“Grace is shy with people,” she went on, “always has been, and she is worse now. But she is no fool. I gave her tea when she came and we talked for a time—I talked mostly, for visiting over tea is more my way than hers. But in the end she asked the question she must have been pondering. ‘Is it true that Mr. Rochester has a madwoman in his care?’ she asked me. Now, sir, as you know, I have been as discreet as ever you could wish for, and I must have sat for a moment with my mouth open, so astonished I was, and not knowing how to reply. ‘What makes you ask such a question?’ I finally said.
“‘I saw him at the Grimsby Retreat,’ she said. ‘He did not seem to me to appear as a benefactor, but instead as someone asking for help. I have often seen them come, the families of the mad.’”
I could imagine Mrs. Greenway leaning forward in her chair at that.
“I asked her what she was doing at the Grimsby,” she went on, “and she told me she worked there, had done for years, as does her brother and her son. And she said she knew you from childhood and she had recognized you, as you look so much like your father. I didn’t know what to say, for I knew you required secrecy in this matter, but I did tell her that she must speak to you herself. I don’t know if she has come to you. She is an odd one and you might not take her seriously, but I think you should, as she might be able to help you.”
“She has not come to me,” I said.
“Yes.” Mrs. Greenway nodded. “I feared that would be the case.”
“Have you a way to encourage her to come?”
“I don’t see her as a matter of course. It’s only that she came to me, and I thought…I suppose I could…”
“Never mind,” I said. “I shall handle the matter. But I am grateful that you came to me. Tell me: you have seen the states that Bertha experiences. In your opinion, could Grace…manage her?”
Mrs. Greenway straightened, tucking back her chin. “Grace is sturdy; she has had to be. She has had her share of ill treatment. She is far stronger than she might appear. And she is not stupid.”
“Thank you for telling me these things,” I said.
She rose, understanding the dismissal, but she had one more thing on her mind. “I wonder what you have heard of our Tiso.”
Our Tiso. My heart seized at the thought of that child. “I’m sorry, I should have informed you,” I said, for Mrs. Greenway had thrown herself into mothering that little girl. “Tiso—you remember how she never wore shoes—she stepped on something and cut her foot, and it became infected”—Mrs. Greenway gasped at the word—“and she died.”
Mrs. Greenway’s eyes filled, and she pulled out a handkerchief. “Poor little thing,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
She rose wearily, and as she left, she turned to me. “The last name is Poole,” she said. “Grace Poole.”
The very next day I rode to the Grimsby Retreat, and when I was told that Mr. Mitchell was not available, I announced that I would wait until he was, and I sat down in his office. It was more than an hour before he appeared, and when he did he had the abrupt demeanor of a man who had seen a supplicant too many times already.
“I come not to beg you to change your mind, but to ask you some questions regarding one of your staff here,” I said to him.
He sat down at his desk.
“Grace Poole, by name,” I added.
He frowned at first. Then he said, “Yes, she is a keeper here.”
“What can you tell me of her?”
He pulled a record book from the shelf behind him and paged through it until he found what he was searching for, then nodded in confirmation. “She has no marks against her. Are you thinking of hiring her?”
“Would you recommend her?”
He paused for a moment, and then he said, “I would notnotrecommend her.”
I waited.
He leaned forward over his desk. “It is not an easy task to find good persons for a place like this. The most compassionate sometimes do not fully understand the requirements of their positions, and the hardest cannot seem to…to—”
“And where would Grace Poole fall?”
He shook his head. “She is a bit of a mystery. She is pale, and one might assume she is weak, but in fact she is very strong—I have seen evidence of that. She is not a Quaker, and so we cannot give her greater duties, for she does not understand our philosophy here. For you, that should not be a problem. I honestly do not think, from what you have said, that there is hope for better for your wife than what she is now, and in fact most likely her condition will only deteriorate. If you require a keeper, someone who will make sure she is safe and secure, Grace could manage it, I am sure.”
“Could you spare her?” I asked.
