He paused for a moment, and then he said, “I would not not recommend her.”
I waited.
He leaned forward over his desk. “It is not an easy task to find good persons for a place like this. The most compassionate sometimes do not fully understand the requirements of their positions, and the hardest cannot seem to…to—”
“And where would Grace Poole fall?”
He shook his head. “She is a bit of a mystery. She is pale, and one might assume she is weak, but in fact she is very strong—I have seen evidence of that. She is not a Quaker, and so we cannot give her greater duties, for she does not understand our philosophy here. For you, that should not be a problem. I honestly do not think, from what you have said, that there is hope for better for your wife than what she is now, and in fact most likely her condition will only deteriorate. If you require a keeper, someone who will make sure she is safe and secure, Grace could manage it, I am sure.”
“Could you spare her?” I asked.
“Spare?” He chuckled. “People come and go here, especially those in the lower ranks. If she is looking for a position with you, she is surely already on her way out.”
I rose. “I assume you will not take offense, then, if I approach her.”
“She has not already approached you?”
“An intermediary only.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “That would be Grace. I wish you well with her.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking up my hat.
“It is a Christian thing you do.”
I turned in surprise.
“Many is the man who would rid himself of such a woman as you have described to me, and think the better of himself for it.”
“Good day, sir,” I said. I could not wait to leave. I could not pretend to be such a man as he seemed to think me; I had come precariously close to abandoning Bertha, despite my promises, and I would have done so if he would have taken her in.
A few days later I interviewed Grace, who, true to her nature, said little, but what little she said comforted me that Bertha would be in capable hands. I brought her with me to visit Bertha, who on this occasion, and sadly not for the first time, appeared not to recognize me. Indeed, the sight of me seemed to enrage her—and as she moved to attack me I discovered firsthand that Grace Poole was indeed competent to deal with her. I arranged for Grace to move into the apartment immediately, so Molly could train her in Bertha’s care.
There remained only to have papers drawn up for Molly’s freedom, and I secured her passage on the first ship back to Jamaica.
By the time Molly was ready to leave, Grace Poole had a firm enough grip over life in the third-floor apartment that I had no longer reason to fear for Bertha’s safety, nor that of Thornfield-Hall itself. The rest of the servants had known little about Molly’s duties and less about the woman she tended. No doubt they were curious, but there was a kind of respect for the place—and perhaps for me—that precluded their gossiping beyond the walls of Thornfield-Hall. As for the rest of the neighborhood, I let it be known that the women from Jamaica were returning to their home there, and I hoped that that rumor would put to rest any further inquiry about my unusual guests.
It appeared to work, for the most part. It was now partridge-hunting season, and the surrounding estates were alive with hunting parties and teas. Though I tried never to appear too eligible, I made a point of accepting and reciprocating just enough invitations as was proper, for I knew I could not avoid society forever. And, beyond that, I craved the normalcy that came from a world away from Bertha.
At Thornfield, as the time drew near for Molly to depart, I sensed a kind of regret in her. I wondered how she would fare on her own back on her island. She had been Bertha’s body servant from childhood, but she would return a free woman—yet freedom does not guarantee a living. When the time came for her to leave, I pressed two hundred pounds into Molly’s hand and wished her well and thanked her for her devotion to her “missus.” I could not trust myself to say more.
She stood silently before me for a long time, and I perceived she was struggling inwardly, and I waited.
“Sir, I think you do not know—of the baby,” she said, gazing past my shoulder.
“What baby?” I wondered suddenly if Molly had been mistreated by someone at Thornfield, if she were fleeing England in shame. “Yours?”
She frowned, and she must at first have thought I meant Tiso. “No, no. If missus, if she cry for her baby, her little boy, tell her he is fine—sleeping.”
I was dumbfounded. “Bertha had a baby? She was…she was married before?”
“Not marry. She a child. Tiso age.”
“What happened to the baby?” I asked, my heart pounding in my ears.
“He gone.”
“Where? Where did he go?”
“People came. They took him.”
I stared at her, my mouth dry. “Who was the father?”
Still looking beyond me, she shrugged, as if there was no more to tell.
*
As the days passed after Molly’s departure, I tried to establish for myself a routine of riding out in the morning, overseeing my fields and cattle, enjoying the peace of my holdings, without worry for Bertha. I was no longer concerned for her immediate safety, but I could not rid my mind of Molly’s parting news: Bertha had a child, a son. And he would be grown now, nearing twenty years of age, if he were still living. Ought I to try to find him? I wondered. Did he know who his mother was—what she was? Would he want to know? The thought of his birth, and loss, tormented me. If only I had known sooner. She had spoken of lost babies, but I thought it was only one of her delusions. The anguish she must have felt—a child herself, weeping for her lost baby. Surely this was part of what had driven her to madness; I could not help but wonder if a reunion with the child might once have stopped her decline.
I began sitting with her again, as often as I could, hoping to speak with her about the boy and offer some sort of comfort. But she was already too far gone. Sometimes in her garbled rants, I still heard that word—baby—but her tirades had become so nonsensical that I could never be sure. Perhaps I only imagined it.