Thornfield Hall (35 page)

Martha must have returned secretly to Thornfield Hall. There she must have hidden herself on the third floor. The door at the foot of the stairs had been left unlocked after Grace, Bertha, Martha and the baby had left. She could have sneaked in, up the back stairs, along the gallery and up to the third floor. There she had hidden herself. Late that night I had made a final tour of the rooms. I had stopped short of going into Martha's bedroom. I had descended the stairs and locked the door behind me.

I must have locked Martha in
.

The thought screamed in my ears and vibrated in my brain. I had not checked the room Martha used. I had never let her have a key to the staircase door. When she had discovered the fire, she must have run down the stairs. Her way out would be blocked by the locked door. As the flames and smoke and heat battered at the door she must have climbed up into the attic, opened the trap door and climbed out onto the roof. There she would have found temporary relief, until the fire found its way inexorably upwards. In the end the heat drove her to take that final fatal leap.

Disturbed though I was I said nothing to my rescuer; silence has often been my friend. I let Mr Merryman talk as he drove me and the body to his inn. As he guided his horse through the darkness I listened as he worked on his account of the fire at Thornfield Hall. He seemed to be unaware that I had been present for the whole time and that he had arrived after all the main events had taken place.

Mr Merryman was not going to let a few inconvenient facts interfere with a good story. It became clear that he had assigned himself a leading role in the drama. By the time I saw the sign outside the Rochester Arms he had been first to arrive at the fire, well before the fire engines. Soon he would be claiming that he had seen Mr Rochester on the roof struggling to save his mad wife from the flames.

It was all very satisfactory from my point of view.

The Rochester Arms welcomed me with a bed and a bowl of water. The mirror provided me with a view of my smoke-blackened face and hair. Washing turned the water black and yet my face and
hands were still several shades darker than normal. I left word with the landlord that I was keen to acquire some respectable clothes first thing in the morning. If the local ladies had any spare items for loan or sale I would be happy to inspect them. I took out my bible, kissed my daughter's name, lay my head on the pillow and fell into a disturbed sleep.

After a bath in the morning I made a selection from the clothes that were on offer and paid for them with some of the cash I had rescued from my housekeeper's room. I was particularly pleased to find some stays that almost fitted me. I really cannot tackle a day's work unless I am properly laced up. My hair still smelt of smoke and was not its usual snowy white, but my mind was clear and I had a good breakfast. People often play a guessing game when they wonder what they would save from a burning building. Now I know. A bible – and cash. Do not ask me to choose between the two.

There were practical matters I had to attend to. The young boys of the vicinity earned many a penny running errands and taking messages for me. I sent to Mr Carter's house to enquire about Mr Rochester and to ask for instructions. Mr Rochester was alive but he was very battered and damaged and was likely to be blind. He sent word that all the servants should be treated fairly and advised that his agent would bring me the funds as soon as possible. No one could say fairer. Decisive, reasonable, considerate and generous. This was the character of the Mr Rochester I remembered from better times. Not the morose, wild drunkard of recent weeks.

Mr Merryman found a carpenter to make a coffin for the corpse that lay in the outhouse. My tongue rebelled at the falsehood of calling her Mrs Rochester. That was the identity others had bestowed on her; I did not contradict them. I referred to her as ‘the lady' or ‘the unfortunate victim of the
fire' or some such circumlocution. Let others call her Mr Rochester's wife. Opinion in the countryside was by this time so firmly of the belief that the dead woman and the mad wife were the same person that no one would have believed me if I had tried to prove otherwise.

I did not dare to send word of these events to Grace or ask about James. The party would still be travelling south. Sending urgent messages to the coaching inns would draw attention to them, attention that was better avoided. The boys who carry messages are adept at breaking the seals on notes and selling their discoveries to the highest bidder. I kept telling myself that Martha was more than capable of abandoning her baby; indeed she would do it with glee. The thought that James might have been left on the third storey for the flames to devour him made my heart turn over. It was a fear I had to live with and had to bear in silence. Meanwhile the story of Bertha's death grew so firmly settled in people's minds that it became an accepted fact.

MARTHA AND I JOIN THE GENTRY

1832

M
Y ACCOUNT BOOKS WERE DESTROYED IN THE
fire but I did my best to calculate the wages owed to the servants and to advance them some small sums to see them over the next few days. Then I made a start on writing their references. I planned to distribute them after the funeral. My intention was that the servants would be obliged to attend the service. I was determined that Bertha/Martha should not go to her grave alone and unlamented. I felt I owed her what is called a good send-off. There should be mourners, mourners who could act as witnesses, if questions were ever asked.

I sent Mr Rochester a list of what was owed to the servants in wages and compensation. They would need replacements for the uniforms they had lost in the fire; these were valuable items. In the testimonials I explained how they were put out of work through no fault of their own but as a result of the destruction caused by a fire. I stressed that they were not responsible in any way for the fire and had behaved with admirable calm. The unhandsome footman received full credit for his courageous rescue of Mr Rochester. As they say, handsome is as handsome does.

Mr Rochester's agent arrived with sufficient funds for me to pay the servants and for my own expenses. He also brought news of his employer. Mr Rochester was still at Mr Carter's where he was recovering slowly. The agent described his injuries and shook his head in sorrow at how Mr Rochester had been mutilated by the fire. I was sorry that Mr Rochester had lost his sight, but I could not help thinking that here was an advantage for me. A blind man can hardly challenge the identity of the corpse.

‘Back to being the same old master in his mind though.' The agent called me back to the present. ‘Added the money all up in his head and worked out how many notes, how many half crowns and how many shillings you'd need to give everyone his due. Generous, too. Dress lengths for the ladies and – begging your pardon Mrs Fairfax – new underthings too. He says to tell them he'll speak for them. Anyone as wants a character can ask new master to send word. He'll speak up for them.'

And much good his words will do them in this neighbourhood, I thought. The Cliffords and the Dents had not taken kindly to his attempt at bigamy and the Ingrams spat at the mention of his name. Emboldened by the knowledge of Mr Rochester's loss of sight I asked the agent, ‘Will he be coming to the funeral? I expect most of the household to attend.'

‘Now that's another story. That's when I see another side of master. He snarls and rages and claws at his collar like it's choking him. His one eye that's left looks like it's going to pop out his head he's that angry. Just bury her deep, he says. With a stake through her heart. Put stones on top of coffin. Make sure she stays there.'

We were silent for a moment as we contemplated such hatred in a man so generous and large-minded in other ways.

‘He's had a falling out with Mr Wood too,' the agent offered.

Good, I thought, but did not say. I do not like Mr Wood; he has taken my husband's place but he does not fill it with distinction. Mr Rochester is not the only one who can harbour irrational hatreds. The agent went on to explain.

‘Parson says she's not to go in consecrated ground. Claims she committed suicide.'

‘What did Mr Rochester think to that?'

‘He was very angry. He don't take lightly to being thwarted. Especially by parson. Blames him for stopping his wedding to Miss Eyre. He summoned Mr Wood and gave him a dressing down from his sick bed. You could hear him all over Carter's house. Threatened to put parson on roof and light a fire under him. See whether he waited for a miracle or whether he jumped.'

‘I guess he won that argument.'

‘Aye. Parson wasn't happy at being bested. So he came on a new tack. Said she couldn't go in the family vault. Claimed he had the power to decide. As it's inside the church itself. Master goes mad. Rochesters been buried there for hundreds of years. Wives too. Parson says not this one. She's lucky to be going in churchyard in consecrated ground.'

‘I guess Mr Rochester reminded Mr Wood where the butter on his bread comes from.'

‘He did indeed. Pointed out it's his family's church, his family's burial place and his family's living to dispose of. Parson soon saw the error of his ways. It's decided. She's to go in the family vault and have “Bertha, wife of Edward Fairfax Rochester” inscribed on the side. With the date of her death.'

‘Not “dearly beloved wife”. That would be too much. The servants will be coming to the service. I'm paying them what's due afterwards.'

The agent laughed. ‘Not the kind of mourners you expect at a Rochester funeral. Parson's going to be disappointed. Gentry'll
not come. Bigamy and a mad wife. Probably nothing much to talk about in London but here in Yorkshire…' He rolled his eyes to heaven and sucked his cheeks in to mimic the gentry's disapproval. ‘I'll not see you at the funeral, Mrs Fairfax.'

‘You are mistaken. I'll be there.'

‘But I won't. Special commission from master. Auction of Ingram Park. I'm to bid for master.'

‘Auction! That's quick. The old baron's not been dead a year.'

‘Aye. The young'un has set a record in how quick you can lose an estate. It's to be sold over the new baron's head. And his mother's and sisters' too.'

‘And Mr Rochester wants to buy it. Of course the land adjoins his. No doubt this is how the Rochesters got their hands on so much land in the first place.'

He nodded. ‘True. But it is not the land this time. Not enough cash in the coffers to buy the whole lot. Money has been flowing out like water.'

I restrained a smile. Thirty thousand had flowed in my direction.

The agent went on. ‘I am commissioned to bid for the dower house. If I succeed I'm to tell the Ingram ladies they can have it as their home. Peppercorn rent. Master seems to think he owes them.'

‘Certainly, Blanche. He is in debt to Blanche. He wasted her good name in pursuit of Jane. I like a man who pays his debts.'

‘Unlike the new Baron Ingram.'

The agent set off on his next errand.

I was pleased to hear that the battering of Mr Rochester's body seemed to have restored the working of his mind. Not only was he taking charge of his affairs, he was also busy remedying some of the wrongs he had done. I guessed he still lived in hope
of having Jane restored to him. Better for him to be able to claim her with a clear conscience; she would examine him over his misdeeds as severely as a confessor. She would not forgive his sins easily.

By contrast I wondered what poor Martha would think about the fate of the object of her affections – the bankrupt baronet. She would probably weep at his misfortune and claim it wasn't his fault. She would blame the bookies, the horses or the colour of the jockeys' silks for the effete nobleman's ruin. What she did not know was that Old John had a hand in his downfall. She would not have taken kindly to such interference from her grandfather's old friend.

Mr Merryman brought me word that the coffin was ready. I took it upon myself to prepare the body. I wanted Martha to be in gentle hands. That was what I told myself. To be strictly honest it was a practical rather than a pious decision; I couldn't risk anyone else identifying her. I suppose, too, like Pontius Pilate I wanted to wash some of my guilt away. Sending her to Lord Ingram's had been my doing, though her seduction there was not part of my plan. I should have warned her against the Ingram men – and the women, come to that! As I worked I reminded the unresponsive Martha that I had given her shelter and a place to give birth when the rest of the world turned its face against her.

When I took the pennies from her eyes her gaze seemed to pursue me with accusation. ‘That's all very well,' it said, ‘but you turned the key that locked me in.' There was no answer to that. As I washed her face I saw there was little risk of her being identified. The wound on her forehead helped to disguise her features. Her poor face and hands were scorched by the fire. Black smoke had settled in the cracks and fissures scorched into her flesh. I worked very gently for fear of pulling off the fragile flaking skin and, to be honest, it suited my purposes
that there should be a certain duskiness in her colouring. The word in the neighbourhood was that the real Mrs Rochester was positively black.