Thornfield Hall (15 page)

Once again I raided The George at Millcote for extra men-servants. They willingly agreed to leave their meagre festivities at home to come and wait table at Thornfield Hall; they knew they would feast royally on our leftovers. With much laughter they mimed scrubbing their fingernails and standing with their hands folded in front of them, their faces a careful blank; Monsieur Alphonse's training had not been forgotten. With Mary's help I wrote lists for the grocer, ordering everything from arrowroot to vinegar. The butcher, after much thought, put rings with my name on four great geese and a fine young black bullock. I felt sad as I watched him trot away unaware that his days were numbered, but I was confident about my arrangements for the food and its service.

The table decorations caused me much heart-searching. I really missed Monsieur Alphonse. He would have found a stunning way of decorating the buffet table with the dull evergreens, the ivy, holly and branches of fir that were all that was available to us in winter. The gardener shook his head sadly when I asked for flowers. ‘Too late now,' he told me, ‘even if we heat the glasshouse from now till Christmas.'

My other problem was Bertha. Grace and I talked it over. Should we warn her Mr Rochester was coming? Should we say nothing? Could we turn the key in the lock and keep her on the third floor? I am ashamed to say the thought of the chain went through my mind but I quickly dismissed it. Better that Mr Rochester be savaged on his hearthrug than we should resort
to restraining the poor creature with manacles. The more we struggled to find ways to keep her away from Mr Rochester the more insoluble the problem seemed.

In the end it was Bertha who decided matters; we had underestimated both the sharpness of her ears and of her understanding. She had picked up the gist of our whispered consultations and had come to her own conclusion. When she heard me lamenting my lack of inspiration for decorating the table she announced that she would undertake the task.

‘I make flowers. My mother taught me.' She mimed curling petals in her fingers and twisting them together to make a stem. With a flourish she presented me with an imaginary flower. ‘In Jamaica we wear them in our hats when we go to church. Red. Pink. Yellow. Not black like here.'

I demurred. It felt rash to entrust such an important feature of the entertainment to a woman whose wits wandered. It was Grace who came up with the solution.

‘Let Bertha make one. If you like it she can make more.'

Within the day Bertha produced a red rose bud fashioned from scraps of silk but so lifelike you wanted to put it in water to give it a chance to open. I complimented her on her handiwork and asked what materials she would need to make enough to decorate the dining tables.

‘Coloured silk, gold thread.' She started to count off on her fingers the things she would need. ‘Starch, glue.' When she came to the end of her list, she stopped and started as if there was something she wanted to say, something she found difficult. Her big hands flapped in the air as she struggled for the words. ‘These flowers. For Mr Rochester's tables?'

Grace and I froze at the name. Bertha's mouth twisted and for a moment I thought she was going to spit out the words ‘my husband'. It was a relief when she went calmly on.

‘I hear you whisper. Sometimes I not well but my ears work.' She cupped her hands on the sides of her head. ‘Mr Rochester come. I stay up here. He take no notice of me. I take no notice of him.'

As Grace said afterwards, you can't say fairer than that. On the surface it appeared our problems were over. In my heart I was not convinced. It was all too glib and easy.

The short days of December rushed past with unaccustomed haste. All was busyness and bustle at Thornfield Hall. From the number of letters and notes that arrived from my master I realized that the Christmas ball had a special importance for him. My heart went out to the stagecoach drivers who had ploughed through the rain and snow to bring us the post from London.

A great packet arrived with the invitations. I recognized Mr Rochester's handwriting; he had written the names himself. I was curious to know why he had chosen to exert himself on this particular task and rifled through the envelopes in search of clues. I could see no unexpected name among them. They were all to the usual county families.

I handed the letters out to Sam and John to be delivered. John, a farm boy, was pleased to have the chance to ride a horse, but Sam was less keen. Old John was even less eager to trust him with one of his precious horses. ‘Go gentle on his mouth,' he told Sam. ‘Sailors' hands,' he muttered to me in explanation. ‘All they's good for is heaving on ropes.'

‘The Ingrams are coming and the Eshtons,' Sam announced on his return. He made a pantomime of rubbing the nether parts of his anatomy and walking stiff-legged for a bit. ‘Ingram Hall is as unfriendly as ever. You'd think they'd invite me in for a bit of a warm by the kitchen fire. Not leave me to wait in the chilly entrance hall while they write their reply.'

I sympathized with Sam and enjoyed a moment of smugness; Thornfield Hall would always provide a better welcome to servants going about their masters' business. They would be offered a warm by the range and food and drink.

‘I reckon it's that Miss Blanche is the reason for all this Christmas party. She came and gave me a haughty stare as I waited. Word is she is just back from a London season. She is very striking on the eye.'

‘You don't think…' The thought died in my mouth. I did not finish the sentence. Sam did it for me.

‘That Mr Rochester has a fancy for her as a wife. Could be. It's not unusual for a man to want a wife and he can certainly afford one. The Ingrams' estate adjoins the Rochesters' land. It's entailed but you never know. Baronets don't always make old bones. The Rochesters must've got most of their land by marrying their neighbours.'

It did not take long for Sam's speculation to travel round all the servants. It added extra spice to the preparations for the Christmas party. Grace said nothing but I knew that she was thinking the same as I did. It niggled away in my mind. What if by some amazing circumstance Bertha's claim to be Mrs Rochester were true?

There were nearly fifty guests at the Christmas ball. They arrived with their horses and their coachmen and their valets and their maids. They were sleeping three in a bed in the servants' quarters. You have never seen such a quantity of food eaten. It arrived in cartloads in the morning and by evening it was all gone.

Martha, my old
bête noire
, arrived under the guise of lady's maid to the Honourable Blanche Ingram. True to form she bragged and boasted to the rest of us about her high status in the Ingram household and how wonderful it was to work for the aristocracy, people with titles. I congratulated her on her success and annoyed her by taking all the credit for myself. ‘Aren't you pleased you took my advice and looked for better employment?' I asked her. We were in the kitchen where the table was piled high with provisions and the air was full of busy bustle and the happy chatter of our staff. Martha gave me a scowl. I knew that matters were not so comfortable below stairs at Ingram Hall. Then the bell rang and the flag on the board went up to show someone had pulled the bell cord in the East bedroom. ‘That's your lady,' I told her and watched to be sure she answered the summons.

As is the custom I entertained the senior upper servants to meals in my room. Baroness Ingram's lady's maid, a French lady with a very high opinion of herself, was quick to take me aside with what she described as a friendly word of warning. Martha, she informed me, was not really a lady's maid. She was one of the parlour maids and therefore should not be admitted to my room but should eat in the servants' hall with the rest of the lower orders. If the French maid thought this was the action of a friend I should not like to have her as my enemy.

The baroness, she explained, had temporarily promoted Martha to oblige her elder daughter. The Honourable Blanche did not wish to be seen to arrive without her own maid. Martha was to pretend to be Blanche's maid; she was to go up the stairs to Blanche's room when the dressing bell rang. Once there she was to occupy herself by tidying the room until the French lady arrived. It was ‘
absolument interdit
' for Martha to touch Blanche's hair or her dress. ‘On pain of punishment,'
the French lady added and gave me a knowing smirk. ‘She has a rare temper on her, has the young lady Blanche. Even her mother is frightened of her. And the rage of the old baroness is something formidable.'

For once in my life I tried to be kind to Martha. The memory of this small act comforts me when I am reminded of all the terrible things that happened to her later. I asked Leah to convince Martha that all her old friends at Thornfield Hall were eager to see her and keen to hear her news. They wanted her to dine with them in the servants' hall, and not ‘with that hoity toity lot in the housekeeper's room'. Martha was persuaded and so she spent a few happy evenings in praising the frosty grandeur of Ingram Park while enjoying the warmth, comfort and good food of Thornfield Hall. I envied her as I sat in my tiny room, surrounded by the so-called cream of the servant class. I soon grew weary of their talk of Sir This, Earl That and Viscount What's-his-name. It made me grateful that my master was plain Mr Rochester.

Plain Mr Rochester he might be, but the arrangements for the Christmas party at Thornfield Hall were a triumph. The house shone with the rich lustre normally reserved for homes that are loved and cherished by their families. I cannot say that I loved Thornfield Hall; it could be a dark and gloomy place when the weather was wild and the skies lowered. My pleasure in the place was more of a professional nature. Thornfield Hall was run to high standards; the beds were aired, the linen clean and the fires generous. Downstairs in the kitchen red-faced scullery maids and harassed cooks put the finishing touches to a lavish dinner. All that was needed to make a sparkling and memorable occasion were some pleasant guests and some lively conversation.

I went to check on the dining room while the guests were upstairs dressing for dinner. My heart swelled with pride when I
saw it. John was just finishing lighting the candles. ‘It's a picture, isn't it, Mrs Fairfax?' It was indeed. The purple drapes were drawn and the walnut panelling gleamed in the candlelight, making a perfect background for the great dining table. It was covered with a white linen cloth, ironed to perfection and laid with fine china decorated in crimson and gold. The crystal glasses and silver cutlery shone so clean and polished that they dazzled the eye.

Along the centre of the table flowed a stream of sweet-scented greenery cut from the boughs of conifer trees. These branches in defiance of nature bore flowers in red, yellow and amber, the colour of flames. Each flower was cunningly fashioned out of silk with gold stamens at its centre. They were so convincing I wanted to pick one up and smell it. All the flowers were the handiwork of Bertha, who had laboured happily in her third-storey room, her big hands twisting and shaping the scraps of silk. How strange that a mind that had been so disordered and was so feeble in its understanding could make such enchanting tiny masterpieces!

‘It's a shame Miss Bertha can't see it now while it is all so perfect.' John blew out the taper, his task finished.

I let him spend a moment in silent admiration before I asked him to tell Leah to come to look at the finished table, for it was she who had laid the tables and set out the greenery. She soon arrived, gliding silently along the corridor. Behind her came a tall figure in a maid's uniform of black dress, white pinafore and cap. At first I thought it was Martha and wondered what she was doing coming to the dining room at this hour, for the dressing bell had rung. She was supposed to be upstairs pretending to dress Miss Blanche. As the figure came closer I realized it was not Martha. It was Bertha. I felt my face turn as white as my hair and my heart leap against my stays. My mind
did some swift calculations and told me not to shriek out loud in protest. Silence, as so often is the case, seemed the best course of action – or inaction.

‘I wear a disguise,' Bertha whispered as she slid past me. Her eyes were alight with childish glee.

‘Grace said it was all right.' Leah pointed to the end of the corridor where a dark figure, which I assumed was Grace, lurked. ‘She will take her back upstairs.'

‘It's so risky,' I hissed. ‘Mr Rochester might come to make sure all is in order.'

‘There are so many strange servants here. He would think her one of them.'

That was true. The house was full of familiar uniforms topped by unfamiliar faces. Bertha gazed at the dining room like a child at a sweetshop window and then allowed herself to be led away. I watched as Grace shepherded her to the stairs. I knew that I would have to pretend to be angry with one of them. But which one? And when? I had far too many other demands on my time to think about it at that moment.