Thornfield Hall (22 page)

‘That how you got him, Mary?' It was Sam, who could never resist a joke.

‘So we are all agreed?' I spoke after the laughter died away. ‘We find a way to look after Martha here until the baby comes. After that who knows? We must do our best. John, after you've seen the parson, ride over to the Ingrams' place and tell Martha what we've agreed. I'm sure in the circumstances Old John will
let you have one of his better horses. It's twenty miles to Ingram Park. Nothing to a farm lad like you.'

‘Master could get there in a morning. He's a fine horseman. He could be there every day wooing his lady love, the lovely Miss Blanche. But he isn't.'

‘Master doesn't like to show his hand. He plays his cards close to his chest. This Mr Rochester has more than one secret.' I pricked up my ears at Sam's words. He gave the satisfied smirk of someone with superior knowledge. It could not be the fact of the existence of Bertha; all of us present had sworn the Bible oath. It must be a further secret. Had Sam discovered that Bertha claimed to be our master's lawful wedded wife?

Sam leant forward confidentially to enlighten us. ‘There was a rum do the other night. You remember that Mason fellow who said he came from Jamaica? Mr Rochester woke me up in the middle of the night. Sent me off in the dark to get a post chaise. Told me to make the driver stay outside the gates so the noise of the wheels didn't wake the guests. Master sent me straight back to bed when I got back with it. I didn't go, of course. Hung about in the dark.'

‘Anything interesting?'

‘I saw Miss Eyre come out to make sure the road was clear.' Rude whistles greeted this piece of news. ‘By the way, where is she?'

‘Summoned to a dying relative.'

‘That's her story.'

‘Go on. Tell us the end of the tale.'

‘Well, you know that Mr Mason?' We all nodded. ‘Master and Mr Carter came out into yard and they were sort of holding him up between them to help him walk. When they got him to the chaise, they bundled him into the coach. Mr Carter climbed in after him and they drove off.'

‘Sounds as if he was drunk.'

‘Funny,' said John. ‘He was all right when he rang his bell late that night. Asked me if I had a key to the third storey. Told me to unlock the door.'

‘Did you?'

‘Aye. A guest tells you to do something, you do it. He said the master knew all about it and he couldn't wait any longer to see his sister, Bertha. He knew her name and where she was kept. So I thought it all right.'

His sister! We were astounded. Bertha had a brother.

We had myriad questions and many speculations. Most of our comments were not complimentary. A brother who let you rot for ten years without a visit or a letter was not much of a brother to our minds. More secrets, more Rochester secrets. One gem of information came out of it. We realized that we now knew Bertha's second name. Bertha Mason. She was Bertha Mason. We could hardly wait to get the full story of the night's events from Grace.

BERTHA'S STORY

1832

M
Y MASTER LEFT FOR LONDON, CLAIMING HE
was going to buy a new carriage in readiness for his marriage. He still did not give the name of his bride but it was assumed that he would marry Miss Ingram. If he had gone to Ingram Park occasionally we might have been more inclined to find the alliance credible. To be honest we all breathed a sigh of relief that he was gone and that with Miss Eyre away we could fall back into our more relaxed ways and could talk more freely without looking over our shoulders to see who was listening.

It was a day after the master's departure before Grace and Bertha could cope with a visit. The evening was still light and the sunset across the moors blazed a magnificent scarlet. Bertha was in the room, but not in the room, if you get my meaning. She was looking out of the window but what she saw I did not know. I was sure it was not the green fields and the great open spaces of Yorkshire. She was dressed but her hair was loose, lying around her shoulders like a big black cloud. Her eyes were rimmed with red and the scratches on her hands showed that she had been tearing at herself with her fingernails, something
she only did when she was very disturbed. The baby doll Adele had loaned was nestled against her bosom and every now and then she would look down tenderly at it and adjust its position. There was no other outward sign that Bertha had suffered one of her episodes of wild and uncontrolled behaviour. Both women looked exhausted, their faces grey from lack of sleep, fresh air and exercise. This enforced secrecy was very hard on them; it's no way for people to live.

Since Grace seemed disinclined – or too tired – to talk I started the conversation. You know how it is when you have not seen your friend for a long time. Once you have started talking you cannot stop. There was so much to tell. First the good news: Leah's baby on the way and John doing the right thing with love in his heart. Then the bad news about Martha.

Grace laughed when I recounted Old John's description of the parish constable offering a man the choice between marriage and prison. ‘Not much of a choice is it? I think I would choose prison. An unhappy marriage is worse than jail. Course now it's not enough to point your finger at a man and say he was the one who did the deed. You have to have evidence. Still, Alice, if there's anything I can do to keep Martha from the workhouse, consider it done. I know what it's like in there. I would not wish it on my worst enemy. Here's my hand on it.'

Her hand when she gave it to me was dry and papery, a sure sign of the strain of the last few days; she had been living off her formidable willpower. ‘So you have not been wasting your time with fripperies while I've been locked up here?'

I could not ignore the jibe. ‘I have not been idle. I have been running a house party.' I lowered my voice. ‘I hear you had a late night visitor.' Grace nodded and looked towards Bertha to make sure she was still occupied at the window. ‘Did he claim
he was her brother?' Grace nodded again. ‘Did he give you his name?' This time Grace shook her head.

‘Your Mr Rochester called him Richard or Dick.' She gave me a sour look. ‘I can think of some better names for him.'

‘He's a Mister Mason. So Bertha must be Bertha Mason.' I sat back with a pleasant feeling of triumph.

‘No she's not. She's Bertha Rochester.' Grace had trumped my ace. I felt my jaw drop in a most unladylike way. I snapped it back shut.

Bertha chose this moment to move away from the window. I thought she had heard her name. She came to lie on the big four-poster bed, her doll still clasped firmly to her breast.

‘Leah to have a baby,' she murmured. It always surprised me, what she took from a conversation and what she ignored. ‘Will she let me hold it?'

‘I expect so.'

‘It is so nice to suckle a child,' Bertha said wistfully and gazed down at the doll.

On hearing that remark Grace rose and went to sit next to her. I joined them to make a cosy circle with Bertha and her pretend baby on the bed. ‘Now Mrs Fairfax is here you might like to tell her your story, Bertha,' Grace began, speaking earnestly and seriously to her charge. Bertha nodded and I put on my listening face.

‘Start with Mr Edward coming to Spanish Town,' Grace prompted her.

‘We have house in Spanish Town. I live there with my father, my mother and my big brother.'

‘Is that all your family?' Grace asked.

‘No. I have little brother but he stay at plantation. He…' Words fail her. She twirls a finger at her head.

‘So you were living in Spanish Town when Mr Edward came.'

‘Yes. He come to see my father on business. I was young then. I go to dances, parties. I have many admirers. Nice dresses. Mr Edward not handsome but he very strong and he does business with my father. Pa call me in and say he think it good thing for me to marry Mr Edward. I have a nice dowry. Thirty thousand pounds. Papa talks to Mr Edward. It is all agreed. Everybody is happy.

‘First year very nice. He love me a lot.' She stopped talking and gave me a hard look. ‘You know,' she said and bounced up and down on the bed. ‘We do the jiggly thing.'

‘I know,' I told her. ‘I know what you mean.'

‘Then it not so nice. My mama keep asking why there no baby yet. She keep on at Mr Edward. She give me things to drink. She put magic in Mr Edward's whisky. Every time she ask he get very angry with my mama. Mr Edward stop working in business. Papa very angry with Mr Edward. Now he drinking whisky all time. Papa sends us to live on plantation.' She shudders.

‘Plantation not nice. Nice flowers and bright birds but many slaves. Sometimes my brother come and he take Mr Edward to slave cabins at night. For the women. That very bad thing.'

She starts to count on her fingers. ‘Three, no four years go past. Baby comes.' A great smile lights up her face as she remembers. ‘I so happy. He lovely baby. Big brown eyes, curly hair, strong hands. He grip my finger tight.' She put a hand to her bosom and pulled up the locket she had fought so hard to save and had since worn continuously.

To my amazement she opened the locket; she had never done that before. Inside was a tiny lock of curly black hair. It was different in texture from any hair I had seen before. It looked as if the inexpert hands of Martha had been working on it with an overheated curling iron. Like a dutiful child offering cake at a tea party, Bertha held out her locket for Grace to inspect and
then showed it to me. We gazed in turn at the sad memento and silently handed it back to her. She closed the locket and slipped it round her neck and back into her nightgown.

I sat frozen in my chair, dreading what might come next in her tale.

‘I feed him myself.' She slapped her bosom. ‘With these. Mr Edward not happy.'

I smiled to myself. The gentry were notorious for not letting their wives feed their own babies. The poor children were sent off to take their chances with wet nurses. This peculiar system caused much hardship – babies dead in the first three months and women pregnant and giving birth again within the year. I assumed Mr Edward's anger was caused by his sharing this strange English prejudice against a baby temporarily taking over a woman's breasts. I was a long way from the mark. Bertha had a surprise for me.

‘Baby very dark. Black really. It happens sometimes in my country. Pale lady has black baby. Black lady has pale baby. We know that it happen in Spanish Town. But Mr Edward he go mad. He point at baby. Baby cannot be his son. He tell me now he rich man in England. His father and brother dead. He say we must go to England. He need son and heir. He say he cannot take black baby to England.'

I try to imagine Mr Rochester presenting the local gentry with a very dark baby he had brought with him on a ship from Jamaica. I hear him explaining that the dusky child is his firstborn son and therefore the true heir to the Rochester fortune. I can see the nudging, the head-shaking. There would be whispering behind hands that would soon break out into outright scorn and contempt. People in Yorkshire do not take seriously any births that occur outside the county boundary. If you are not born in Yorkshire you do not really exist.

‘He say I been going with slaves. He say that to me! He is the one who is down the slave cabins with my brother up to no good.' Bertha's voice grew shrill with indignation. Grace patted her hand and mopped her brow. She gave her a sniff of smelling salts to soothe her. Bertha's voice when she took up her tale again was quiet and subdued.

‘One night I sleep very deep. Baby not wake me to feed. In morning cradle empty. Mr Edward tell me baby dead. Died in night. Has taken body away. I go mad. He give me potion to drink. I sleep. When I wake I find I am on big ship. In little room. In dark. Door locked. He bring food but I sick all time. These hurt.' She tapped her breasts. ‘All big with milk. It leak out. My frock all wet. No little mouth to suck them. I cry and cry.'

Tears dripped down her face as she remembered the voyage to England. I pictured her locked in a tiny cabin in the bowels of the ship, dependent on Mr Rochester for all her needs. We had all heard about the dreadful journey the people from Africa had been forced to endure before the navy put a stop to the trade. The suffering was beyond my imagining.

‘When the boat stop I in smoky cold town. Mr Edward put me in coach with nasty smelly woman and bring me here.' She gestured to the window. ‘No bright flowers, no colourful birds, most time no leaves on trees.'

My heart went out to the poor soul. I knew the agony of losing a child. At least I had been able to lay my baby girl to rest and had a gravestone to mark her existence – not just an empty cradle and a tuft of hair.

‘I very tired. Can I go to bed now?' Bertha turned her childlike gaze to Grace, who led her away to prepare her for bed. Bertha sat quietly while Grace brushed her hair and dressed her in a clean nightgown. Through the open door I watched as Grace tucked her into bed like a giant child and dropped a
kiss on her forehead. Within seconds Bertha was asleep. She was reaping the blessing of her limited intellect; she could not keep an idea in her head for very long. Grace returned to the sitting room, closed the door to Bertha's bedroom and pulled the tapestry across it.

Grace gave me a mocking grin. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?' she asked, smooth as a society hostess. ‘Or something stronger. You've gone a little pale. Your beloved master does not come out of that story very well, does he?' She sniggered as she put the kettle on the fire.

That put me on my mettle. ‘We don't know her story is true. We've no proof, no evidence, no… What do the lawyers call it?'

‘Corroboration.' Grace, as always, was well-informed on legal matters. ‘You should read the newspaper more,' she told me. ‘Not just recipes.'

I let her win that one.

‘I have ears to hear.' Grace waggled them with her fingers. ‘I have now heard Bertha's story and I have heard both the brother and your sainted master himself acknowledge the truth of it. She is the legal wedded wife of our Mr Rochester. I do not doubt any longer.'