Thornfield Hall by Jane Stubbs

The lady’s hands hung over her like claws ready to maul Grace’s face.
    A calm, smiling Grace held her ground, the lady’s hands dropped and she fluttered her fingers over a locket round her neck to reassure herself it was really there. We had not noticed it earlier. Among the grime and the enveloping mass of black hair, there was no gleam of gold to draw our attention. We had thought all her jewellery gone with Mrs Morgan.
    The locket was a very ordinary and well-worn item; the base metal showed through where the gilding had rubbed off. Though its monetary value would be small its sentimental value to the lady was evidently immense. Only when she was satisfied that the trinket was safe did she sink back into her seat. There she sat quietly with an expression of puzzlement on her face, and she gave Grace a very close scrutiny as if she was seeing her for the first time and was agreeably surprised by what she saw.
    I was amazed. It was the first evidence I had seen that our grubby and disordered charge was a living sentient beingcapable of action, thought and emotion. Later Grace and I talked about the incident with the locket.
    â€˜It must be very important to her,’ Grace reflected. ‘It would be interesting to know who gave it to her. No use asking. She’ll tell us when she’s ready. She has managed to keep it out of the clutches of Mrs Morgan. That must’ve taken some doing. No wonder her hands are scratched. I hate to rub your nose in it, Alice, but I think Mrs Morgan got away with some valuables. It is a poor lady indeed who has so little jewellery.’
    I felt bad about the jewellery. Then I counted up the good things I had done. I had got rid of a nasty vicious nurse and had replaced her with a much more promising one. Grace might look cold and remote but her heart was definitely in the right place. And she appreciated cleanliness. ‘Do you think she will trust us not to steal from her?’
    â€˜Perhaps. For a wonderful moment when she went for me I thought she might say something.’
    â€˜That would be a great step forward.’
    â€˜Depends. I warn you her first words may be a disappointment to you. You wouldn’t believe the words some of these ladies know. They can cuss and swear like sailors.’

    We soon had a set of plain white nightgowns ready for the lady. She was quite overcome when we laid the finished garments out to show her. Tears trickled down her grimy face. She looked up at Grace with a question on her face and pointed at her own bosom. ‘Yes. For you,’ Grace assured her. ‘Your very own. To wear.’
    To our amazement a sound came from her lips. From the mouth that we had only ever seen opened to eat or to scream inanguish came a sound that might have been a word. None of us was sure what exactly the sound was. There was a B and TH and we each made our own interpretation of it. I was torn between Bath and Berthe, the French version of Bertha. I had once met a governess who was so named.
    â€˜Just my luck,’ said Grace. ‘I get her to say a word and it’s in French.’
    After supper that night there was much excitement. John and Leah ran up the stairs with hot water. Never have I seen servants lug the heavy pails with such enthusiasm. The lady had agreed to take a bath.
    Grace came to give me a late-night report. The lady had indeed bathed. The operation had been accomplished smoothly and without distress.
    â€˜I look forward to visiting her in the morning.’
    â€˜Don’t expect too much. The hair is still a problem but the rest of her is clean. She is not exactly pink and white. I kept scrubbing. I thought it was dirt until I realized it was the colour of her skin.’
    â€˜She came from Jamaica. It is hot there. The sun makes people darker.’
    â€˜Right enough. The sailors who come to Grimsby are all different colours. Anyway that is not the most important thing. Not only is she clean, she