand and noble Clifford family to France. If only Mr Rochester would hold a great dinner party. If only the chosen tutor could be removed.

Help with our plan arrived in the unlikely person of Carter, the surgeon. ‘A hunt dinner at Thornfield Hall,' he roared. ‘Haven't had one for years. Time we did, Rochester. Landowners' responsibility to host the event.' Even if he had wanted to Mr Rochester could not have evaded what the whole county was united in wishing into existence.

‘This is your chance to shine,' John and Sam told Monsieur Alphonse. ‘Show us how things are done in Paris. Show us what proper footmen do.'

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.'