Chapter 5
The coach rattled loudly, jarring me awake. Though discomfort usually accompanied any type of travel with Bertha, I'd not experienced so sound a slumber in seven years. "There, now, Master," said Mrs. Poole as she glanced up from her charge. "You rest a mite more. T'coachman gave twenty mile and more until the hall is reached." Bertha, silent though awake, sat beside her grim yet kind monitress and looked from me to her. "We'll have no sound from her this night, that I'll warrant," continued the good woman. Re-positioning myself so that I rested against the coach wall I closed my eyes once more, soothed by the rocking motion and newfound knowledge that the woman sitting just across from me had my wife well in-hand.
The Grimsby Retreat lay fifty miles north from Hanwell House—an opposite direction from Thornfield, a further 30 miles southeast. The long stretch of road, confined to the coach with Bertha was interminable. A private conveyance it was, but more than once the coachman must have prayed and made boundless oaths during the sojourn toward Grimsby. He was glad to be rid of his passengers, one a stern, sullen, and broken man, the other a raving woman who used every curse known under the sun. Between cursing every part of my anatomy, spitting directly in my face and screeching betimes, Bertha made the journey to the retreat a living nightmare. She yelled and railed at me by turns, and only by holding her wrists was I able to stave off being scratched to a pulp. When not attacking my person she continually sought to exit the coach and run off. The first time she did this we were not three miles from Hanwell. I rushed from my seat and ran after her; quite an exertion of strength, for she, though feeble of mind, possessed strength enough of limb that I was obliged to sprint at my full speed to overtake her.
Once inside the coach again—much to her protests—I ordered the coachman to lock us within to avoid another scene. Many of the mountain paths between here and Grimsby were dangerous with precarious footing. Should she make her escape on one of those roads she might fall to her death down cliffs of rock and bramble. Even in my own personal ravings I would not allow myself to imagine being rid of her in such a way. That the initial thought came into my head sickened me and convinced me of my own wickedness like nothing else did. This creature was a fiend; but one of God's own yet, and I would not presume to be the one to take life from her, whether indirectly or with a purpose. Whatever morality was lacking in my character in those days would not, at least, allow me to break the command, though shalt not commit murder. As to the other nine, I was to break them all in the coming years, but that lay in my future.
The present was bleak, and I had little faith in the proprietors of Grimsby Retreat, regardless of Dr. Hanwell's assurances that it would be the very place to find someone to care for my wife's special circumstances. I dreaded ending the fifty-mile trek to the Retreat only to be turned away with my charge to travel a further ninety miles home with her again and no closer to a solution.
Somehow we arrived at the Retreat in due time, the night cold and dark as only November can boast, particularly in Northumberland. The place was fenced in iron and gated securely. At the gatehouse we were inquired of, and seeing the woman and myself retired within were passed through to a large, stone house yonder, nearly all windows dark save a few. This Grimsby Retreat more fit my mind's image of a lunatic asylum, at night at any rate, with dark stone and serviceable nurses and assistants in crisp uniforms. It was clear that no soft exterior was feigned to hide what such an establishment was for. Though a humane asylum with amenities rivaling those of a place like Bedlam, the family members of an inmate need not wonder at any service provided within.
The proprietors were as the building: plain with no pretentions, serviceable and lacking outward polish, but entirely capable. Reading my card and my letter of recommendation from Dr. Folsworth Henwell, Mr. Poole nodded his head and passed the papers toward the plain, order woman beside him; his mother, I presumed. "This seems to be in order, Mr. Rochester," said Mr. Poole. "How long has her condition been progressing?"
"These four years at least," I replied, "Though I know now how long the seeds have fermented in the soil within. The first outbreak I witnessed was seven years ago."
"Indeed," said Mr. Poole, glancing at Bertha, who sat dumb. Since we arrived she was still and quiet, searching each person she beheld and assessing the possibility of escape or escapade—whichever she might seize upon. In the presence of Mrs. Poole and her son, Bertha seemed cowed for once, even more so than by myself. Somehow these two emanated power and control, and she knew it. I could not be more pleased. "And tell me, does it manifest in other ways beside a tendency to destruction to herself and others?"
Surprised at the man's intuition regarding Bertha's familiar, I confessed some of her other vices without qualm. Mrs. Poole spoke then. "Her lucid moments are less frequent of late?"
"Yes," I replied. The woman nodded, glancing at her son and he grimaced in response, somehow communing without words. "Is she… that is, I do not wish to leave her. Have you anyone who might accompany back to Thornfield to watch and care for her?"
"Mother will go," said Mr. Poole, and the older woman nodded her head in ascent. Strange arrangement, this, I thought. "She has presided over this house and its residents for many years faithfully, Mr. Rochester. Changing from fifty inmates to just one charge will be retirement for her. She has served well."
I glanced toward Mrs. Pool, and she nodded once, pulling her mouth into a grim smile; evidently she was unused to the expression, but I could tell somehow that it was kindly meant. "I am much obliged to you, good woman," I said, the tightness in my chest easing somewhat. "She… Bertha—she is cunning. She possesses great strength of will and body. Are you certain that she will not be too much for you?"
"Nay," said Mrs. Poole. As though our interview were a staged thing, Bertha chose that moment to bolt from her chair and charge toward the door. Calmly, though more swiftly than even I could reach her, Mrs. Poole was at Bertha's side, speaking softly to her. "Now, Missus," said the woman. "If ye cannot behave I shall have to make you." Bertha spat out a foul rejoinder and swung a heavy fist in the older woman's direction. Deftly, Mrs. Poole grasped my wife's wrist and pulled it downward, twisting it carefully yet firmly until Bertha flinched. The woman did not hurt her, but I could see that with a slight bit more of pressure she could break Bertha's arm. "We'll not have such words, Bertha," said Mrs. Poole, "'Tis not likely, nor for a lady to say such." Her eyes stared into Bertha's, unblinking and cold, though still very calm, her voice very kind. There was no question of authority, Mrs. Poole was in perfect control. "Let us sit once more, madam, and I'll get ye some tea to drink. Would ye?" Bertha said nothing, but let her chin fall just enough to convey a nod, and Mrs. Pool gently released her wrist, and gestured toward the chair just recently vacated, and upturned by her swift movement. Bertha righted the chair and sat down, holding her wrist and moaning softly, but making no other protest. Mrs. Pool left the room, I presumed to order the tea, and I breathed in deeply, though cautiously.
"Have you need of any other demonstration?" asked Mr. Poole wryly.
"No," I said, laughing almost lightly as the tension eased. "I can see that your mother is quite capable."
"Yes," said Mr. Poole. "She is. It is not my own plan to remain here as proprietor indefinitely, only long enough to save for a small house where I might care for my mother one day. She has been a good mother, Mr. Rochester."
"I have no doubt of it," I said lamely, still stunned into relative silence in the midst of these two seemingly unimposing, yet singularly strong personalities. Grace Poole then reentered with a tea tray, and setting it down on a table proceeded to serve us, beginning with Bertha. My wife took the proffered cup without comment and sipped it quietly. I had never seen her so docile in another woman's presence.
After serving her son and myself, Mrs. Poole took her seat once more. "Do you not drink tea?" I inquired of the woman.
"Nay," she said, and added honestly, "Porter is all I drink," and producing a cup and flask she poured herself a liberal amount of the detestable spirit. "My one vice," she shrugged, and I grinned in response.
"Harmless," said I.
"Mostly," said Mrs. Poole. "I have at times taken a bit overmuch and slept the day over."
"Never while on-duty," clarified Mr. Poole. "Mother is most temperate and responsible." Somehow I did not think to question either of them, and assented that we all needed some form of solace.
It was arranged that we would leave for Thornfield the following morning, and Bertha and I were housed in two adjoining chambers that evening. Bertha made no sound, as Mrs. Poole herself resided in the room with her, holding sway. She was situated comfortably enough, with a comfortable bed and a good supper. Restraints there were in the room; but Mrs. Poole intimated to her that they would only be used if she acted out, which Bertha would not do. She was intelligent enough to know who was the alpha in a pack, and showed absolute deference accordingly. I, too, was similarly accommodated in comfort in my own chamber, but I did not sleep that night, fearful that some raving of my wife's would change the minds of the Pooles by morning, and that Grace would refuse to accompany us back to Thornfield. Her competence and control over the situation seemed too good to be true, and I hated to look with any hope toward a future where I would be free of my burden, and that Bertha would be well-cared for.
My morning I came to realize that my concerns and fears were unwarranted, and after an early breakfast and affectionate though simple parting between mother and son, we were on our way. Now, with night upon us and miles yet to travel, I allowed myself that hope, that light ahead. I need not remain at Thornfield much longer. I could go anywhere. Soon. First, other precautions must be taken. I thought of Mrs. Fairfax, the good housekeeper I'd known from my childhood. She must not be made aware of the situation. Nor must the other servants, few though there were. One other need be let in on it, Dr. Carter, my own surgeon, a discrete man of worldly wisdom and heavenly heart. Once he knew… I was free.