Everson’s response arrived in February, assuring me that he was diligently seeking appropriate persons for employment at Thornfield-Hall, although he regretted the fact that none of the old servants whom I remembered were available. Holdredge was now the landlord of the Thornfield Inn in Hay and had no interest in becoming a butler again; Cook had passed on; and Mrs. Knox was elderly and infirm and living in York with her sister. He did, however, send me the name and address of a physician, Mr. Daniel Carter, a young man of “sterling reputation,” who would be most happy to assist me in whatever ways I desired.
I composed a letter that very same day to Mr. Carter, requesting his assistance in assessing the Grimsby Retreat, of which, I told him, I had heard. Truly, it had been years before, when I made my short visit to Thornfield, that Cook mentioned to me that my childhood playmate had worked there. I found it necessary to reveal to Mr. Carter—in strictest confidence, I urged—that I was returning from several years in Jamaica and was bringing with me a relative who required the kind of care that I believed the Retreat to provide. As I wrote those very words, I felt as if I had been suddenly struck on the chest, for I had promised Bertha she would never be placed in the sort of institution her mother inhabited. I did still truly intend to hold to that promise, but I felt it necessary to know, at least, what kind of place was available if all else failed.
As I sat there at Jonas’ desk, in his room, his last words came again to me: Promise you will never abandon my daughter. I had made promises—to Bertha and to her father, in addition to my wedding vows—and I felt myself standing at a precipice now, not knowing if I could keep those promises without destroying my own life. But I was still determined to do the best I could.
My letters completed, I sealed them, placed them in my pocket, and called for my horse. I had three final tasks. One was the selling of the last of the business interests in Jamaica that I had received from my father, including the three sailing vessels that had been his. I would keep the Sea Nymph and the Dragon. I had already made initial inquiries regarding my intentions to sell and had in hand an offer; all that was needed was to finalize the papers. Did I feel guilty, selling all that my father and Jonas had built, save for the plantation itself? No, I did not. Certainly, I could have kept it all—surely my father would have—but I was not my father. I had learned, in the years I was in Jamaica, that I indeed had a head for business, but I hadn’t the heart for it, and I had no regrets in ridding myself of all of it.
The second task was to meet with Foster to arrange for the papers to be drawn up for Sukey’s freedom. She would not receive them, or know anything about them, until after I was gone. And I left her the town house, to do with as she pleased. I felt a bit of regret at those arrangements, for Sukey had been a comfort, and Jamaica itself had done me no harm, had, in fact, pushed me into becoming a man. But there was nothing left for me there, except waiting for the day the slaves would revolt or Parliament would order them freed.
The third, most delicate task was to visit a chemist and purchase enough laudanum to quiet Bertha on our journey. I would have to receive instructions from the chemist as to its use; that was certain, as I needed to take care that she not become addicted. But I could imagine no other way to accomplish the journey that lay ahead of us.
When I had done all that, I could mail the letters I had written. I would be fully committed and fully prepared to quit Jamaica forever. There was, as I rode the familiar road from Valley View, a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was about to burn my bridges behind me. I wanted to feel a release, but instead I felt only trepidation.
Book Three
Chapter 1
In all the years of my life, this return to England was my first important decision—beyond the purchase of the Sea Nymph and the Dragon—that had not been orchestrated by my father, and I took substantial joy and confidence in that fact. I kept this decision to myself, save for Everson in England and my solicitor in Jamaica, and, of course, Osmon and Whitledge, and I made sure they understood the importance of confidentiality in this matter. Even Molly would not know until absolutely necessary.
I was determined to ensure that Bertha would be as comfortable as possible on the tedious sea journey to England, both for her sake and for the sake of the other passengers aboard the Calypso. Keeping her calm, quiet, and content would be a significant part of that, so late in March I started visiting her regularly in the evenings, bringing a mug of grog, and sitting with her for a time. Bertha was always happy to imbibe, and I had learned to carefully measure out the laudanum, pleased to note how it quieted her just at the hour she was most agitated. Often, she grew dreamy and seemed to enjoy recounting her reveries. Sometimes she was convinced that she had ten or twelve babies of her own, and she would spend much of her time counting them in her imagination, as if she expected some of them to go missing, and I would feel a pity for her, she who so wished for a child and would never have one. Occasionally she spoke of her father, seeming unaware that he had passed away. She never mentioned her mother.
In fact, Bertha grew so docile that I have to admit that I thought a time or two how easy it would be to keep her forever in this dream state. But I had studied the dangers of that path, and I had no wish to put her into a permanent addiction, no matter how convenient it might at first appear.
When the date of departure at last came, I gave Bertha a slightly larger dose in the evening and then turned to Molly and revealed my plan. She was to pack up three valises for a journey; I told her we would be leaving Valley View early in the morning and by noontime we would be on a boat. Her eyes widened. “Leave Jamaica?” she asked.
“Yes,” I responded. After all my careful plans, I hadn’t realized until that instant that Molly might refuse to follow Bertha.
“Me cannot,” she said.
“You may bring Tiso, if you choose.”
“Me cannot.”
“Why?” I demanded.
“Me only know Jamaica,” she said, and I knew exactly what she meant.
And yet, I had something to offer her. “Come with us, to England,” I said. “You and Tiso. You help me get my wife to my home there. If…” I paused, for I did not really want to make the offer, yet I might as well, as it was true whether I wanted to suggest it or not. “If you do not want to stay, you may come back here, to Jamaica. But”—I moved closer and held her with my eyes—“in Jamaica you are a slave and always will be. In England there are no slaves. In England you and your daughter will be free.”
She caught her breath at that. “No slave?” she asked.