Thornfield Hall by Jane Stubbs

advance to make preparations for his arrival.’
    My heart turned over. We had grown slack over the last couple of years. It was so long since Mr Rochester had visited and our attention had been focused on the care of Bertha rather than the dusting. A heavy feeling like lead in my stomach told me I should not offer Bertha’s name to Mr Rochester as an excuse for slack housekeeping. He was not interested in her progress or lack of it. I consoled myself with the thought that Mr Rochester, as a man, would not notice the dusting or the lack of it. The consolation was short-lived. The little popinjay in front of me was exactly the kind of person to run his finger along a bookshelf and grimace at the result.
    Sam arrived with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hair disarranged by the wind. I guessed he had been chopping wood. While he clattered about with the tea things I introduced him to Monsieur Alphonse, as we would have to call him. The days of our informality were over – for the moment.
    â€˜Mr Rochester always looked after hisself,’ Sam barked. ‘And his father and his brother before him. We washed their linen. We polished their boots. They had clean clothes. They didn’t need people to fasten their buttons. Not once they were out of nursery.’
    Pain passed through the gentleman’s gentleman. We watched it travel through his slender frame and wince its way across his face. Eventually the power of speech returned to him. ‘Here it might suffice. The capital cities of the world demand a higher standard. Clean linen is not sufficient for society to open its arms to a newly arrived country gentleman. A gentleman with no title, one must point out. One is there to advise on the nuances of fashion and behaviour. How to tie the cravat. Whom to visit, whom to avoid. When to arrive late. When to leave early.’
    â€˜Well I visited a lot of capital cities when I were in navy. I managed all right.’ Sam stared at the well-dressed little man. It was clear there would be no meeting of minds between these two so I intervened.
    â€˜We shall need a room for Monsieur Alphonse. Mr Merryman’s room is unoccupied. He could have that, could he, Sam?’
    â€˜Aye. He could. It’s next to mine. I’ll show him later.’ Sam stomped off.
    The empty room in the menservants’ sleeping quarters puzzled Monsieur Alphonse. When he learnt that Mr Merryman, the previous butler, had not been replaced, he was shocked.
    â€˜A gentleman always has a butler. Who decides on the wine? Who serves it?’
    â€˜Well, I expect you will. Is Mr Rochester bringing guests? Will there be a house party?’
    â€˜One believes not. Hunting and horses seemed to be foremost in my master’s mind.’ Monsieur Alphonse did not need to add the word ‘unfortunately’. The downturn of his mouth told us what he thought of hunting and horses.
    â€˜Has he sent instructions for Old John?’ Monsieur Alphonse appeared puzzled. ‘Old John looks after the horses and the stables,’ I explained.
    â€˜No. He said nothing about an Old John.’
    Now here was a puzzle. If there was one thing Mr Rochester was exact about it was his horses. As I took the little man to meet the other servants I pondered on Mr Rochester’s motive in sending him on ahead like John the Baptist. For all his fine talk, he was only what we would call a valet. A valet, that’s what he was. I looked forward to hearing what Sam thought of him.

    â€˜He’s a spy. That’s what Monsieur Alphonse is.’ Sam was adamant. ‘He’s here to report on us. Make sure that we keep the great secret and are not drinking the claret.’
    We were huddled in the butler’s pantry whispering to each other. John’s head appeared in the serving hatch, causing us to start guiltily.
    â€˜Don’t panic. The French gentleman is out of the house and on his way to the stables. He’s not very