Thornfield Hall (38 page)

‘She doesn't want to take him but she doesn't like to say so. I tell her we'll take him. And we'll take good care of him. She hesitates but I can see she wants to say yes. So I offer her twenty pounds for him and that clinches it. She gets back in the coach and we write a bit of something on a piece of paper and I give her the twenty gold sovereigns. I had taken the precaution of hiding them about my person. I thought I might bribe her into parting with him. I nearly fainted with relief when the deal was done. I don't know what I would have done if she'd wanted to take him back to Thornfield with her. Bertha would have gone for her throat rather than part with him. Murder would have been done that night.'

‘It was.'

That shook Grace. Never one to waste a word, ‘Explain,' she commanded me.

So I told Grace about Martha, and locking the door. I told her about the fire and the leap from the roof. And how everyone thought it was Bertha and that I had not corrected them. And how I'd coached Mr Merryman to spread the story and how Bertha would be blamed for starting the fire – and Grace herself. I even told her about the gin.

‘I never thought the silly baggage would creep back into the house like that. I thought she'd go straight to the servants' hall to make eyes at the handsome footman.'

‘No one knew she was there. I expect she arrived late and went straight up to the third floor. She'd want her beauty sleep to be ready for the handsome footman. And knowing Martha she'd want a nice lie-in the morning.'

‘Who knows? You just hold on to that thought, Alice Fairfax. You are not the only one to blame. For a start, there's Martha
herself, and then there's your beloved Mr Rochester and his careless ways with candles. He started the fire.' She wagged her finger at me like a school ma'am pressing a lesson home.

I lay back on the pillows and pondered her advice. ‘You must show me that piece of paper Martha signed some time.' I leant across to pick up my tiny bible. ‘We have quite an interesting collection of documents now.' I passed Grace the copy of Bertha Rochester's death certificate. She whistled through her teeth. ‘Better not make a sound like that in the drawing room when there are guests,' I warned her.

‘So Bertha Rochester is officially dead. Long live Bertha Mason.' Grace straightened her cap and thought for a moment. ‘I don't think we need bother Bertha with that piece of information.'

‘She might turn snappish.'

Grace laughed. Not the unearthly ghoulish laughter she had used at Thornfield Hall to warn Bertha of approaching danger. It was a warm full-throated chuckle.

POSTSCRIPT

1833

B
Y THE NEW YEAR MY HEALTH HAD RECOVERED
. It was with a mixture of trepidation and delight that I looked forward to life in my new home in Berkshire. For our plan to work our disappearance from Yorkshire had to be both secret and complete. Now that it was thought that Bertha was dead it was imperative that our whereabouts should not be traced. Even here I keep the details hidden; I am still wary of being found.

Neighbours had called and left cards for Grace and Bertha when they first arrived. In their ignorance of the conventions of the gentry they simply ignored them. As soon as I was well enough I remedied this mistake and called on neighbouring families. Bertha and Grace were very puzzled by the fact that what were described as ‘morning calls' were always made in the afternoon.

Not everyone returned my visit but we were soon acquainted with some very pleasant people; the presence of a baby in a house always speeds up the making of friends. Bertha and I are now generally accepted as gentry. Grace, they are not so sure about. The fact that her son is a medical man provides her with a
quick varnish of middle-class respectability. Our sober behaviour and handsome income have added depth to the illusion.

Grace is her usual inscrutable self. Her warning about former servants making bad mistresses has not come true. On the whole she leaves the management of the servants to me. Her greatest pleasure is to have her own newspaper. A small boy brings one of the London papers to the house. As soon as it has cooled after the housemaid has ironed out the creases, it is put at Grace's place on the breakfast table. She loves the cracking sound as she opens out the pages and knows that she is the first to read them. For myself, I miss the good old
Yorkshire Herald
.

When she is not reading her newspaper Grace still spends most of her time with Bertha. They both love to go out to take the air in their own carriage. After years of being confined to the third floor, only venturing out in darkness or behind a black veil, they delight in ordering the horses to be harnessed to the brougham. They sit behind the smartly dressed coachman as they bowl along the country lanes admiring the soft green hills and the fluffy white sheep. Grace insisted on having a handsome and cheerful coachman, such a contrast to grumpy Old John.
Bertha is much improved. Since she suckled James all the rage and anger has left her. It is as if some urgent need of her body has been satisfied and it no longer torments her admittedly limited mind. I fretted that she would not want the baby to be weaned. I need not have worried; the process was accomplished smoothly by both baby and foster mother. Occasionally she takes to her room and cries for a couple of days but the paroxysms of rage are a thing of the past.

She has learnt how to blend in with society. She is regarded as both a handsome widow and a kind aunt to the adorable James. Her Thursday evening entertainments are acquiring a reputation in the town. The food is fine and the wine good. Bertha says very little but nods her agreement with the opinions of the gentlemen. In this way she has won a reputation for good conversation. We have had to forbid her from playing cards in company. Her skill with numbers enabled her to win too often and too thoroughly; success at cards is not regarded as ladylike. Now she sticks to her embroidery when there are guests present. When Grace's son visits, the four of us play cards in front of the drawing-room fire. We send the maids to bed early and secretly drink porter. Bertha wins most of the time and delights in demanding her small winnings. We pay her with what is in truth her own money.

I blame much of her illness on her unfortunate marriage to Mr Rochester. It blighted both their lives. Bertha has survived but I wonder sometimes if all his misfortunes have succeeded in destroying his spirit. Jane is gone, his place in society is lost, his home is a blackened ruin and he has terrible injuries to bear. I am saddened to think that a man of such allure and vivacity has been brought so low.

I have had to turn my back on the past but it still has a hold on me; it gives me bad dreams that wake me in the small hours. Clear as day I will hear my voice cajoling Martha into looking for work away from Thornfield Hall. At other times the palm of my right hand tingles and smarts and I know that I have just delivered a ringing slap to her face to stop her screaming from the pains of labour. Sometimes I think I can smell burning and I feel the heat of the flames on my face and arms. I have to get up and patrol the house to check that all the candles are safely out. The first room I go to is James's nursery on the third floor. I hold up my candle and look at his smooth baby cheek and his little round arms and watch his sweet innocent breathing, and I grow calm and wonder at the good fortune that has befallen me.

My resolve to cut all ties with Yorkshire lasted nine months. It was the thought of Leah's baby that snapped my willpower. I set up an elaborate route through the lawyer in Grimsby to get a letter to Leah and arranged for her to reply through the same intermediary. I gave her some excuse for the procedure, said I was moving about visiting friends and relations. Even to Leah, I could not risk revealing my true address, although I knew she would guard it with vigilance. I was mindful that Jane Eyre's wedding had been prevented by the coincidence of her letter to her uncle arriving in Madeira when Bertha's brother was there.

Leah wrote that her baby had arrived safely – a girl. The child was healthy and her family flourished in the clean air of their farm. Leah had little time for sewing now as she spent many hours in the kitchen cooking the good food that John's farm provided. As for John, he was as happy as a king. He would be even happier if the child due next year turned out to be a boy. Every farmer needs a son – or two.

Leah was sorry to hear about the death of Bertha, who had endured a most unhappy life. I was shocked to realize that I had deceived Leah along with the rest of the neighbourhood. She too now believed that the woman who jumped from the burning roof of Thornfield Hall was Bertha. I felt uncomfortable having deceived my young friend. There was nothing I could do to disabuse Leah of her mistaken belief. In a way it was pleasing to think that the story I had created about the fire at Thornfield Hall had been so successful. The later part of Leah's letter contained some interesting news. There had been developments in the story of Jane and Mr Rochester.

Mr Rochester had gone to live at Ferndean, where Old John and Mary looked after him. His faithful old servants were convinced that he could not bear to move far from the ruin that was Thornfield Hall, in case Jane came looking for him. In the summer Jane did exactly that. She was no longer a poor friendless governess; she arrived as a woman with an independent income inherited from the uncle in Madeira. She found her old master a much changed man, battered in body and subdued in spirit.

What had not changed was the love between them. It sprang into immediate and passionate life like a fire from hot embers. Mr Rochester proved that his spirit had not been entirely crushed by his misfortunes and that he was still capable of bold and decisive action. A special licence was obtained – from the bishop himself. I was pleased that he had managed to arrange his wedding without the offices of the objectionable Mr Wood. In the eyes of God and the necessary witnesses Jane Eyre and Edward Fairfax Rochester were duly united in holy matrimony. And this time there was no officious solicitor in the congregation to say that the groom already had a wife. The bishop himself had declared that Mr Rochester was free to marry.

So, Reader, Jane married him. Well, that's what she thinks. Grace and I are the only people alive to know that the body lying in the Rochester tomb is Martha, an obscure, silly and unfortunate girl. The words ‘Bertha Rochester, wife of Edward Fairfax Rochester', and the date of her death, now deeply etched in stone, are a complete fiction. Both Jane and Mr Rochester genuinely believe that Bertha died, jumping from the roof of Thornfield Hall as the fire destroyed it. Mr Rochester witnessed it with his own eyes and Jane accepted the official version.

She believes she is married to him; therefore she is married to him. Such a pity she could not have him in the splendour of his prime, when he had his health and vigour! An unkind piece
of me thinks that the strait-laced Jane might prefer him now he is humbled and brought low. There is a self-denying streak in her nature that fits her to be the saintly nurse and helpmeet of a damaged sinner.

I sit in my fine drawing room and look out upon the market place. I ring the bell and a maid brings me tea. As I drink from the fine china cup, one of the tea service that I chose and paid for myself, I work my way through the list of people that I care for and I am satisfied with how my plans for them have worked out. John and Leah prosper on their farm. If Sophie's plans work out she and Sam should be in business in Harrogate. I cannot see the old sailor staying there for long, but I cannot be responsible for every detail. Old John and Mary will see out their days in comfort as devoted and faithful servants. I can trust Miss Eyre – or Mrs Rochester as I should call her – to ensure their work load is not too heavy. One blank place on my list belongs to Adele. I wonder how she fares at her expensive school and whether Miss Eyre, that is, the new Mrs Rochester, will welcome her back into the Rochester household.

My list has a new name on it. I seem unable to stop feeling responsible for the welfare of others. The new addition is the small boy who was nearly bullied out of his tip for spotting me when I first alighted from the stagecoach at The Coach and Horses. He delivers Grace's newspaper and is rewarded with a hearty breakfast in our kitchen; he is filling out nicely now. He is much better dressed and much cleaner. His mother makes no objection to our contribution to his upbringing; she has too many children to waste her time looking in the mouth of a gift horse. I have my eye on the lad as a companion for James, a sort of substitute for an older brother. Unless Grace's son gets busy quickly James is condemned to be the solitary male child in a house with three honorary female aunts; it is certain that we shall spoil him.

He will inherit Bertha's trust fund, of course. We have not talked of it but I am sure that it will be the wish of us all. What a strange history he has already had in his brief life! He is supposed to be the son of a baron but has no right to the title. His so-called father offered his foolish mother five guineas before he was born. Grace bid twenty gold sovereigns for him. Now his natural father's estate is in ruins and has fallen under the auctioneer's hammer. Yet one day little James will be worth thirty thousand pounds, money that I picked from the pockets of my third Mr Rochester. The boy's value has grown faster than mushrooms.