Thornfield Hall by Jane Stubbs Page A

said some more words, quite a few more. We were both right. She wanted a bath and her name is that French one you said. She doesn’t sound French, but she’s not quite English, if you know what I mean. She definitely doesn’t come from these parts. I’ve started to call her Bertha.’
    By the next morning word had gone round the servants’ hall. Bertha she became to all of us.

    Although the late Mrs Rochester had contributed little to the lady’s wardrobe, she had left a dressing set that we dusted off. A prudent Grace removed the scissors and anything else with a sharp point. She set out the silver-backed brushes and the hand mirror in the bedroom in the hope of persuading Bertha to co-operate in dealing with her hair. ‘It’s a nits’ nest,’ Grace complained. ‘She’ll have to have it cut. You can’t get a comb through it and it’s going to need weeks of fine-combing to clear out all those pesky little visitors.’ Grace tried persuading Bertha that her hair would grow back smooth and glossy after it was cut but to no avail. She tried to keep the shaggy black mop restrained in a cap, skewering it on tight with hairpins. A battle then ensued between cap and hair. The hair always won, somehow contriving to throw off all restraint and send hairpins in every direction.
    This did not stop us from furnishing the rooms on the third floor with the small comforts of life. Some of the more cheerful-looking books were brought up from the library to occupy the bookshelf in the sitting room and a couple of watercolours of landscapes decorated the walls. With the addition of some colourful cushions the room became a pleasant place in which to spend time.
    In the afternoons we ladies took refuge there when the winter wind blew outside. We sat by the fire and drank tea while we sewed garments for the lady. As women will we gossiped and talked and we laughed. At first the lady hovered in her bedroom, watching through the open door. Soon she began to creep into the room and would lurk on the outside of our sewing circle.
    Our next project was to make her a respectable dress; she was still wearing the skimpy muslin dresses that must have comewith her from Jamaica. Not only were they inadequate for our Yorkshire climate, they were also hopelessly old-fashioned. To be seen in them would cause public comment – something I was keen to avoid.
    We had bought samples of grey cloth, thinking that would be the most suitable colour for her status. They were not a success; the fabrics lost their lustre and looked dingy against her coffee-coloured skin. In the end we decided on black; it flattered her, making her complexion glow. It was also a practical choice. You can go anywhere in black and not be noticed; it is the colour of mourning and of domestic service.
    The choice of fabric was therefore comparatively easy. The calculations that followed were not. Bertha was tall but still very thin and undernourished. It seemed prudent to allow extra fabric in the seams so that the garment could be let out if she gained flesh. There was much brandishing of the tape measure and counting on fingers as we calculated how much material we would need. In the end we decided that five yards and eight inches would be sufficient.
    We sat back and had a cup of tea to revive us after our mental effort. Worse lay ahead. We needed to calculate the cost. Could we afford to pay for a good-quality material? Bertha would need at least one more dress, a pelisse, a cape, bonnets and shoes and boots. Grace and I found scraps of paper and pencils to work out the cost of five and one quarter yards of the dress material at eight shillings and four pence a yard. We hoped that if we worked it out separately we might reach the same answer. It did not happen.
    After several attempts Grace threw her pencil and paper aside in disgust. ‘It’s no use,’ she declared. ‘It comes out different every