Free Thornfield Hall by Jane Stubbs Page B

floor were no longer an ordeal I had to brace myself to undertake. The foul stench, though not completely eliminated, was masked by the scent of lavender and mitigated by the open windows and the increased traffic through the frequently opened door. Grace disliked locked doors. What if there were a fire? she would ask.
    The topic that exercised us most was the delicate question of the lady’s personal hygiene. She had allowed Grace to wash her hands and face but that was all. Mention of the washing of her hair or a bath sent her into paroxysms of shrieking.
    Clean clothing was also a problem. There had been no word from Mr Rochester to authorize the purchase of new clothes. We had done our best from the limited resources we had. Most of the clothes of my first Mr Rochester’s wife had been disposed of. The second and third Mr Rochester were bachelors so there was no mistress’s wardrobe we could plunder. We managed to ensure the lady was decently covered but you could not say much more than that.
    Eventually a letter came from Mr Rochester. It was very brief; the delights of Paris were obviously absorbing most of his attention. He was glad his plan to approach the keeper ofthe Grimsby Asylum had worked so well. There was no need to bother him with details now the unfortunate lady was adequately cared for. We could contact him if there was another dire emergency. He made it quite clear that another emergency would be judged as inefficiency on my part. His letter did not reveal the lady’s name but agreed to an allowance of fifteen pounds to be spent on clothes.
    I took Leah with me to choose linen for a set of undergarments and samples of fabric for a skirt and bodice for the lady. We also looked at woollen stuff for a warm pelisse; the poor woman must have suffered dreadfully from the cold. In the shop they assumed that the clothes were for Leah and I saw no reason to disillusion them. We had decided that we would do the sewing between us to avoid calling in a seamstress. A dressmaker would want to measure the lady. This was out of the question in her present state. Even if we could get the lady bathed a dressmaker would ask many impertinent questions. She would also be sure to inform all the gentry of the neighbourhood that Thornfield Hall had a dirty new resident of mysterious origins.
    When we returned with our purchase Grace shook out the white linen fabric and held it up to show the lady. ‘This will be for you,’ she told her as if she was a four-year-old child. The lady reached out her hand to stroke the cloth. Her hand stood out against the pure white of the fabric; her skin was a dark shade of grey. Grace took advantage of the opportunity presented to her.
    â€˜We always wash our hands before we handle our sewing,’ said Grace gently. ‘Shall we wash yours?’
    A bowl of water was brought and the lady’s hands were washed with scented soap. It was strange to see such large hands with such long fingers washed and dried like a giant child’s. The lady sat placidly through the whole procedure.
    Morbid fear of water! Pshaw, Mrs Morgan! I know who was afraid of water.
    It does not do to have smug thoughts; they always precede a nasty shock. Grace, grown confident by the lady’s composure, reached forward to sweep back the lady’s hair so that she could wipe her face. It was a step too far. The lady’s hands flew to the base of her throat as if to protect this most vulnerable part of her anatomy. Her face suffused with black rage. She leapt to her feet. The bowl flew across the room and the water splayed out in a great arc. She loomed over Grace and made a lunge at her throat. Murder seemed a short step away.
    Grace stood her ground and looked up boldly into the lady’s face. ‘Steady, steady, girl,’ she said as if she were talking to a restless horse. ‘I see now. It is your locket. I understand. Your locket. No one here is going to steal it.’