Thornfield Hall by Jane Stubbs Page B

time.’
    I persevered; I was the one responsible for the accounts. I was still muttering ‘twelve pennies make a shilling and twentyshillings make one pound’ while counting on my fingers when Bertha slid Grace’s slip of paper in front of me. I had been so busy concentrating on my own efforts I had not noticed that Bertha had taken over Grace’s piece of paper. On it was written in neat figures the working out of the sum that had pestered us for the best part of an hour. The answer was two pounds, three shillings and seven pence. I checked through each step of the calculation. It was all correct. Our poor mad lady, who could scarcely speak, could do sums as neat as you please.
    We stared at her, dumbstruck. Leah was particularly impressed that Bertha’s poor addled brain had succeeded where Grace and I had struggled. ‘Well, I never,’ she kept saying and peered at Bertha as if to root out the thread of clarity that ran through the confused fabric of her mind. Bertha seemed not to mind her scrutiny. Calmly she handed Leah the needle she had threaded for her.

    Bertha’s black dress grew quickly. I always feel an everyday sort of wonder at the way a flat length of cloth can be transformed into a garment in the shape of a woman.
    â€˜How shall we make the neckline?’ Grace demanded. She held the bodice up for inspection. ‘You’ll want it to look right with your locket,’ she told Bertha as she approached and held the garment against her to check the fit. Bertha looked slightly overwhelmed but did not run away. ‘Fetch the mirror, Leah, so she can see.’
    Leah did as she was bid and held the mirror up. I cannot say that Bertha was rendered speechless by seeing herself for the first time; she and speech were still comparative strangersto each other. She was certainly shocked by what she saw in the mirror. She fled into her bedroom. No appeals from us could persuade her to come out. As she sobbed quietly behind the closed door we whispered gently to each other and at Grace’s suggestion carried on sewing.
    Half an hour later a red-eyed Bertha appeared from her bedroom. She went to pick up the large shears we used to cut out the pieces of the dress. A quiver went through all of us. Would she run amok amongst us, slashing and cutting at our clothes and flesh? We all knew she was capable of turning violent. No. Bertha held the scissors out to Grace, carefully offering her the handles rather than the sharp blades.
    â€˜Cut my hair, please. Cut my hair.’

MONSIEUR ALPHONSE
    1824–5
    O UR PATIENT MADE SLOW BUT STEADY PROGRESS . A clean Bertha was very different from a dirty Bertha. Now when she circled round us as we sewed in the third-floor sitting room we made room for her to join us. Someone would pat a chair and invite her to sit. Soon we had her threading needles. Then we gave her leftover squares of fabric to practise on and were delighted to discover she could make neat small stitches.
    Gradually a few more words came from her lips. To our relief they were not French words, though sometimes the way she said them was a little unexpected. She did not speak of anything complicated or personal, just everyday matters. She was cold, she was hungry. She liked the jelly I had made. When would her dress be ready? What were our names? It took her weeks to learn them. She would master them one day and then forget them overnight.
    To our surprise she had been well-trained in politeness. Someone had instilled good manners in her – to say please and thank you and wait to be offered things and to speak only when spoken to. With her short hair and her simple ways she seemedlike an obedient child, one who by mistake inhabited the body of a giantess.
    And it was definitely a woman’s body according to Grace, who confided to me that she was sure that Bertha had had a child. The famous bath had revealed what Grace described as unmistakeable signs. I assume she