Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  He rose to leave, but he turned back, his right hand gone to his pocket. “And I suppose it was necessary for you to pay for your lodgings in Harrogate from your own purse.”

  “Well, sir—” I started, but he interrupted.

  “Rochester,” he said, “some advice. If someone offers to give you payment, do not argue.” And he placed a note on the table.

  “Yes, sir, I will remember that,” I said.

  Chapter 9

  In addition to the pound to pay for my supposed lodging expenses at Harrogate, Mr. Wilson had given me a note of five pounds with which to secure a room and to pay for whatever else I needed until he and my father could work out a satisfactory arrangement. I found a room on the third floor of a house owned by a middle-aged widow, wide of girth and constant of smile: Mrs. Clem. “I keep a decent place,” she assured me. “There’s to be no drinking in the room. No guests after eight o’clock in the evening, no loud noises, no swearing, and no women guests ever, regardless of their marital status or relationship with you.”

  Though the room was sparsely furnished, it was clean and had an iron-framed bed with a sagging mattress, an upholstered chair (which I later discovered to be most uncomfortable), a commode with washbasin and pitcher, and three pegs on the wall on which to hang my clothes. The one window faced onto the street below.

  “Have you work here?” she asked after we had come to an agreement on price and other matters.

  “I do,” I said. “At Maysbeck Mill.”

  “Ah,” she responded, looking me over, gauging my status. “As an overlooker, I wonder?”

  I laughed. “Not so important as that, I’m afraid. I help in the countinghouse.”

  Her eyebrows raised, but her smile never diminished. “All in good time, I should imagine. All in good time.”

  I moved within a week, not a difficult task, as I still had few belongings. Mrs. Wilson wept when I left, as if she were saying good-bye once more to her beloved Eddie, repeating over and over, “It cannot be helped; it just cannot be helped.” And, as I bundled my things into a hired trap: “You will come for Christmas dinner, surely. Say you will come.”

  “Of course I will,” I said, though I wondered if Miss Little would see fit to allow me to stay through the meal.

  Mrs. Clem, it turned out, had three other lodgers: Miss Lavinia Riley, a tall, serious woman who worked at a milliner’s; and two men, Mr. Matthew Hill, who was in his midtwenties and who traveled much of the time, and the other, Mr. Henry MacMichael, near sixty years of age, I should guess, and who seemed to do nothing but grumble.

  I arranged for Bert Cornes—the night watchman at the mill, who, as his last task before going home in the morning, knocked his long pole on the windows of the mill workers’ homes to wake them—to come past Mrs. Clem’s establishment and knock me up as well.

  Less than a week after I moved out, Mr. Wilson announced to me that his sister-in-law and Mrs. Brewer had arrived, though he needn’t have bothered, for his changed demeanor made that clear almost immediately. He spoke even less than before, and his work habits altered as well. He took to coming in earlier and staying on much later, even after the machines had shut down, as if he craved that peace and respite.

  I was indeed invited to the Wilson home for Christmas dinner, and Miss Little did not drive me away from the table, but even so it was not a particularly pleasant occasion. Poor Mrs. Wilson was in a dither the whole time, and in fact I imagined that she was often beside herself since her sister had come: she gave her cook and her housekeeper one order after another—often countermanding a previous one. As for Mr. Wilson, he buried himself behind his newspapers and appeared at table only long enough to not seem completely unsociable. His distraction was such that I wondered how he managed to stay through the pudding, which I thought was delicious, though Mrs. Wilson complained that it was burned and Miss Little wandered off after only a bite or two, Mrs. Brewer scurrying after her. As they disappeared, Mr. Wilson seemed to lighten, and Mrs. Wilson, though still apologizing for everything, appeared more relaxed as well.

  “You can see how it is,” Mr. Wilson said to me.

  “Yes, sir, I do,” I said, knowing that Mr. Lincoln might scold me for such an abrupt and inadequate response, but there seemed nothing more to say.

  He stared off into space for a time. “It can’t be helped,” he said. “It’s not what anyone would choose, bringing a person losing her mind into one’s own home, but it must be done. Even the fiercest of beasts—wolves and bears—take care of their own.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, for it seemed all there was to say.

  And, to my relief, he changed the subject. “How are you getting on, by now?”

  “I have no complaints. Mrs. Clem keeps a tidy place.”

  “I understand she is respectable,” he responded. “You have done very well under the circumstances, I should say. And you have taken hold well at the mill.”

  It was the first direct approval he had given me since his conversation with Rowland. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me; thank the father who taught you that a gentleman can work hard and still be a gentleman. There are too many in this world who think being in trade is shameful.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, wise enough not to dispute the point.

  “Has your father ever told you what he has in mind for you?”

  “No, sir, he has not,” I said, suddenly sitting straighter.

  “Nor do I know, but it’s clear he wants you to be able to run a facility—a mill or a manufactory of some sort—on your own.” He smoothed the tablecloth beside his place and waved to the maid for another brandy. “You are too young for such responsibility now, but that is what I think he has in mind. Would that suit you, do you think?”

  “Yes, sir, it would, sir,” I said, my heart suddenly beating so wildly that it was a wonder he didn’t hear it. No one had ever asked me if any plans of my father’s, whatever they were, suited me. It would not have occurred to me to refuse them, but, in fact, at the time I could not imagine anything that would be finer. I still had a great deal to learn.

  * * *

  A few weeks later, a letter came to Mr. Wilson from my father, announcing his impending visit. I was stunned into panic. I had not seen my father since I was seven years old, before I had been sent to Black Hill. I did not know what I would say to him or how he would react to me or what he expected of me or, worst of all, if I would even recognize him.

  “Well, now, that’s a welcome bit of news,” Mr. Wilson said, after reading the letter. “We’ll be settling a new arrangement for you, since I cannot house you as I had originally agreed.” Then he looked me up and down. “You’d best get yourself a new pair of trousers and a new coat.”

  “I don’t know, sir,” I said. “My father does not truck well with dandies.” I had no idea why I said that, since I could not remember my father’s opinions on almost anything. And surely Rowland did not dress as if he were concerned about such a thing.

  “Well, at least,” Mr. Wilson amended, his eyes not having left me, and I now understood that he was seeing me as he thought my father would, and, further, that he would be held accountable if my appearance were less than what my father would be expecting. “You must at least get your hair trimmed up nicely.”

  I did that, and even wandered past a tailor’s shop or two, but I could not bring myself to order anything new. Much as I wanted to impress my father, I didn’t want him to be aware of it. I was, still, young and foolish.

  I shouldn’t have been concerned about not being able to recognize him, or him me. The astonishing thing was that I had not fully realized it until I came face-to-face with him, but I was the picture of what he must have been in his youth, and he, in turn, showed me how I would appear in my later years. I was the taller by a couple of inches, but he was the broader, his face more lined, of course, his black hair paling but not yet gray, his posture still erect, his step firm.

  He gazed at me, and I at him
. I had been right about the new clothes; my father wore a well-used black traveling outfit with black top boots. With his hat removed, his hair proved to be longish, scraping his shoulders, and slightly waved, just as mine was at that length. We had the same black eyes, the same intent expression. His skin was darker than mine, a result, perhaps, of his years in the Jamaican sun. “Edward,” he said to me. It was the first time he had ever called me that, to my recollection, and, as it turned out, the last.

  “Sir,” I responded. Then I added, keeping Mr. Lincoln in mind, “I’m pleased to see you again after all these years.”

  “Yes,” he said, already turning to Mr. Wilson, who was hovering about us. The countinghouse once again seemed overly small.

  “May I get you a chair?” Mr. Wrisley asked solicitously.

  “I think not,” my father said, not even deigning to glance his way. “We shall be off, I think. It’s past noon and I am hungry, and I understand, Wilson, that there’s an inn not far.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Wilson said. “Young Rochester here—young Edward, I mean—knows the way.”

  “I was counting on your attendance as well,” my father said.

  “Of course,” Mr. Wilson said, “I would be only too glad to join you. It is just that I thought—”

  “Leave the thinking to me, Wilson, if you don’t mind,” my father said.

  At the Crown Inn, the discussion was awkward for me, and doubly so because I felt it awkward for Mr. Wilson. Clearly, my father was used to giving orders and not to taking advice. I sat quietly, sipping my drink, pushing the roast—which usually was quite delicious—around my plate, and listening to my father question Mr. Wilson as to my suitability for business, paying me no more attention than if I had been a leaden saltcellar left on the table by mistake. Mr. Wilson gave a good account of me, which was kind. I caught him stretching the truth more than once, and it pleased us both that my father seemed satisfied with his report.

  Then it came to the change in my living accommodations, and with the first words out of his mouth on the subject, it was clear that my father was used to driving a hard bargain. But Mr. Wilson, in his own quiet way, held his ground, politely mentioning that perhaps Maysbeck was more expensive than Liverpool, given that we were more inland and thus farther from the port of entry of so many goods, and that it surely would be embarrassing for us all if I hadn’t enough funds to pay for my daily needs.

  At this my father gave me a baleful glance—almost the only time he had looked at me all the while we were there—and when he turned back, he made a compromise. There were a few more details to be settled between them, and just when I thought he had truly forgotten my presence, my father turned to me. “Well, boy, what have you to say for yourself?”

  Surprised by the sudden attention, I stared wordlessly at him.

  “Do you have any questions?” Mr. Wilson quickly prompted.

  “Sir, what…what do you have in mind for me in the end?” I asked.

  “In the end?” My father scowled. “In the end, that you can oversee a manufactory on your own, of course.”

  I took a deep breath and barged ahead. “Where might that be?”

  “Surely you must know I have interests in the West Indies—in Jamaica. Surely that has not escaped your attention.”

  “No, sir, it has not,” I said, and I blundered on. “It’s just that I know you have interests in other places as well—Liverpool, and London I presume, and of course Thornfield.”

  “Thornfield is not for you. Thornfield is Rowland’s.”

  His words struck like a blow. Much as I had always fancied myself visiting Jamaica, I still imagined that Thornfield was my home. My mouth was suddenly dry; I could think of nothing more to say. It must have become clear to him that he needed to clarify my situation so that there would be no mistake.

  “You are the second son. I will not divide—and therefore diminish—the family holdings to give you a portion: that is all Rowland’s. Furthermore, I disapprove of sending any son of mine toward one of the traditional routes for fellows in your position. I have no interest in seeing you a vicar of some forlorn parish, or an officer in the king’s navy with little to show for himself beyond a uniform, and I certainly will not have you ending up a simpering muffin living at the whim of some wealthy widow. No, I will not have the Rochester name besmirched by someone who cannot hold up his head in good company. I have not arranged your education thus far for nothing. You will go to Jamaica when you are ready—that is, when you have had the education appropriate for someone in your position—and you will build yourself there an empire and a reputation worthy of the Rochester name. I will give advice or direction if needed, but you will build it yourself. It will make a man of you, if you are not one already by the time you arrive.”

  May I not come to Thornfield even for a visit? I thought to ask, but stopped myself. If I asked, and if he said no, the door would have definitely been closed. But since I was not expressly forbidden…

  My father left shortly thereafter, having told the innkeeper to send for a hackney carriage. He shook Mr. Wilson’s hand, and mine, his grip hard on mine as he did so, and then he turned and mounted the carriage. Without another glance toward us, he urged the driver forward, and, much as I wish I had not, I watched him go until the carriage was out of sight. Mr. Wilson stood silently beside me the whole time, and then he took my arm. “I see we have our work cut out for us, young Rochester,” he said.

  I did indeed feel young just then, but I forced back any emotion that had welled up in me and made myself a firm resolve. I would put away any childish dreams and expectations. Henceforth, I would do whatever was necessary to become a man my father could be proud of.

  Chapter 10

  Mr. Wilson, God bless him, was as good as his word. Immediately, he gave me more responsibility, and I strode through that vast mill as if I owned it, and, indeed, I sometimes foolishly imagined that I did. My father’s words had made me see myself differently from what I had before I met with him. Once, I had felt more kinship with the children who worked in the mill than I did with Mr. Wilson or even Bob Wrisley, but now, suddenly, I saw myself in company with men of substance, like Mr. Wilson. I imagined I might even someday hold my own beside my father.

  It did not take much time for me to become accustomed to this new vision of myself, and to quite enjoy it. Mr. Wilson seemed as proud of me as if I were his own son, and he frequently invited me to dine with him at noontime at the Crown, where he usually ate his dinner, now that Miss Little and Mrs. Brewer had come to stay. Sometimes we were joined by Mr. Landes, a neighbor who owned a flour mill, or others of Mr. Wilson’s friends, but as for the people who worked in the mill, I had begun to see them more fully as Mr. Wilson and his friends did—as a caste quite lower than ourselves, quite inured to difficult times, and lucky indeed to hold the jobs they had.

  The workingmen at the mill paid me as little attention as possible, save for one: Rufus Shap, a lout built like a bull, who carried an angry face and glared at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. I dared to ask Mr. Wilson once if he had noticed that Rufus seemed to bear me ill will, but he only replied, “That is Rufus for you.” Even Mr. Wilson sometimes nearly came to words with Rufus, but Rufus always backed off at the last moment. “Despite everything,” Mr. Wilson said to me once, “Rufus is a good worker, with a strong back, if a weak enough mind. There are men, Rochester, for whom anger is a way of life. They wake up angry and go to bed angry; they seem to know no other way to accept their position in this world. As long as he controls himself, we can live with the way he looks at us. And I would daresay, if you or I had been born in his shoes, we might see the world the same way.”

  But I was not in Rufus’ place, and I was wary of him, and he sensed it. I could tell it in his smirks that passed as smiles, in the way he sometimes deliberately turned his back to me as I neared him, and in the way he at other times stared at me directly in the eye in a kind of silent challenge. It was as if he wanted me to
know that as far as he was concerned, I was still that young boy who had first come to Maysbeck Mill and always would be. I tried to ignore it, as Mr. Wilson had advised, but there remained between Rufus and me an animus that simmered as if waiting for the moment of boil.

  My duties at Maysbeck Mill had absorbed nearly the whole of my life, and while I sometimes imagined myself as a full partner with Mr. Wilson, in fact I was only too glad not to have the entire responsibility of the place. That became even more clear to me one night just a few weeks after my father had paid his short visit. It was a cloud-covered night, the moon only a vague presence in the sky, and I had been asleep, it seemed, for only a short time, when a fierce pounding came on the front door of Mrs. Clem’s house—even I could hear it on the third floor. At first I thought, Fire! and I leaped from my cot, but I could smell nothing. I was about to climb back under the covers when I heard a commotion belowstairs: shouts and replying shouts, and footsteps running up the stairs and my name: “Rochester! Rochester!” Doors opened on the floor below, and then the steps pounded quite close and I heard my name again. I pulled open the door, and it was a boy, a young boy I did not recognize, full out of breath from running.

  “It’s the mill!” he shouted as soon as he caught his breath. “Men!” he shouted at me. “Villains! Attacking the mill!” And suddenly I realized—it should have registered with me before—the mill bell was ringing, clanging wildly in the night: the most ominous sound—an attack on the mill.

  Oh God, I thought. They’ve come to Maysbeck—Luddites. The name had been only a distant possibility, men angry at the mechanizations that had taken their jobs. The newspapers had lost interest: there was little mention of them anymore, and anyway, one always assumes such catastrophes happen elsewhere. I threw on my clothes while the boy stood watching, as if to make sure I would really come. And then I followed him, barreling down the narrow stairs and out into the night. We ran the full distance to the mill—a mile or more, only a pale half-moon to light the dark, the sounds growing louder as we approached, shouts and crashes and even gunshots.