He blanched at my question, but he did respond. “Worse. I imagine”—he sighed—“I fear my daughter will someday fully lose her mind, as her mother did. But if there is any hope for her, it will be in keeping her at home. My wife grew much worse when she was put in care, and, between you and me, Rochester, I’ve found it difficult to get over that decision; it’s irreversible now, but I would give anything to have done it differently, to have kept my wife and son near me, despite it all. We must keep my daughter with us, safely under our eye, here, within the radius of our family. Constrain her within the house if you must, but…” He choked back a word or two, then gathered himself again. “We must treat her with gentleness, Rochester, for she is sick, and we must stop it from getting worse.”
Though it seemed impossible to end Bertha’s decline, I reluctantly agreed with him, for Jonas’ love for his daughter was clear, and I had respect—and envy—for that. But I could not yet completely forgive him for having sacrificed my happiness in his quest to see Bertha cared for—nor, worse, could I understand my own father, who should have warned me of her family history, which he must have known. What reason could have compelled the two of them to use me so?
Devastated, I retreated to Spanish Town as quickly as I could, for the town house there had become almost a sanctuary for me. As always, Sukey almost seemed to foresee my arrival, for there was pepper pot on the stove to welcome me. She was in the parlor, mending a shirt of mine, when I arrived, but she rose immediately when I came into the room. “No, no, sit,” I said to her.
As she sat, I said, “It’s Bertha,” for I needed at that moment to unburden myself, though it is never right to bring servants into one’s private life.
She nodded.
“You know her inheritance,” I said. “Her mind.”
Sukey did not even look at me.
“Why was I not told?” I demanded, as if I expected the poor girl to hold the answers. When she did not speak, I found myself unable to contain my restlessness. “I will be back for dinner.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and I left.
I went to my office, where, distracted, I signed the application to the registrar-general for permission to remove the word Guinea from the names of the two ships that had carried slaves. I didn’t care if it was bad luck or not; I had had enough bad luck in my life anyway. What worse could happen?
The next day I rode to Kingston, though I knew it was a mistake, and asked directions to the asylum—a large, formidable building of gray stone. I paused in front of it for a long time, not sure what I was seeking but knowing I needed to face what lay behind those walls. Finally, I tethered my horse and walked toward the gate, where a squinty-eyed man asked my business. He led me down a dark hallway that smelled of urine and vomit and God knows what else. I could hear, in the distance, shouts and screams and a low, nearly constant moaning. Another man intercepted us and the two had a few words, and then the second man beckoned me forward and I followed him.
“Why do you want to see her?” he asked.
“She is my wife’s mother.”
He shook his head. “Too late for you, then, surely,” he said.
I did not respond.
We passed several cells crowded with women, all of them reminding me of Bertha in one way or another, before we stopped at a cell containing a woman alone, her simple dress askew, her hair matted.
“Here.” My guide indicated her with a nod.
I watched her for a time, taking in the three-legged stool on which she sat, the mat on the floor on which she no doubt slept, the bucket for her waste. She was raking her fingers through her hair, as if to groom herself, and she seemed not to notice me. At first I pitied her, sitting there alone. “I have come from Valley View,” I said to her. “Your daughter sends her love.” My words seemed to make her suddenly aware of the two of us standing outside the bars, and she started to scream, and she rose and lunged toward us with an ear-shattering howl, her face grotesquely contorted, and I inadvertently jumped back.
“This one’s right mad,” my guide observed.
I stood for a moment, rooted to the spot, horrified. Was this what would become of Bertha? And then I fled.
Bertha there, in that place? It was no wonder her father forbade it and she was terrified of it. I could not blame them. As I rode away, the horror of that place would not leave me, and I, too, became as determined as Jonas to prevent Bertha from ending up there.
I spent three more days in Spanish Town before I could bring myself to return to Valley View.
*
Bertha’s rages and her night terrors came and went, and as I grew to understand that they had nothing to do with me, but with her own inner demons, I tried to ignore them. However, her hallucinations grew more frequent and more devastating. She would talk and scream and cry at beings in the room, one moment cowering from them and the next charging around as if to drive them from her. She ate little and bathed less, and sometimes she seemed unsure of who I was.
There were good days—many of them, in truth—and each time I raised a hope of improvement, but her rages came unannounced, and sometimes only Molly’s voice could calm her; we were deeply in that girl’s debt, all of us. At last, Jonas and I arranged for the plantation carpenter to turn two of the bedrooms into an apartment for Bertha, and that became her private refuge. She rarely left it, and Molly and her daughter waited on her there. Tiso was nearly ten years of age—old enough to be in the fields in the second gang, but Jonas and I agreed her presence in Bertha’s apartment was of more importance. She was a sweet girl, and obedient, and was a great help to Molly.
Bertha was immediately calmer, more content, when she could shelter in her rooms, and she didn’t seem to mind being away from the rest of the household activity. I visited from time to time, and she would beg me to make her with child, but I was far beyond accommodating her in that respect. Jonas rarely went to see her—he could not bear to, I think. Richard came even less often, and I suspected he and his father had had a falling-out, but neither of them would speak of it.
That was what my life became. I buried myself in the business of the plantation and spent considerable time in Spanish Town and Kingston overseeing my shipping business. Being there was balm for me: the silent house, Sukey fixing my favorite meals without my having to ask for them. As for the Sea Nymph and the Dragon, they were making regularly scheduled packet and passenger trips, and Jonas and I were pleased with the results of our purchases. Even my father, far away in Liverpool, having heard from Jonas of my venture, wrote that he was glad I was taking advantage of the education he had provided. I read the letter with distaste and threw it into the fire.