Thornfield Hall (33 page)

‘That word means less and less to me these days,' I told him. Mr Merryman, like the rest of the county, knew all about the present Mr Rochester's misfortunes. We spent a few moments lamenting the decay of the house of Rochester.

‘Old Mr Rochester would be turning in his grave at the waste of money,' said the old butler when we went out to the drive where his pony and trap waited for him. He gave a penny to the boy who held his horse's head. ‘Don't forget, Mrs Fairfax, a warm welcome awaits you at The Rochester Arms.'

I laughed at the thought of my walking two miles across the fields to drink with the labourers at his inn. Grace and I had plenty of porter. Mr Rochester did not concern himself with counting bottles. Meanwhile I had plans of my own to pursue.

It took some weeks to deal with all the arrangements before the date could be set for Grace and Bertha to leave Thornfield Hall. The post chaise was booked to arrive in the afternoon to take them to the turnpike road. There they would pick up the stage in the early evening. It was agreed that I should stay behind for a few more weeks in the hope that Mr Rochester's condition improved. I thought the departure of his wife might help his recovery; he blamed her for all his troubles. Many times in the past he had threatened to close down Thornfield Hall. Now he clung to the place; it was his sole link with his beloved Jane.

Mr Rochester no longer made any pretence of dealing with his business affairs and I was left to struggle with his correspondence. One day a letter arrived that enquired after the whereabouts of Miss Eyre. Mr Briggs, the solicitor who had interrupted the wedding, wished to contact her. With much trepidation I brought the letter to Mr Rochester's attention. His
rage was explosive. I might just as well have thrown gunpowder on the fire.

No one wanted to know the whereabouts of Miss Eyre more earnestly than he did. If that snivelling lackey of the law had not put his nose into business that was no concern of his and if the wind had obliged him by dashing the ship that carried that lickspittle of a brother against the rocks then Miss Eyre's whereabouts would not be a mystery that woke him wailing at his loss in the small hours of the morning. She would be reigning as queen of his heart and the world would acknowledge her as the rightful Mrs Rochester.

I wrote to Mr Briggs myself, regretting that I was unable to help him. If he did manage to trace Miss Eyre I would be pleased if he would write to Thornfield Hall so that I could contact her.

You will see from his reaction to Mr Briggs's letter that Mr Rochester was still in a state of despair about Jane. In spite of his frantic efforts there had been no news of her. I had employed the servants' unofficial – and probably more efficient – grapevine but to no effect. We knew she had gone north on the stagecoach but after that we had lost all track of her. The few big houses in that part of the country were so widely scattered that there was little traffic between the servants. At the farms and cottages our enquiries had met with sullen silence and suspicion.

I hoped that Mr Rochester would gather his wits and begin to take charge of his affairs again. Already in my head I was rehearsing the conversation I would have to hold with him before I could leave; I was not looking forward to it. I decided I would begin by reminding him that his beloved Jane did not tolerate self-pity; she regarded it as an indulgence. She believed in hard work and discipline. If I was allowed to continue – which I doubted – I would insist that he get help from some other reliable person. He had been a good employer in many ways; his
unfortunate marriage was the source of all his flaws. Incidentally I was pleased to note I no longer thought of him as ‘my master'. That particular bad habit had been cured.

The problem of Martha still nagged at me. I fretted about it so much to Grace that in the end she sat me down and wagged her finger at me. She gave me a very stern talking to. ‘Forget about her. I will deal with Martha. You feel guilty about her and so you are too kind to her. You pussyfoot about. I don't feel guilty about her. She's had more luck than I had in a similar situation. Leave her to me. Not long now before we go.'

I asked Mr Rochester if he wanted to say farewell to ‘the lady', the unwitting cause of so much distress in his life. The mere mention of her brought a snarl to his lips and made his black eyes flash with fire. This brief sign of ferocious life was preferable to his usual gloomy silence. ‘Tell me the day of her departure,' he ordered me, thumping his desk for emphasis. ‘Tell me the day and I will make it my business to be out of sight and earshot of Thornfield Hall.'

The momentous day of Bertha's departure dawned. It was more than ten years since she'd arrived, a wild stranger driven demented by grief and ill-treatment. Grace had packed their few belongings. There was little they wanted to take to their new life. There was only one important item of luggage – baby James. It was taken for granted that he would go with them; they had fed the baby when Martha had refused to do so. The feeling was that in saving his life they had acquired the rights of a parent. No one asked Martha if she was accompanying them. It was assumed she would. Where else could she go?

Once she had recovered from childbirth I had kept her on the books as a laundry maid. It had not been difficult given the chaotic nature of the household. I had not moved her to the servants' sleeping quarters; the new maids were unhappy
enough without having to endure Martha's bragging. I had let her continue to sleep in her room on the third storey. There Bertha fed the baby both night and day while Martha enjoyed long hours of untroubled sleep.

During the day she swanned around the house, pretending to work and making eyes at the handsome footman. My suspicions of her were not confined to flirtation. I had fears of a darker and more sinister plan brewing in her twisted mind. Somehow she had sniffed out that we now had money, though I do not think she realized how much. We were women of substance and any fool could see that James would prove a powerful lever to use on us.

In the event when the post chaise arrived Martha followed Grace and Bertha out. Bertha carried the baby and Martha carried the suitcases. Martha's eyes were very red. It was a subdued departure; I was alone in seeing them off. Gone were the familiar faces of those who had taken the bible oath; they were all launched on new and better lives. Mr Rochester had been as good as his word. He'd walked to Mr Carter's house in the morning.

Grace embraced me to say goodbye, or rather
au revoir
; we would be reunited soon in our new home. She whispered in my ear that Martha had agreed to be employed as a nursery maid on a generous salary. As Grace said, we could afford it.

To my surprise Martha came to embrace me. ‘I will so miss Thornfield Hall, Mrs Fairfax. You have all been so kind to me. I don't know how I'll get on. I've never been out of Yorkshire before.' Tears streamed down her face. She seemed genuinely distressed at parting. She took a long look round the courtyard before she climbed into the chaise. I think she'd been hoping for a farewell kiss from the handsome footman, but she was disappointed. He did not appear. Once she was settled on board she sobbed and hiccupped into her hanky.

I heard Grace telling her to pull herself together and to listen to instructions. ‘In future, Martha, at the new house I am Mrs Poole to you and this lady is to be addressed as Mrs Mason. Every time you speak to us, remember Mrs Mason and Mrs Poole. You should start now and get into practice. And this young man will be Master James. You understand me. I warn you, Martha, old servants make bad masters.'

My room felt very empty when they had gone. I did not venture up the back stairs to the third floor, their territory. It was too sad. It was no use seeking solace in the servants' hall. All the faces there were new and I regarded them with suspicion. Long years of keeping secrets had left their mark on me. For distraction I set about chivvying them. I found dirt in obscure places, stains in teacups, fireplaces without coal. I felt much better after that.

At six o'clock there was a commotion at the front door. It was Mr Carter's servant with a dog cart. In the back was Mr Rochester's dog Pilot, and Mr Rochester himself. He was very much the worse for drink. Pilot slunk off into his kennel in the yard as if he was the culprit. Mr Carter's man stood, twisting his cap in his hands, and surveyed the figure slumped in the back of the dog cart. ‘He's not that bad,' he consoled me. ‘Mr Carter can't understand how your master got rid of all his horses. Might as well be dead as not have a horse, he says. Wouldn't hear of Mr Rochester walking home.'

I summoned the two new footmen to help Mr Rochester up the stairs. Mr Carter's man unscrewed his cap, popped it on his head, and was off. No one enjoys seeing the mighty fallen.

I spent a sad evening alone in the housekeeper's room. No Adele or Miss Eyre to keep me company. No Grace with her glass of porter and her pipe or Bertha with her sewing and her swift and accurate arithmetic. Even Pilot would not
come in from the yard to keep me company but stayed in his kennel with his head on his paws. I spent my time calculating how soon I could leave Thornfield Hall and prayed I would not be long delayed.

When darkness fell I checked on Pilot outside in his kennel, locked the big front door behind me and made sure the windows downstairs were all closed and fastened. They had been open all day; it was harvest time and the weather was wonderfully warm. I climbed the stairs with my candle and looked in on the library where Mr Rochester was sprawled in a chair, pretending to read his unopened book and drinking yet more brandy.

For old time's sake I climbed up to the third floor. I checked the big sitting room with its elaborate hangings and four-poster bed where we had sat and sewed in the afternoon while Leah read to us. I went through to Bertha's room where I had first seen my unusual house guest chained to the bed, a poor starved deranged creature at the mercy of the frightful Mrs Morgan. That name evoked the memory of the foul stench that had pervaded the chamber, which was now clean and fresh. I went no further. Beyond was Grace's neat and nun-like bedroom which I knew would be stripped bare. The next room had been Martha's. I did not want to torment myself by seeing the chaos, disarray and dirt in which I was sure she had left it. That could keep till the morning. I'd heard Grace taking her in hand, outlining her future duties to her. If anyone could teach Martha discipline and order it was Grace.

I retraced my steps and descended the stairs to the floor below. Out of habit I locked the door that closed off the staircase. I smiled as I remembered how pleased I was that I had done so on that fateful wedding day. Tonight there was a harvest moon. The great disc hung low and glowed in the evening sky. There was enough light for the labourers to work late to bring
in the last of the corn. Soon the farmers would start burning the stubble and the air would be full of foul black smoke.

As I lay down to sleep I counted my blessings, as has been my habit for many years. Sometimes I've struggled to find a single one but that night I had to use my fingers to count them all. Bertha and Grace. Leah and John. Old John and Mary. Sam with his Sophie. They were all launched on new lives that were more suited to them and more comfortable than their previous ones. Adele, I was not so sure about. School would not be to her taste. I had every confidence that in a few years she would quickly arrange matters to her satisfaction. She would charm her way into having a fine house and an extensive wardrobe. Mr Rochester might improve now that Thornfield Hall was free of the incubus of his wife. He could not live for ever in his state of morose gloom. I was looking forward to my new life as a woman of independent means.

THE HARVEST

1832

I
N THE SMALL HOURS OF THE MORNING I WAS
woken by shouting in the corridor outside and banging on my door. Mr Rochester erupted into my room. I sat up in bed, dazed and startled. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted his orders straight into my face. ‘Get up. Put shoes on. The library is on fire.' I thought it was one of his mad drunken fantasies. I smelt no smoke. He reeked of brandy but his speech was clear and his movements were brisk.

‘You must help me get the servants out. I will turn my back for thirty seconds. Then you must be ready. If not, I swear I will dress you myself.' I pulled my dressing gown over my nightgown and had the sense to pick up my little bible and thrust it into my pocket. I climbed into the first pair of shoes I could find. Mr Rochester lit a candle and handed it to me.

‘You will need that.' Outside the corridor was dark but at the library end there was an ominous scarlet glow. ‘You take the women's side. I will rouse the men.'

I had to run to keep up with him as he raced down the corridor. All the time I was racking my brain trying to remember
how many live-in servants we had. There had been so many comings and goings that I had quite lost track of them. I found the new cook first. A phlegmatic woman, she insisted on getting properly dressed while I went to wake the two kitchen maids and the housemaid who had replaced Leah. Cook assured me that four was the full complement of female staff. They had all managed to scrabble into their clothes. How I envied them as I flapped about in my dressing gown. Cook even had her stays on.

I led my little flock out into the main corridor where we rendezvoused with the menservants. The two new footmen were there. They too had managed to dress, but then men's clothes are so much more convenient than women's with their endless hooks and loops and buttons. Mr Rochester appeared, herding the boys who worked in the stables, the garden and the kitchen. They assured me they were all there. As they preferred to travel in a pack I believed them.

We could hear the fire now. The flames roared and crackled and we could smell the smoke. Mr Rochester held his candle aloft as he led us down the main staircase. Calm, confident and positive, he was in full command of the situation. It will be worth a fire if it returns him to his senses, was the foolish thought that ran through my head. Like a Moses, he led us through danger into safety. I thought all peril was over. I did not understand the full power of fire, that ferocious and greedy element that devours everything in its path.