Mr. Carter was true to his word: he came every day, shortly after noon. Bertha was at first usually asleep, but as the effects of the medication became less and less, she grew more and more agitated, her rages and visions and screaming continuing for hours on end. I could not imagine what Mrs. Greenway down in the kitchen thought; Tiso generally stood in Bertha’s chambers with her back against the door, not quite willing to leave her mother, but staying as far as she could get from the terrifying creature Bertha had become. For her part, Molly followed Bertha around the room, murmuring, singing, caressing, trying all sorts of tricks to distract her, to soothe her to sleep. Sometimes they worked, but more often they did not. The first time Mr. Carter saw Bertha’s outbursts, he suggested to me that I tie her down to keep her from hurting herself or others, but I could not bring myself to do that.
At Valley View, I had relied on Molly to tend Bertha, and I had gone to her apartment each day for only a short time, but at first at Ferndean I made it my business to be with Bertha as much as possible; it was my fault, after all, that she had become addicted and that she now suffered from withdrawal of the medicine. Only now and then did I ride back over to Thornfield for respite. When she slept, I would slip away to find some peace: I could not have kept my sanity if I had had to stay constantly locked up with her as Molly did. As for Molly, I urged her to give herself a rest, to leave Bertha for a while and go to the kitchen or out into the garden. But she would not leave Bertha’s side, sending Tiso to fetch the meals or a jug of water when Bertha demanded it, or to empty the chamber pot.
And Mrs. Greenway was true to her word as well. As much as she could, she took Tiso under her care, luring her from Bertha’s bedchamber with sweet treats and promises to teach her how to cook in the English style.
After those initial weeks, when it became clear that the laudanum addiction had run its course, it was also clear that Bertha had further regressed. She rarely slept now, neither in the day nor at night, and she roamed her bedchamber with a fury, grumbling and murmuring to herself, telling herself incoherent tales, laughing wildly. Once, left alone for just a moment, she pounded her bare hands against the mullioned windows until one shattered, and she cut herself quite severely. When Molly returned, Bertha was in the process of licking up her own blood as it ran down her arms.
In desperation, Carter and I rode to the Grimsby Retreat to speak with Mr. Mitchell, who was in charge there. I had regained my hopes for the place as time had passed, realizing more and more each day how futile and mistaken had been my plan to house Bertha permanently at Ferndean. As we rode through the grounds, I began to feel optimistic. Grimsby was a grand estate, with handsome spired buildings and walkways across the gardens and green lawns. It was nothing at all like the gloomy asylum in Kingston.
Inside, as we were led to Mr. Mitchell’s office, I noted the tall windows, the bright rooms, the lack of unpleasant odors. Bertha could be cared for here as well as anywhere, I told myself. It was not at all what Jonas was thinking of when he exacted that promise from me, and my spirits rose at that thought.
Mr. Mitchell was a compact man whose dark curls surrounded a round face, making him look younger than his years. He sat in his office and listened patiently as Carter and I explained Bertha’s situation, and when we had finished, he just nodded his head as if confirming something. I looked uneasily at Carter, but he was staring out of a window.
At last Mitchell spoke. “She seems like a difficult case. A mother in an institution always portends badly.”
“She has not always been so,” I said. “Six years ago, when I first met her—”
“She is how old?”
“Thirty-two years.”
He nodded. “They often have twenty or twenty-five years of normalcy, these ones with a familial connection.”
“But I understand your institution—”
“The Grimsby Retreat, as you may or may not have been told, has always been designed for people who have an upbringing in the Society of Friends.”
“But you do make exceptions,” Mr. Carter countered.
Mr. Mitchell looked down at his desktop. One hand went to a silver letter opener on his desk, and he turned it over, and then over again. “We do, yes,” he said finally, nodding again, his eyes fastened on the letter opener in his hand. “But only when we perceive that the prospective patient would benefit by being here. From the way you describe your wife’s circumstance, in all honesty, I do not see that as a possibility.”
“Mr. Rochester is prepared to pay—” Carter began.
“Yes, I understand that,” Mitchell replied, looking at Carter, not at me, as if I were not even in the room. He rose from his chair. “But I do not see that this is a possibility for his wife.” He strode toward the door, to usher us out.
“Why not?” I demanded, remaining seated.
He sighed. “The Grimsby Retreat is an institution that intends a cure for each of our patients. It is not a holding pen for incurables.”
Incurable. The word struck me like a blow. “What in God’s name is there, then?” I cried, suddenly seeing only an abyss for my future.
“There are other institutions. I can recommend—”
“Man, for God’s sake, have pity!”
His tone did not change in the slightest, despite that I was nearly on my knees. “I am very sorry, but I have the welfare of our patients to consider. You are wealthy enough: hire caretakers for her.” He opened the door. The interview was over.
Carter and I rode back in silence for a time, and then he said, “Mitchell makes a point. There are other institutions.”
“Not like that,” I ventured, and he nodded agreement.
Promise you will never abandon my daughter, Jonas had said, and I knew what he had meant. I saw in my mind’s eye Bertha’s mother in her cell, raging endlessly.
*
As I was caught up in my private dilemma at Ferndean, word had spread throughout the county that the younger Mr. Rochester was newly arrived from Jamaica. Notes appeared from neighbors expressing their dismay at the untimely deaths of my brother and father, inviting me to tea or other social outings. Clearly, all were eager to meet Thornfield’s mysterious and apparently eligible new heir.
At first I sent my sincerest regrets to all invitations that came my way. Instead, to fill my days and bring myself some comfort, I replaced the piano in Thornfield-Hall, which had never been played in my memory, and I took great pleasure in playing it when I could get away from Ferndean. I found in the attic a few faded music books, marked, I imagined, in my mother’s hand, and I took them downstairs with tears filling my eyes at the thought of the songs she might once have played.