“Fuck me, you ugly bastard!” she screamed.
Suddenly I was filled with hate: the crudeness of Bertha’s language, the wildness of her hair, disgust even for the life I had lived for the past five and a half years—a slaveholder, married to a madwoman. I wanted it over; I wanted to be shut of Bertha forever. I could have screamed as loudly as she had—but I pressed my lips together and left her in her new bed, in her new house, screaming at me as I left for a walk around the grounds. It felt unforgivable: Ferndean and Thornfield now defiled by what I had done in bringing Bertha to England.
***
Before Bertha awoke, I returned to her room. Just outside her door I found Molly and Tiso curled up on the floor, a rug over each of them for warmth. In my rage, and to my shame, I had forgotten all about them, about the fact that they would not have understood that beds awaited them in Bertha’s chambers—that they indeed were expected to sleep in beds. They did not know so many things, and it was up to me to make sure their way was made smooth; I could in good conscience do no less.
Indeed, although I wanted nothing other than to hurry off to Thornfield-Hall, I saw that I would have to stay at Ferndean much longer than planned. I remained with Bertha that morning since she seemed distraught by her new surroundings, and later I had a long conversation with Mrs. Greenway, who, I learned, was fearful that “the people from across the sea,” as she called them, would make unreasonable demands of her. “It is only that I am suddenly a widow with no savings and no other source of income that I am here,” she confided to me. “I have no idea what West Indian people eat. And the black ones—do they speak English?”
“Yes—they are servants to the white woman, and I imagine they are as afraid of you as you are of them,” I told her. “The white woman is not well. Did you know that?”
“Yes, sir, I did, sir. But in what way unwell I was not told.”
“She is, to put it bluntly, a bit mad.”
“A bit mad?” She took a step back, looking around as she did so, as if searching for the nearest escape route.
“Notdangerous—she sleeps much of the day and keeps mostly to herself at night.” I hoped that description could be made true. “The two servants”—I could not bring myself to use the wordslavesin England, and, indeed, in England they were not slaves—“will need to learn English food and how to prepare it, and of course how and where to get it. They are used to gardens supplying most of what they eat.”
“We have gardens,” she said stoutly, as if I could not know that.
“Yes, but here gardens are seasonal. In Jamaica, crops grow all year round.”
“Oh,” she said. “Will they eat eggs?”
“Yes, and bacon as well. They are used to big breakfasts.”
“Porridge?”
“Not so much porridge. But they will eat soup.”
“Forbreakfast?”
It was just then that Tiso peered into the kitchen, and Mrs. Greenway, seeing her, gave a start. Tiso slipped back out of sight. “Tiso,” I said, “come here. Meet Mrs. Greenway.”
Accustomed to doing as she was told, Tiso stepped back into view, but not into the kitchen.
“Mrs. Greenway,” I said, “this is Tiso. She is a good child, well behaved.”
Mrs. Greenway smiled cautiously, but for a moment she hardly knew what to say or do. Then she recovered herself and said, “Good morning, Tiso.”
“Tiso,” I said, “are you hungry?”
The child was startled: she had never been asked such a question by a white person before.
“I am sure Mrs. Greenway can fry up some eggs for us both,” I offered.
Tiso stood stock-still, staring at her feet. A white man had offered her food; a white woman was to cook it for her. She had no idea what she was to do.
The next day, having assured myself that Mrs. Greenway was capable and sensitive to the situation, I sent for a hired horse and set out for Thornfield. It would have to be a short visit, I knew, but I could wait no longer. This was what I had worked toward for the last six months; indeed, it had been my greatest dream from the moment I was sent away three days after my eighth birthday. I had not known it as a child, but now I did: there had never been another home for me, only way stations on a homeward journey that I had somehow always dreamed of making.
And now I was taking the final leg of that journey, riding across the meadows and fields and woods, seeing that dark shape in the distance that was again to be my home, then—coming closer—the outlines of it: the chimneys at its four corners, the stonework balustrade defining its roof, the wide, plain front, even the stables and outbuildings. Suddenly I spurred my mount, dashing headlong toward Thornfield; I could not reach it soon enough. And when I did, and tied the horse and lifted the latch and opened the door, a flood of emotion overwhelmed me, and I stood just inside the door in awe, as if I had entered a cathedral, and I wept.
Chapter 2
Iwas not inside the door more than a minute before a man appeared, whom I took to be the newly hired butler. “Munroe, is it?” I asked him.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I am sorry, sir. I did have knowledge from Mr. Everson that you could be arriving one of these days, and I apologize that I was not at the door to greet you.”
