Thornfield Hall (6 page)

Mr Rochester did not stay long. He paid a few courtesy calls on his neighbours, bought a couple of horses and left. I missed him at first, in the way I miss the light when I blow the candle out and am left in the dark. The faces of the ladies of the county grew glum when they heard of Mr Rochester's departure. They made anxious enquiries about the date of his return. We could not help them. He had given us no hint of his plans. For all we knew he had gone to the moon. Only Old John whistled happily as he brushed the two new horses that had arrived in his stable.

GRACE

1823

T
HE CHILL OF WINTER HAD SCARCELY ARRIVED
before I was struck down with a pleurisy. So severe was it that Mr Carter was called. He gave me some of his useless vile-coloured medicine and ordered me to stay in bed. As if I could have risen from it without the help of two strong men. It was Leah who nursed me through the worst of it. I thanked God that I had not been left in the clumsy hands of Martha.

Slowly the illness left me. My hearing is still impaired but thankfully that is all the injury I suffered. One evening during my convalescence Leah brought my supper on a tray up to my bedroom. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkly. I guessed it wasn't for John with his puppy-dog-in-love eyes.

‘Are there visitors in the servants' hall?' I asked.

‘Just the blacksmith. Mary's giving him a plate of supper.'

I might have guessed it was the blacksmith who had brought a gleam to Leah's eyes. The bronzed biceps, the leather waistcoat, the tangy smell of male sweat mixed with a whiff of horse.

‘He does not usually come into the house. Is Old John with him?'

‘Old John is still in the stable. A horse needing a drench or something. Blacksmith came to do a job in the house. For that Mrs Morgan.' There was a vicious edge to Leah's voice as she named the nurse. What need had a nurse for a blacksmith, I wondered. It was clear that there had been developments while I was ill.

‘Ask the blacksmith to come up and see me before he goes.'

The young blacksmith arrived. All rippling muscles and a musky aroma that overwhelmed the mild lavender scent of my neat, nunlike room. He was a lad of few words and he was not happy.

‘I can guess what Mrs Morgan wanted you to make,' I told him. ‘She had no authority from me.'

‘In that case.' He handed me a key. ‘I was going to give it to Old John.'

‘I'll make sure he knows. Have you been paid?'

‘For the horses. Yes. I'll take no money for the other thing.'

‘I'll pay you double when the time comes to take it off. I will make it my business to see you do not wait too long for your money.'

When he had gone I took out my little bible and kissed my baby's name and thought about the vow I had taken. I had promised not to talk about the lady to outsiders. Nothing more. I had not promised to stand idly by while she was treated with harshness and kept like a prisoner. When Mr Rochester was absent I was responsible for the Hall and for those who lived there. I berated myself soundly for my lack of supervision of Mrs Morgan. It was true I had been ill but that was no longer an excuse. It was time to gird up my loins as the good
book puts it and go to inspect what was happening on the third floor.

I laced my stays extra tight in the morning; it was the closest I could get to girding up my loins – whatever they are. At the top of the stairs I took a moment to get my breath and strengthen my resolve. I thought of Judith going to Holofernes' tent. How she must have fixed her smile as she strove to ingratiate herself with the tyrant! What pleasure she must have felt as she looked down upon her sleeping victim and slowly drew her sharpened knife ready to cut his throat! I fixed an expression of polite concern to my face as I rapped on the door.

‘Mrs Morgan. A thousand pardons! I've neglected you.' I smiled and gushed at her as she stood in the doorway. Surprise kept her motionless so I glided past her straight into the dragon's lair.

‘You have everything you need?' I was all warm solicitude. I made it sound like a question but it was more of a statement. A quick glance round the room showed that Mrs Morgan had not been idle during my illness; she was well-equipped with life's comforts. Many of them were familiar to me; she had looted them from other rooms at Thornfield Hall. There were armchairs, cushions and rugs. There were tables littered with bottles and used plates and cups. A healthy fire blazed in the grate. In the corner was the huge four-poster bed. The new hangings were drawn roughly back, showing the unmade bed piled high with pillows. The deep feather mattress was shrouded in a stained grey sheet. The rug before the fire wore such a crust of crumbs and particles of food that I expected a family of mice
with knives and forks to arrive at any minute. The dirty window let in little light and no air. The whole room reeked of neglect and dirt. The already substantial Mrs Morgan had been busy over the winter; she had been working at putting on even more flesh. Of the patient there was no sign.

I occupied myself by wandering round the room apparently without a specific purpose. All the time I had to restrain my hand from opening the window to let in fresh air. I waited for Mrs Morgan to offer to take me to the lady. She did not volunteer an invitation. I decided to compel her into making one.

‘And how is the lady? I would like to see her.' I saw little point in being subtle with such a coarse-minded creature as Mrs Morgan.

‘Asleep.'

‘So late?'

‘She do sleep a lot. When she's not sleeping, she's crying. Better she should sleep.'

By now I had manoeuvred so I was by the door to the adjoining room. Before she could stop me I had the handle in my hand and was turning it. To my surprise the door opened. I expected to find it locked. With Mrs Morgan on my heels I went into the next chamber.

I had steeled myself to encounter some unsavoury sights without showing shock or outrage. I did not want to create an enemy unnecessarily. Mrs Morgan had the keeping of this unfortunate woman. She had total power over her. Everything that makes life comfortable or the contrary was in her hands. Food, drink, warmth, sleep, conversation, comfort and occupations were all hers to dispense or withhold. How could I have let this go on unsupervised?

It was difficult to experience the room in front of me without showing horror. I like to think I managed it. Mrs Morgan stood
behind me so I had time to get my face under control. The smell had hit me like a blow to the chest: the chamber pot not emptied, the bed clothes not washed, the person not bathed, the window not opened. The naked floorboards were mottled with brown stains that I preferred not to identify. There was no curtain at the window. How could a room so cold and bare smell so bad?

The only furniture in the room was a small iron bed. A great nest of black hair sprawled over one end of it. The rest of the figure was hidden by a thin blanket that no self-respecting horse would have endured wearing. I could not be sure it was a person in the bed until I saw the arm. It was a thin, wasted arm that hung over the side. On its wrist was a heavy manacle; the chain was fastened to the leg of the bed.

‘Like I said. She sleeps.' Mrs Morgan gazed down at her charge with an expressionless face. I strove to keep mine similarly blank.

‘I heard the blacksmith had been.'

‘It was necessary. They do it in the asylum when they have their fits.'

Speaking your mind is regarded as a great virtue in Yorkshire. Most of the time, I say what I think. On this occasion a gap as wide as a church door opened up between the thoughts in my brain and the words that came from my lips. What I thought was, ‘You have chained her like a convict to make your life easier, so you can go and get your breakfast and stuff your face and then feed that poor soul the scraps.' What I said was, ‘So it is a method practised by the medical profession?'

The figure on the bed showed no sign of waking so I retreated to the other room where the air was slightly less poisonous. There I bid Mrs Morgan
au revoir
. I promised her that I would call in again sometime. The message, wrapped in the sweet paper of smiles and compliments, was that I would be
inspecting daily and without warning. I thought I had controlled myself admirably but at the end I could not stop myself from firing a parting shot.

‘Get that chamber pot emptied.' I saw no point in telling her to finish the cleaning of it with a few drops of turpentine. That was a little ambitious. I would settle for empty.

When I returned to my neat, fresh-smelling bedroom I washed my hands and face very thoroughly, enjoying the sensation of clean water against my skin. Then I sat in my chair and looked out of the window at the drive that sweeps up to Thornfield Hall and at the hills that lie beyond the gates. It was a fine and sunny spring day and the light was so clear I could see for miles. The new lambs frolicked in the fields; I could hear the tender bleats of the ewes. Yet my mind was in a turmoil of disgust and doubt and my heart was heavy.

It was a far cry from the storm of wind and rain that had greeted Mr Rochester's arrival as new master of Thornfield Hall. On that day in spite of the foul weather we were full of hope for a new beginning and for a better and fuller life at Thornfield Hall. The weather, it seemed to me, had nothing to do with what was happening in people's lives or how they felt – at least not in Yorkshire. The poets must have got it wrong. After this little grumble my mind cleared and I saw my way forward. I sent word to Mr Carter and suggested it was time he made a visit.

It was my intention to let Mr Carter take Mrs Morgan by surprise. I was confident that he would soon appear now that the hunting season had finished. He was not a man given to forethought so it was unlikely that he would trouble to give advance warning of
his visit. When he arrived I let him climb up to the third storey alone while I waited for him in the library with the brandy and hot water handy. He was soon back. He still had the upright carriage of a horseman but I could see the criss-cross pattern of red veins standing out clearly against the pallor of his face. I sat him in front of the fire and gave him a double measure of his usual brandy.

‘Any progress?' I asked, well aware that there was none.

He mopped his brow with his handkerchief and swigged back his brandy. As his complexion returned to its normal florid hue the power of speech was restored to him. I discovered it was not the dirt or the smell that had driven the colour from his cheeks. Mr Carter was probably as convinced of the health-giving properties of dirt as Mrs Morgan was. It was a treatment for madness that Mrs Morgan had suggested that had sent the hearty Mr Carter pale. She had put forward the idea of a form of surgery to a part of a woman's body that was never mentioned in polite society; it was reputed to cure the malady of her mind. Mr Carter was outraged.

‘That woman had an unspeakable suggestion. I won't sully your ears by repeating it, Mrs Fairfax. The Lord knows I'm not a squeamish man. I've given a hand at gelding a stallion in my time, but to do that to a woman…' He shook his head in disbelief and finished his brandy. ‘I am at a loss as to what to suggest, Mrs Fairfax.'