I had, I confess. But Parliament allowed divorce only if the man had two witnesses to his wife’s adultery, and—while Bertha had surely been no angel at those Jamaican balls—I had no such witnesses to bring forth. So I simply said, “I promised I would not abandon her.” And what kind of man would I be if I did not keep my vows?
“Rochester. Think. What kind of life have you here?”
How many times had I asked myself that same question? Mr. Wilson’s words about his wife’s sister had echoed back to me in my periods of despair.Even the fiercest of beasts—wolves and bears—take care of their own.
But Carter was right: Ferndean did not suit for Bertha. It was too large, with too many furnishings and windows too accessible, and it would be damp in the winter with so little sun. She needed a smaller space, someplace more confined, someplace with windows that allowed in light and air but that she could not reach and break, someplace where she could be safely kept, but not abandoned.
Then it came to me.
***
Yes, oh God, for better or worse I moved her there, to the largest storage room on the third floor of Thornfield-Hall itself, where the windows were too high to see out of—or reach—where the entrance could be made secure, and where I would be within immediate reach if she were to take sick or something disastrous should happen. Within a handful of weeks I had it rebuilt into an apartment with a sitting room and a bedchamber, walled off from the rest of the third floor and with a separate staircase at the opposite end of the hall from the one the servants used. It was perfect, I thought. The door to the staircase was hidden by a drapery hanging from floor to ceiling, which to the casual observer would appear to be some sort of wall tapestry.
At the time I thought the move to Thornfield was a masterful stroke, and Carter did as well. I was sorry to have to let Mrs. Greenway go, although in truth I think she felt relieved, but she did admit that she would miss Tiso.
Tiso was thirteen, old enough to want to spread her wings, to explore, but I could not give her the run of Thornfield-Hall as she had had at Ferndean, for that would raise too many questions. Occasionally she slipped out of Bertha’s chambers, and more than once I found her rooting in the storage rooms, as I had done as a child. I could not be harsh with her for that, but nevertheless I had to order her back. She always went, reluctantly, and I thought,This will not last. A child of that age will not stay cooped up forever.
And she did not. Once, and again, and then again, she slipped out at dusk when her mother and Bertha were still sleeping. I caught her at it myself when I was returning one evening, and I marched her right back to the apartment, where Molly, just awakened, gave her a look of fire. I knew what she was thinking, but I did not stay to hear her say it.
Despite the scoldings, the child could not be contained, and a week later she slipped out again. I knew nothing about that latest excursion until I next visited Bertha’s chamber, and there was Tiso, sitting on the floor, her legs stretched out in front of her while Molly applied a poultice of tea and leaves to Tiso’s foot. Bertha was sitting in a corner, shaking her head and muttering to herself.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She out again,” Molly said angrily. “She step on something.”
I bent and touched Tiso’s foot, and she gasped and jerked it from my hand, but not quickly enough that I did not feel the heat of the inflammation. I took her foot more firmly, and this time she did not try to draw it away. It was a puncture wound. A rake? A nail, perhaps?
I sent for Carter, who examined her foot and ordered hot soapy water to wash it well, and he made another poultice. He took me aside, but by then I knew as well as he, from the burning heat of her foot and the swelling creeping up her leg, that she was in trouble. Molly knew too, and she refused to leave Tiso’s side. I begged Carter to do anything more that was possible, but he just shook his head, powerless to prevent the inevitable. I stayed most of the time in Bertha’s apartment, keeping watch over her, so that Molly could tend Tiso. I urged Molly to move the poor child to a proper bedchamber, but she would hear nothing of it. I did what I could for the two of them, but the sallowness of that feverish little face was an accusation I could hardly stand. I was barely man enough to confront it.
Tiso lasted weeks, unable to eat, and in time convulsions set in—it was a horrid way to die, and there was nothing Carter or Molly or I could do to ease her suffering. She grew delirious at the end, with Molly hovering over her, and even Bertha paced the floor and moaned in sympathy.
When it was all over and the little girl had breathed her last, Molly remained still, holding Tiso, the tears running down her face. I could barely bring myself to look at her: I had brought such misery upon her, and upon little Tiso, by moving us all to England, and now I could not think of a way to make things right.
That evening, Molly came to me and announced, “I go back to Jamaica.”
“What will you do there?” I asked.
She stared at me then in silence, with a steady gaze unlike any I had ever seen from a negro in Jamaica.
“I will give you money,” I said, “and your papers. You will not be a slave, at least.”
She nodded. She did not thank me. Why should she?
Chapter 4
Iasked of Molly only that she remain until I could find a replacement to care for Bertha. I had no idea how I would go about doing such a thing, but it was necessary, for I did not see how I, by myself, could manage daily care for that madwoman for the rest of my life. Molly seemed skeptical when I offered the deal, recognizing, I am sure, that it would be nearly impossible to find someone to replace her. But she said nothing.
Both of us knew full well that I could not find anyone in a month or two months or probably even a year. But I had not reckoned on Mrs. Greenway. She had become, in the wider neighborhood, somewhat of a recognized authority on Mr. Rochester and the women he had brought back from Jamaica. Kindly, she kept my secrets, though she did enjoy her elevated position.
One day, she came to see me at my visiting hours. Almost immediately on my arrival at Thornfield I had revived my father’s practice of meeting on Wednesday afternoons with Ames and my gamekeeper and any cottagers who wished an audience. Few cottagers came, and those who did seemed to have mostly manufactured issues, created to make an appraisal of the new master of Thornfield and weigh him against the previous Mr. Rochesters. Sometimes I wondered how I stacked up against those two: my imperious brother and my demanding father.
When it was her turn, Mrs. Greenway settled herself into the chair in my study, wearing her best bonnet and newly blackened shoes, and after a few pleasantries she informed me that she had had a visitor. Did I remember a girl from my childhood named Grace?
“Yes, I do,” I responded. “She was some kind of scullery maid here at Thornfield, I think, in those days. And her little brother, Jem, helped in the stables—he was my age and we sometimes played together when he was not busy.”
“I have known Grace much of her life, poor thing,” she said. “She has not had an easy time, though in all truth, I must say, life is not easy for many folk. But Grace worse than Jem, I imagine, because she was a girl. Her mother was dead and her father a hard man. She ran off to marry just to get shut of him, I think. But the man she took turned out worse than nothing. He beat her; even when she was with child he beat her most awful. When her son was born, Grace took the infant and left. This was a long time ago.”
I had an idea where all this was going, but there was really not work enough at Thornfield for more than the staff I already employed.
