“She sick,” she whispered.
I sprang from my chair. I had completely forgotten about the laudanum; Bertha would be suffering grievously from the lack of it. I ran up the stairs, but the door was locked. I pounded on it until Molly opened it. Beyond her, I saw Bertha lying on the bed, bedclothes and rugs mounded on top of her as if she were trapped in an ice cave in January instead of a comfortable room in the middle of June. I could see that she was shivering and hear her anguished moans.
“Get coffee,” I said to Molly. She darted from the room as if she knew where coffee was to be found.
I sat on the bed beside Bertha, reached my hand beneath all her coverings, and found her arm and her shoulder, and I stroked them gently. “It will be all right,” I said to her. “I will make it right.” I talked like that, as if I could make well again everything that had gone wrong in her life and mine, with words alone. Would that I could.
When Molly returned I dropped just a bit, but almost all I had left, of the laudanum into the cup and urged Bertha to sit and drink, and afterwards, she stared at me as if I were a stranger and then blessedly slipped back into her own world. I turned away and caught Molly watching me. “We will have to make her right again,” I said.
***
I asked Mrs. Greenway to send for Mr. Carter, but she insisted on going herself. Perhaps she was just as happy as I for an excuse to leave Ferndean. Meanwhile, I sat with Bertha and pondered our situation: how long it would take to wean her from the laudanum, if indeed it could be done. What if it had permanently worsened her condition, and she remained ill—or, worse, became even more unmanageable? Back at Valley View, I had imagined the worst would be the ocean journey. It had not occurred to me that that was only the beginning.
Oh God,I thought,what have I done?Would Molly and Tiso accommodate themselves to life in England? And what if they simply refused? What if Molly, now that she was no longer a slave, decided to leave? Or insisted the two of them be returned to the only home they had known? Would they not miss Jamaica as much as I had pined for Thornfield? And could I expect Mrs. Greenway—or any other cottage woman—to stay in a household such as this?
Feeling overwhelmed, I rose and walked to a window and gazed out, but all one could see from Ferndean’s windows were trees, and then I finally left the room. Molly and Tiso were just outside the door, sitting on the floor and playing their game of bones and pebbles. The two of them did not acknowledge me as I walked past, as slaves would not, though, I realized, servants would have done. England was so different from Jamaica in so many ways, and yet it was essential that Molly and Tiso remain with us, for I now saw that I could not manage Bertha without them.
***
When Mrs. Greenway returned, red-faced from her exertions, she announced, “I have sent a cottage boy. I told him to make sure Mr. Carter understood it was urgent.”
“Thank you,” I said. Then I added, “Have you had dealings with Mr. Carter?”
“Oh no, sir. He is for the gentry. The apothecary is good enough for me. But I have heard good things of him.”
“Mrs. Greenway,” I said, “the white woman—”
She waited, expectantly.
I had thought to say,The white woman is my wife. But what came out of my mouth was: “The white woman is the daughter of a friend of my father’s. He has passed on, and I have the care of her. She is English, but she has never been here. Neither she nor the other two know much of our way of life. They are used to different foods, different weather, different customs to some extent, even somewhat different clothing. The two negroes are not used to shoes, for example.”
She was nodding at all I was saying, though I had no idea if she did so as my employee or if she really understood the half of it.
“There is a great deal for them to get used to,” I added. “You could be of immense help in that respect.”
“Yes, sir. And they will understand me when I talk to them? The child never says anything.”
“Did you not hear me speak to the child, in English?”
“But—but she seems to have so little facility in it herself.”
“They speak in patois—a dialect. You will get used to it. They understand what you say. And the child is shy.”
She took a breath as if to speak, but then did not.
“As for…the woman,” I said, “she cannot help the fact that she is mad. She can be difficult. But Molly and Tiso are used to her; they will deal with her. If you will just be kind enough to help them learn their way.”
She straightened: a soldier receiving orders. “Yes, sir.” And then she added, “Are they…are they…?”
“In Jamaica they were slaves. They know that here they are not. To be honest, I do not know what will happen with them. For that reason”—I leaned closer to her over the table—“it is important to me that they feel at home here. That they find a decent life here.”
“Are they mother and daughter?” she asked. I nodded. “And where is the father?”
“In Jamaica, things are different, as I said. There is not always a husband.”
“Oh.”
“You will not disdain Molly for that,” I said, rather more sternly than I meant. “They are used to being slaves. It is a harsh word, but it is the truth. They do not understand exactly what their roles are. To them, disobedience has always meant the whip. Therefore, if they are unhappy, or fearful, they may run away.” I gave her a meaningful look. “We would not like it if that were to happen,” I added.
