Chapter 4
I asked 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.
“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 not not recommend 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.
“Spare?” He chuckled. “People come and go here, especially those in the lower ranks. If she is looking for a position with you, she is surely already on her way out.”
I rose. “I assume you will not take offense, then, if I approach her.”
“She has not already approached you?”
“An intermediary only.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “That would be Grace. I wish you well with her.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking up my hat.
“It is a Christian thing you do.”
I turned in surprise.
“Many is the man who would rid himself of such a woman as you have described to me, and think the better of himself for it.”
“Good day, sir,” I said. I could not wait to leave. I could not pretend to be such a man as he seemed to think me; I had come precariously close to abandoning Bertha, despite my promises, and I would have done so if he would have taken her in.
A few days later I interviewed Grace, who, true to her nature, said little, but what little she said comforted me that Bertha would be in capable hands.
I brought her with me to visit Bertha, who on this occasion, and sadly not for the first time, appeared not to recognize me.
Indeed, the sight of me seemed to enrage her—and as she moved to attack me I discovered firsthand that Grace Poole was indeed competent to deal with her.
I arranged for Grace to move into the apartment immediately, so Molly could train her in Bertha’s care.
There remained only to have papers drawn up for Molly’s freedom, and I secured her passage on the first ship back to Jamaica.
By the time Molly was ready to leave, Grace Poole had a firm enough grip over life in the third-floor apartment that I had no longer reason to fear for Bertha’s safety, nor that of Thornfield-Hall itself.
The rest of the servants had known little about Molly’s duties and less about the woman she tended.
No doubt they were curious, but there was a kind of respect for the place—and perhaps for me—that precluded their gossiping beyond the walls of Thornfield-Hall.
As for the rest of the neighborhood, I let it be known that the women from Jamaica were returning to their home there, and I hoped that that rumor would put to rest any further inquiry about my unusual guests.
It appeared to work, for the most part. It was now partridge-hunting season, and the surrounding estates were alive with hunting parties and teas.
Though I tried never to appear too eligible, I made a point of accepting and reciprocating just enough invitations as was proper, for I knew I could not avoid society forever.
And, beyond that, I craved the normalcy that came from a world away from Bertha.