Thornfield Hall (2 page)

Only two members of the family lived at the Hall. They were old Mr Rochester and his elder son Rowland. I remembered
a younger son, Mr Edward, from my time at the parsonage in Hay. He was an open-faced friendly lad, usually whistling as he rode his horse about the countryside, but he had gone to live abroad somewhere.

As housekeeper I would wear my own clothes rather than a uniform. I promptly ordered a black silk dress to celebrate my new status as a woman who earned her own income. Mr Merryman explained to me that visitors sometimes came when the family was away. These callers might ask to be shown round the house. I was free to oblige them, as long as they were gentry of course. Mr Merryman tapped the side of his nose and for a moment his eyes twinkled in his sad face. ‘Tips!' He gave me a knowing look. ‘Good tips and all yours.'

My bedroom was to be near the master's bedroom. As I was closely connected to the family it was thought more suitable. Mr Merryman had his own room on the next floor, close to where the servants slept. He liked to keep an eye on the young footmen, who could be quite frisky. All in all, Mr Merryman felt Thornfield Hall was a good house to work in. To be sure the wages were modest as old Mr Rochester was very near with his money, as we say in Yorkshire, but he kept a good table and there were enough staff to carry out the work of running a large house.

I soon got to know the staff. Leah, the under housemaid, quickly became a favourite of mine. There was Sam, officially a footman but really a Jack of all trades. He had been in the navy and had seen more of the world than any of us. There was a new footman, called John, though his given name was Timothy. It was the custom among the gentry to refer to footmen as John; it saved them having to remember their real names. The head coachman, who had been christened John, was usually called Old John to distinguish him from the footman. His wife Mary
was the cook. These five formed the backbone of the staff. I soon discovered they were all fine honest people who knew their duties and carried them out well. There was a sprinkling of scullery maids, laundry maids, kitchen and stable boys who came and went as they learned their trade and moved on in the world. The only thorn in my flesh was Martha, the upper housemaid.

She was the most unbiddable girl I have ever come across. A great clumsy galumphing thing. She laid the breakfast table as if she was dealing cards. There was always a reason why she couldn't do as she was asked. If I told her to take the coal to the dining room she would do it later – she was on her way to answer the bell in the drawing room. Ask her to dust the hall and she would have to go and change her apron and would not be seen again until tea time. She was lazy and sharp-tongued with a neat way of passing the blame to the other servants. When Martha broke a vase it was Leah who was found sweeping up the shards of porcelain.

By searching out these and other examples of her bad behaviour I quickly found abundant reasons to justify my dislike of Martha. The real reason was deeper and more shameful. When Mr Rochester gave me a bedroom near his I had wondered if he might be minded to inflict some indignities on me. Innocent parson's wife I might be but even I knew such things happened. Sometimes in the mornings as I left my room to go about my duties old Mr Rochester would call to me from his bedroom. At first I hovered in the doorway to listen to his complaints. He had not slept well. The joints of his fingers were swollen and painful. Soon I was entering his room and rubbing his hands. Then it was his shoulders. Matters did not progress much further. To be honest I took no offence at giving him these small attentions. He was an old man who had lost his wife and who missed the touch of a woman's hand.

Martha was never punctual in her duties. For her the clock was just a tiresome picture on the wall. She arrived very early one morning with the hot water and caught me leaving Mr Rochester's room. I wore my nightgown under my dressing gown, and my hair, still golden then, hung loose about my shoulders. I told Martha sharply that the master had called me in as he felt unwell. To give the master his due, he played up to the fiction nicely by staying in bed for the rest of the morning. He drew the line at sending for Carter, the surgeon. That would have cost him money.

I was never sure that Martha believed me.

In spite of this minor worry, for a year or so I was able to enjoy a very pleasant existence, until the course of my life was upset by the cold hand of death. His icy fingers were not laid upon old Mr Rochester as you might expect but upon Mr Rowland, the elder son. Mr Rowland was not my favourite person. He was a whey-faced lanky creature, always indoors doing his calculations or peering through his magnifying glass. He was the kind of boy who pulled the wings off flies, or captured harmless insects as they were going about their lawful business and stuck pins in them. Science he called it. Well, science didn't do him much good. He went gallivanting off to visit a coal mine in the north where they had one of those new-fangled steam engines. In the interest of science, no doubt, he went too close to the machine and got himself crushed by the metal monster. He died of his injuries before they could carry him home.

Old Mr Rochester took it very hard. The lawyers came with long faces and talked to him about the future and advised him
to call his younger son, Mr Edward, home. He wouldn't hear of it, just shook his head and poured out more port. The only comfort he could find was at the table. I've lost count of the roast dinners he ate without adding an ounce of fat to his skinny frame. We servants tip-toed round the house and shared our fears in whispers. Our master was a broken man and his lawful heir was in exile. Our futures looked very insecure.

One evening Mr Rochester rose from the table having dined on roast duck with green peas. He had drunk with it a bottle of claret. Afterwards he sluiced down a bowl of Bavarian cream and demolished half a pound of Wensleydale cheese. ‘Damn fine—' he began. His compliment was interrupted as he clutched at his throat and fell backwards against the sideboard. I will never know whether it was the duck, the pudding or the cheese that had taken his fancy.

The footmen helped him to his bed. Old John sat up with him that night. In the morning old Mr Rochester was dead. Mr Carter, the surgeon, scratched his head as he felt for the pulse that was not to be found. ‘Don't understand it. He was fit as a flea.' Not one to worry overmuch about minor details Mr Carter declared, ‘I suppose I should call it a Visitation of God but I hate to give Parson Wood any excuse to be more self-important than he already is. I'll call it an apoplexy. We don't want to be bothering the coroner. You were here when he died, Mrs Fairfax, so you can register the death. Tell the parson to arrange the funeral.' With that he picked up his hat and his riding crop and took his leave briskly; the hunt was meeting that day.

And so I bid farewell to a second Mr Rochester. I was sad to see him go but it was the threat to my livelihood that caused me the greater anguish. And this time there would be no help from the Fairfaxes. I had crossed the line that divided relations
from servants. Relatives could not be left to starve. Servants could – and did.

The lawyers came again but this time with smiling faces. Old Mr Rochester had died without making arrangements for the estate. The lawyers scented dispute and conflict; there would be claims and counter-claims, special pleadings, counsels' opinions and judges' rulings. All such complications were not misfortunes for them, but opportunities for endless work and massive bills. While the lawyers rubbed their hands we servants at Thornfield Hall suffered much uncertainty. At last it was arranged that we should be put on board wages. The amount was generous compared with many other households but our fare would be plain with no leftovers from the dining table to enjoy. There would be no more finishing off a baron of roast beef with the remains of a bottle of good claret.

Mr Merryman left immediately to take up a position with a rich manufacturer of wool in Bradford. His new master was trade rather than the gentry he was used to, but as he said, beggars can't be choosers. He had lost two masters in quick succession and could not afford to be fussy. Some might think it carelessness on his part and be reluctant to employ him.

Our number dwindled as those who could found other employment. Grooms and kitchen maids soon found new masters in the neighbourhood. Without Mr Merryman to insist on my following the conventions I decided to stop having my meals in the housekeeper's room and to eat with the others in the servants' hall. I explained the change as a way of saving Mary and Leah from extra work. It was not a time to maintain the artificial divisions between us and I was glad of the friendship and company of the other servants. We huddled together for comfort and reassurance and asked each other questions we could not answer. Who will employ us? Will the
days of hard work and good food ever return? Who will pay our wages?

I spent time persuading Martha, the housemaid, that she should follow the example of Mr Merryman. The deaths in the family could, I suggested to her, be seen as an opportunity for her to improve herself by seeking better employment. I confess Martha's welfare was not uppermost in my mind. She had a way of looking at me that said she had not forgotten seeing me come out of the old master's bedroom with my hair in disarray. It gave her power over me. I did not like it and I wanted to be rid of her.

The deed still sits uneasily on my conscience. I can hear my voice and the exact weasel words I used to persuade her. ‘An intelligent girl like you, Martha, you should be more ambitious. You've been at Thornfield Hall longer than me. It's not too soon to look for a new position. We've lost two masters. Heaven only knows who the next one will be. You could find work in a house with a mistress, a fine lady to take an interest in you and train you up. You could become a lady's maid. A lady of title perhaps.' May I be forgiven. I did not know how things would work out in the end. Sometimes I wake with a start, my body damp with sweat and my head filled with a dreadful roaring sound. Sometimes the palm of my right hand tingles with the memory of the slap I gave to stop her screams.

To help Martha on her way out of Thornfield Hall I drafted letters to possible employers for her to copy and gave her a glowing reference. Some evil spirit must have eavesdropped on our conversation, for the vision of the rosy future that I painted for Martha came true. Lady Ingram, wife of a baron and one of our more exalted neighbours, offered her employment. It was a lowly position, as housemaid, but Lady Ingram hinted that in time Martha might become a personal maid for one of
her daughters. She had two young daughters, the Honourable Blanche and the Honourable Mary.

Poor naive Martha believed the vague promises of the baroness! She did not realize that no lady would endure her clumsy ministrations. To have her dress your hair would be a form of torture. Her huge rough hands were more suited to shearing sheep than arranging a lady's coiffure. A lady's maid has to be prompt and cheerful in answering the bell. She has to sit up till late at night while her mistress attends parties. In the small hours of the morning she must smile and listen to her mistress as she unfastens the satin gown and brushes out the dressed hair. The triumphs of her mistress in the ballroom must appear to be a real pleasure to her maid. Martha with her sour face and her love of grumbling had shown no talent in this direction at all. And the damage she could do with a sewing needle had to be seen to be believed.

We had to endure Martha's airs for two weeks until she worked her notice; I let her off working the full month. If I had liked her I might have warned her not to put too much faith in the promises of the landed classes but she annoyed me with her boasting and I held my tongue. At the end of the fortnight I wished her God speed and good riddance and made a note to increase young Leah's wages when the opportunity arose. Leah was a bright, hardworking girl and very quick to learn. What a treasure she proved to be!

Those of us who remained at Thornfield Hall waited with fearful hearts to hear what our future would be. We might dislike our masters at times and think them unjust but there is nothing in the world that a servant fears more devoutly than being without a master. It is a cold and cruel world out there unless you have a place or savings. Over us all hovered the shadow of the workhouse.

Soon the lawyer came from Millcote and summoned us all to the library so he could explain to us what was happening. Old Mr Rochester's younger son, who was living in Jamaica, was to inherit the estate by default. Neither old Mr Rochester nor Mr Rowland had left wills so the laws of inheritance prevailed. There were no other claimants. The lawyer must have been disappointed at the smoothness of the process; the lack of conflict had left him with nothing to do. He could not resist telling us the extent of the property involved. His eyes glowed with avarice as he listed all that Mr Edward would inherit; not just all the land that the Rochesters owned but also a coal mine, two cotton mills on the other side of the Pennines and some property in Liverpool. The Rochesters had some kind of business there that the lawyer was vague and mysterious about. Old John, the coachman, whistled through his teeth when he heard about all these other sources of income. It was news to him and he had been with the family longer than any of us.