While Thornfield-Hall was never truly warm in the winter months, it was never freezing, either, and the cupboards harbored goose down enough for anyone’s tastes—though more than once I heard my father berating the housekeeper, Knox, over the quilts on my bed. “The boy must learn to be a man, standing on his own, putting up with whatever life brings him,” he’d say, and she would gather up a goose down and slowly fold it for storage. Soon it would appear again, but not a word of it passed between the two of us, though I would try to flash her a smile when I could. She was a slim, black-clad woman with reddish-brown hair, and usually a frown above her gray eyes. But despite her stern appearance, she almost never had a harsh word for me, and for that I am grateful. We both understood that her job was to please the master, not to cosset his second son.
And no one beat me, though there were times when the touch of a hand would have been welcome, even in anger—a slap to the head or a good shaking of the shoulders.
Except of course for Rowland, who’d give me a swipe whenever I was within arm’s reach, and if I particularly annoyed him, he would take up the cane. He was enough older, and I was na?ve enough then, to believe that that was the job of an older brother: to keep the younger one in his place. By the time I learned differently, he was gone. I will have to keep this in mind, for I have learned the ways of second sons and it would be a sore useless experience if I cannot set things aright.
In those days, Thornfield-Hall was an impressive building constructed of the gray stone so familiar in the area. Two bays, one on each wing and running the full height of its three stories, served to prevent the building from looking like a simple square box, and battlements of carved stonework on the rooftop further softened the effect. The front door was of half glass, with black oak shutters against nightfall and inclement weather. Just inside was a large entrance hall with tall doors to the downstairs rooms, and between them hung portraits of people I presumed to be my ancestors. A massive bronze lamp hung in the center, and in one corner stood a carved clock, taller than my father. I loved that clock, loved to run my finger along its carvings. A grand staircase of oak with twin newel-posts the size of a grown man led from the entrance hall up to the family’s private chambers and, beyond, the guest rooms, and on the very top floor were storage rooms and the servants’ quarters. In all, the place had a masculine appearance, with ornate panel boards on the walls, heavy tapestries at the windows, and rich plasterwork on the ceilings.
As an adult, I always felt that the Hall was built for show. It was only in the nursery—and, of course, in the drawing room, until I was banished—that I felt the comfort one ought to feel in one’s own home. Perhaps that was another reason why I spent so much of my time in those early years hovering about the kitchen begging for a scrap of sweetened dough, or in the stables asking Jem and Kip if I could help with brushing down the horses or polishing and oiling the tack. “No, Young Master,” they would always say, adding, “Go ask Cook for a bunch of carrots for the horses, there’s a good boy.” Cook would wink as she handed them over, and I would dash back, eager to deliver my offering of friendship to those patient beasts.
In the storage rooms on the third floor (a place forbidden to me, which made it all the more attractive), I found treasures: cast-off fishing tackle and butterfly nets, but I never caught any fish, perhaps because I had no one to teach me. I did catch butterflies, but I could never bear to stick a pin through the tiny quivering bodies, so I set them free. There were all sorts of other treasures to be discovered in those rooms as well: trunks of clothing from another era, toys I had never seen or played with, vases gathering dust, furniture blanketed with canvas coverings, and various other items whose use or purpose was a mystery to me—and since I was not supposed to be there in the first place, I could not ask about them. I scoured those rooms, searching for the long-lost painting of my mother, but I never found it.
On three sides, beyond the house and its gardens, were fields of wheat and barley, and on the fourth side was the hawthorn wood that gave the Hall its name and that fueled the many fireplaces and the kitchen stoves. In the springtime the wood bloomed with a haze of bluebells and the delicate white starbursts of wild garlic; in the summer it provided cool respite; in the autumn I practiced creeping through fallen leaves as silently as a fox; and in the winter bare branches clawed their way toward the sky. And beyond the wood and the fields, as far as the eye could see, were the moors: tall grasses bending in the wind; heather seeming scrubby and useless in the springtime but blossoming to brilliant pinkish purple in late summer; lowering skies warning of weather on its way; hawks circling high above; rabbits darting between tussocks; and random outcrops of silent stones.
The nannies and governesses never lasted, for various reasons. The place was remote, with little social life, my father being gone so much of the time and seeming to care little for society when he was home. Rowland could be curt and dismissive of those he considered beneath his station, and I suppose I seemed untamed and unmanageable much of the time. All in all, there was little to recommend it to anyone who might be hunting for work, although the household servants were remarkably steady.
We were insular at Thornfield-Hall, and I imagine I thought life would go on like that forever. But on my eighth birthday, everything changed.
We did not generally celebrate birthdays, but Cook always made a special sweet just for me, smiling as she laid it before me. Her smiles were rare, but when they appeared they were a sight to behold: dimples deep enough to lose a farthing in, and not one but two wide gaps between her front teeth, one up and one below. Once I thought I heard someone call her Susan, but for the most part we called her “Cook.” She was extraordinary in her skills, making feasts at short notice and with whatever she had in her larder at the moment. My father nearly always ate by himself, and he wanted only plain food to fill his stomach, the quicker the better; but by the time Rowland was twelve, he was demanding the most exotic items he could think of, probably only to see if he could confound Cook and give reason for a scolding. She always nodded at his outlandish requests and smoothed her apron and set to work, and he rarely found excuse to complain.
Which does not mean he never did so.