Tiso lasted weeks, unable to eat, and in time convulsions set in—it was a horrid way to die, and there was nothing Carter or Molly or I could do to ease her suffering. She grew delirious at the end, with Molly hovering over her, and even Bertha paced the floor and moaned in sympathy.
When it was all over and the little girl had breathed her last, Molly remained still, holding Tiso, the tears running down her face. I could barely bring myself to look at her: I had brought such misery upon her, and upon little Tiso, by moving us all to England, and now I could not think of a way to make things right.
That evening, Molly came to me and announced, “I go back to Jamaica.”
“What will you do there?” I asked.
She stared at me then in silence, with a steady gaze unlike any I had ever seen from a negro in Jamaica.
“I will give you money,” I said, “and your papers. You will not be a slave, at least.”
She nodded. She did not thank me. Why should she?
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?”