But life at Ferndean, and even at Thornfield, had become so barren, so taken up with my concerns for Bertha, that I knew that unless I was willing to go mad myself, I could not continue forever as I was. And so, once, and then again, I began to accept the social invitations, and I found myself enjoying the respite they provided, the forgetfulness they permitted. I astonished myself when I eventually began to flirt with some of the young women who were present. It was not honest and it was not right, but it was such a relief to be in the company of people with whom I could have an actual conversation.
Sometimes those conversations turned coyly to the Jamaican women who lived at Ferndean, and I knew that the neighborhood gossips had been at work, and I nodded and described Bertha once more as the daughter of a friend of my father’s, a woman left orphaned and alone whom I had brought back from the West Indies, since she no longer had family there. It was all true, of course, except for my omitting the fact that I had married her. On several occasions a woman or two would venture the possibility of calling on my guest, as they referred to her, but I told them she was very ill, and possibly contagious from some rare tropical affliction, and they soon left off the notion of socializing with her.
Though Bertha was in truth not contagious, caring for her remained a struggle. Molly and Tiso tried to keep close watch, but even so, a few times she escaped, fumbling her way through the unfamiliar house. On one occasion she even threatened Mrs. Greenway with a poker from the hearth and was only prevented from doing real harm by little Tiso. Twice she managed to get all the way outside before she could be brought back. The fear of fire was always upon us, for if Bertha mindlessly dropped a candle or knocked out an ember from the fire and set the house ablaze, everyone could be burned alive in bed. Secretly, I worried as well about more deliberate destruction, for in her madness Bertha was insensible to the consequences of her acts.
Two or three more times she put her fists or an elbow through windows, cutting herself so badly once that we had to send for Mr. Carter in the middle of the night. On that occasion he spoke to me dolefully after bandaging her arm. “This cannot go on, Rochester. She will not improve. Ever. You do understand that? And she is a danger to herself and to others. You must find another place for her.”
“I cannot.” They would not take her at the Grimsby, and I could not allow myself to think of sending her anywhere else, where the practices were bound to be less humane.
“Have you thought of divorce?” Carter asked me once.
I had, I confess. But Parliament allowed divorce only if the man had two witnesses to his wife’s adultery, and—while Bertha had surely been no angel at those Jamaican balls—I had no such witnesses to bring forth. So I simply said, “I promised I would not abandon her.” And what kind of man would I be if I did not keep my vows?
“Rochester. Think. What kind of life have you here?”
How many times had I asked myself that same question? Mr. Wilson’s words about his wife’s sister had echoed back to me in my periods of despair. Even the fiercest of beasts—wolves and bears—take care of their own.
But Carter was right: Ferndean did not suit for Bertha. It was too large, with too many furnishings and windows too accessible, and it would be damp in the winter with so little sun. She needed a smaller space, someplace more confined, someplace with windows that allowed in light and air but that she could not reach and break, someplace where she could be safely kept, but not abandoned.
Then it came to me.
*
Yes, oh God, for better or worse I moved her there, to the largest storage room on the third floor of Thornfield-Hall itself, where the windows were too high to see out of—or reach—where the entrance could be made secure, and where I would be within immediate reach if she were to take sick or something disastrous should happen. Within a handful of weeks I had it rebuilt into an apartment with a sitting room and a bedchamber, walled off from the rest of the third floor and with a separate staircase at the opposite end of the hall from the one the servants used. It was perfect, I thought. The door to the staircase was hidden by a drapery hanging from floor to ceiling, which to the casual observer would appear to be some sort of wall tapestry.
At the time I thought the move to Thornfield was a masterful stroke, and Carter did as well. I was sorry to have to let Mrs. Greenway go, although in truth I think she felt relieved, but she did admit that she would miss Tiso.
Tiso was thirteen, old enough to want to spread her wings, to explore, but I could not give her the run of Thornfield-Hall as she had had at Ferndean, for that would raise too many questions. Occasionally she slipped out of Bertha’s chambers, and more than once I found her rooting in the storage rooms, as I had done as a child. I could not be harsh with her for that, but nevertheless I had to order her back. She always went, reluctantly, and I thought, This will not last. A child of that age will not stay cooped up forever.
And she did not. Once, and again, and then again, she slipped out at dusk when her mother and Bertha were still sleeping. I caught her at it myself when I was returning one evening, and I marched her right back to the apartment, where Molly, just awakened, gave her a look of fire. I knew what she was thinking, but I did not stay to hear her say it.
Despite the scoldings, the child could not be contained, and a week later she slipped out again. I knew nothing about that latest excursion until I next visited Bertha’s chamber, and there was Tiso, sitting on the floor, her legs stretched out in front of her while Molly applied a poultice of tea and leaves to Tiso’s foot. Bertha was sitting in a corner, shaking her head and muttering to herself.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She out again,” Molly said angrily. “She step on something.”
I bent and touched Tiso’s foot, and she gasped and jerked it from my hand, but not quickly enough that I did not feel the heat of the inflammation. I took her foot more firmly, and this time she did not try to draw it away. It was a puncture wound. A rake? A nail, perhaps?
I sent for Carter, who examined her foot and ordered hot soapy water to wash it well, and he made another poultice. He took me aside, but by then I knew as well as he, from the burning heat of her foot and the swelling creeping up her leg, that she was in trouble. Molly knew too, and she refused to leave Tiso’s side. I begged Carter to do anything more that was possible, but he just shook his head, powerless to prevent the inevitable. I stayed most of the time in Bertha’s apartment, keeping watch over her, so that Molly could tend Tiso. I urged Molly to move the poor child to a proper bedchamber, but she would hear nothing of it. I did what I could for the two of them, but the sallowness of that feverish little face was an accusation I could hardly stand. I was barely man enough to confront it.