Thornfield Hall (29 page)

Grace squared up to the shrieking girl. ‘It is good work. You have a roof over your head. You are well-fed. The other mother wants good milk for her child. You get to keep your own baby. One child on each side.' Grace demonstrated with her hands. ‘No problem.'

Horror distorted Martha's swollen face even further. ‘I feel sick just thinking about it. It's like being a cow.'

Grace leant over Martha and wagged her finger in her face. ‘Cattle have a good life. They are housed and fed. You will find that a girl with a baby has very few choices about the way she makes her living. You can have a sweet, clean, lovable little creature suck your breast with his toothless gums or you can have a smelly, hairy creature with a belly hanging down to his knees lift your skirts and poke his grubby manhood in your fanny or in any other hole he fancies sticking it.' I had never heard Grace so passionate. When she had finished she straightened her cap, smoothed her apron and recovered her habitual calm. ‘I don't mean to be unkind, Martha. You have to think about your future – and your baby's.'

‘I'll be all right.' Martha tossed her head. ‘I'll think of something.'

‘So that's all right then. As long as you don't plan to go to Baroness Ingram and tell her she has a grandchild. Oootchy coootchy coo. Isn't he lovely? Won't he make a nice little baronet? And wouldn't it be lovely if your son married me?'

Martha said nothing. Her face said it all.

Two days before his wedding Mr Rochester summoned me, Grace and Bertha to the library. At his side stood a distinguished-looking gentleman with silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard; he was everyone's picture of a family lawyer. But he was not the usual Rochester family lawyer. By his accent he had been specially imported from across the Pennines to carry out this task. There was no risk of his being indiscreet with a local colleague. The Wars of the Roses only finished yesterday to many people round here.

He took us through the documents very carefully, explaining that Grace and I were to be trustees for one Bertha Mason. Bertha bowed to him very civilly at the sound of her name. She sat quietly through the whole proceedings, her eyes fixed on the floor or the lawyer or the view through the window – anywhere, in short, where Mr Rochester was not.

The lawyer explained that Grace and I were to administer the money with care and diligence and provide a home for Bertha. In time we could appoint further suitable people as trustees depending on where we decided to live, so that the future of the said Bertha Mason could be secure. The funds for the trust were on deposit at the Bank of Knaresborough. They would be available for withdrawal in two days' time.

We signed the deed of trust. I have to give Mr Rochester credit for behaving frankly and fairly once we had screwed him to the sticking post but I noted the familiar Rochester caution with money. The thirty thousand pounds would not be ours until the day of the wedding. We gave a respectful curtsy and withdrew.

Dignity and restraint stayed with us in the corridor. We behaved as three middle-aged and respectable ladies normally
behave. When we reached the third floor matters took a very different turn. We kissed the legal papers, we laughed and fell into our chairs; we loosened our stays and unpinned our hair. Grace poured out the porter. We were free, independent and soon would be wealthy. We would have sufficient means to live very comfortable lives. We need call no man master again.

The only blight on our happiness was the arrival of Martha, breathless and panting from climbing the stairs with her basket of washing, her face swollen and purple and her belly heaving with a child she did not want. She was a poignant reminder of how unequal fate could be to women. Grace gave her a glass of porter and told her it would help her sleep.

Perhaps we put too much reliance on the soporific effects of porter; it certainly made me sleep like a baby. I was so content and carefree that I forgot to lock the door to the stairs to the third floor. I was growing careless as my plan came into fruition. Only one full day lay between me and the day of the wedding, when Bertha's dowry and her life would be returned to her. The day passed without incident except that Miss Eyre, normally so calm and composed, must have had an attack of wedding nerves. She did not want to spend the night before her wedding alone and went to sleep with Adele and Sophie in the nursery. No doubt there were many jokes in the servants' hall and warnings to Sam to curtail his night-time wanderings.

AN EVENTFUL DAY IN JULY

1832

G
RACE WOKE ME BEFORE SIX ON THE MORNING
of Mr Rochester's wedding day with some unexpected news: Martha had gone into labour. Trust her to choose such an inconvenient moment. ‘No need to send for the midwife just yet,' Grace assured me. ‘First babies take a long time. She is fussing and groaning already but Bertha is with her. Martha would try the patience of a saint but Bertha is very kind to her. I think poor Bertha has suffered so much it makes her very tender to other people's pain.'

‘If only Martha had waited a day. Our funds would be secure and we could do something for the silly creature and her unfortunate baby. I dread Mr Rochester or Miss Eyre finding out that we have been keeping her here. It feels so underhand.'

‘Serves him right. He kept Bertha locked away for years. That's what I call underhand.' Grace took hold of my hands and stared me in the face. She spoke forcefully to me. ‘Four hours from now the happy couple will be gone. They'll be bowling along in their new coach and Martha will be able to scream as loud as she likes. They will not hear her.'

Invigorated by her words and her confidence I made a quick visit to the third floor, where I found Bertha sitting calmly next to Martha. She was bathing her face and hands and singing one of the strange soothing songs she must have learnt as a child in Jamaica. Bertha was still in her white nightgown but her black hair was smoothed back into a neat plait. Martha writhed on the bed, her dark hair wild and tangled about her swollen face. In her pain she cursed and swore; she used words that would have made a stable hand blush. If someone had asked you to point at the madwoman in the room you would undoubtedly have chosen the one in the bed.

My regular household duties soon called me away. In honour of the occasion I put on the black silk dress I had worn for John and Leah's wedding. How strange life is. You do not go to a wedding for years and then two come along in quick succession. Breakfast was served in the dining room but the groom had no appetite. He paced about like a caged lion and kept sending to see if Miss Eyre was dressed.

Sophie was to carry out the task of preparing the bride, although I doubted the wedding clothes Miss Eyre had chosen would meet the French maid's exacting standards. Miss Eyre's dress was very plain, though the colour was flattering and the veil was exquisite. Sophie must have lamented the modesty of Miss Eyre's ambition in the matter of dress. What a beauty the French girl would have made of her if she had been given a free hand.

When he wasn't sending messages to chivvy his bride Mr Rochester was sending one of his new footmen to the church to check that Mr Wood was there. The footman soon returned and reported that the parson was putting his surplice on in the vestry. I could not help noticing that on this occasion the clergyman was treating the bridal couple with more respect than he had given to John and Leah. A troublesome thought
niggled at the back of my mind. I did not know the name of this new – and remarkably handsome – footman. Was he to be the next John? It annoyed me that I could not recall his given name. I dismissed the matter from my mind. I had more important concerns that day and soon the handsome footman would be away from Thornfield Hall, bouncing about behind Mr Rochester's new carriage.

I waited in the hall hoping to have a word with Miss Eyre before she left for church. It was not to be. Mr Rochester held her by the wrist and positively dragged her past me. There was no opportunity to wish her joy or tell her how well she looked. As she passed I noticed that she was not wearing the handsome veil that Mr Rochester had bought for her but a plain simple square of fine lawn.

As soon as possible I went back upstairs to check on Martha. The scene that met my eyes was a copy of the one I had witnessed earlier. The only change was that Martha's groans were louder. The midwife had sent word that she would come in the afternoon; her services were unlikely to be needed earlier. ‘Should we send for Carter, the surgeon?' I asked Grace.

She gave me one of her withering looks. ‘Only if she is having a foal.'

A glance at my watch told me that the wedding party would soon be returning. Again I descended the stairs and from force of habit I locked the door at the foot of the staircase. I cannot tell you how glad I was later that I had remembered to carry out that small routine task. I collected Adele, who had spent much longer dressing than Miss Eyre did, and Sophie. We trooped down to the hall to greet the happy couple on their return. Leah joined us there. ‘What became of that lovely veil?' she wondered. Leah had been watching from behind a door when Jane came down. She tried to mime her question to Sophie. The
only response she received was a shrug of Sophie's shoulders. Sam's English lessons had not proved very successful.

My first inkling that something was wrong came when I saw three gentlemen struggling to keep up with Mr Rochester as he raced up the drive with Miss Eyre, or Mrs Rochester as I should call her, dragged along in his grasp. One was Mr Wood in his surplice, the other two gentlemen were formally dressed. I guessed that Mr Rochester had called them to be witnesses. At the door he dismissed the carriage that had been waiting to take him and his bride on their wedding journey. Automatically we advanced to greet the wedding party to congratulate them in the conventional way. I saw then his face was thunderous and livid with rage. He shouted at us, ‘To the right about – every soul!' And told us our wedding congratulations were fifteen years too late. My heart dropped like a stone. The secret of his marriage to Bertha must be out.

He charged through the hall and bundled his bride up the stairs whilst urging the other gentlemen to follow him. As they passed me I recognized Mr Wood and Mr Mason, Bertha's unwelcome brother. The third man was a stranger to me. I realized that Mr Rochester's destination was the third storey. Mason must have stopped the wedding. Mr Rochester was going to show them his so-called mad wife to justify his deception. What a disappointment was in store for him! They would never believe him. Miss Eyre would think him no better than a miserable failed bigamist if she saw Bertha as I had seen her that morning, calm, clean, self-possessed and most definitely in her right mind. It was not a strong mind but it was not currently disordered. The frustrated bridegroom might find his ‘wife' disappointed his companions. The discovery of an illicit laundry maid giving birth would more than compensate them. It would be a catastrophe for me.

I shadowed their footsteps as they raced along the gallery. Mr Rochester unlocked the door to the stairs with his key. How pleased I was that I had remembered to lock that door! For some reason I was immensely comforted by this small detail; it was evidence that I did not completely neglect my housekeeper's duties. It would not weigh much in the scales against my misdeeds in harbouring a pregnant servant girl or being responsible by some slip or accident for revealing the existence of his first wife.

Someone must have told Mr Mason that the banns had been called. My mind raced over a list of suspects as I waited for the chance to climb the stairs unobserved. It could not be Leah, not my favourite Leah. She was as stunned as I was by their return from church. John's mind was too full of breeds of sheep and choosing chickens. Old John and Mary were too loyal to the family to risk injuring them. Could it be Sam? His sweetener had probably already been spent bringing Sophie to his bed. I tried to picture Sam sidling off to warn the parson. It was not a convincing vision; Sam never had a civil word for Mr Wood.

The most likely culprits were me and Grace. We had tried to be discreet but servants, as we well know, have sharp ears. Secrets cannot be kept from them. Martha was my first suspect. I had her in the dock, tried and found guilty before my feet had finished climbing the stairs. There had been many opportunities for her to eavesdrop and she liked causing trouble. Even when there was no advantage in it for her.

By this time the wedding party was through the first room. I peeped in. The hangings had been parted and the door to Bertha's room was unlocked. Quiet as a ghost I glided down the corridor past them and gently tried the handle of the room at the end, Martha's room. To my relief it was unlocked.

I found Martha on the bed, struggling with her pain. She was alone in the room but someone, Grace no doubt, had taken the precaution of giving her a towel to bite to stifle her screams. The fabric was clenched between her teeth. A great spasm of pain hit her. Her hands flailed in the air and she pulled desperately at the improvised gag, tearing it free from her mouth. Her back arched in an attempt to escape the agony that nature was inflicting on her. I saw the scream as it travelled up her throat and faster than thought I covered her mouth with my hands to deaden the sound. Her eyes popped wide open; she was so shocked by the force I'd used she forgot to finish her scream.