Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  There was a crowd, lighted by the torches they carried. Some were attempting to beat down the double oaken doors while others shouted angrily, waving cudgels or anything else they could use as a weapon. I knew I had heard shots, but at first I could see no sign of a gun. Then I saw, in a third-floor window of the mill, Bert Cornes with a musket, which he shot from time to time—more to frighten the mob away than to kill or injure anyone.

  Across the way, on the other side of the crowd, I saw Mr. Wilson and Mr. Landes, both also with pistols in their hands, appearing angry and somewhat frightened. My eyes scanned the mob, but I did not recognize any of them—agitators from elsewhere, I guessed. My gaze fell on Rufus Shap, at the far edge of the crowd, only a couple of yards from Mr. Wilson. His stoic face showed nothing, neither anger nor pleasure, and I was stunned by the equanimity of it. Though Maysbeck Mill was his livelihood, it was as if he’d as soon break down the mill as defend it.

  Then another shot rang out—from Bert Cornes, in the window—and this time a cry of pain pierced the night. The crowd stilled for an instant, and then it surged forward, as if by signal, as if by the mere force of their combined strength they would push through those solid oak doors. Another shot was fired, and another. I saw Mr. Wilson’s arm raised, and I thought, My God, there’s going to be murder. Just then someone near Mr. Wilson turned to face him, grabbed him, and held him to keep him from shooting, and I realized it was Rufus who had done it.

  Desperately I pushed my way through the crowd—I, not half as strong as Rufus but not thinking, so set was I on preventing harm to Mr. Wilson. It was difficult to get close enough, the milling crowd shoving me one way and another, but when I finally reached for Rufus to pull him away, it was like reaching for a bull. He turned to me, though, his face dark with fury. “Get him out of here,” he demanded. “At least you can manage that.” Then he shoved Mr. Wilson toward me, and I grabbed him, pulling him through the crowd and away toward his home. He came almost willingly, as if he were relieved to have someone else make that decision for him. Behind us, Mr. Landes followed.

  By daylight it was all over. The doors had held; Bert Cornes’ well-placed shots had injured a few but mostly frightened the rioters from doing their worst, and in the end they gave up and melted away into the countryside from whence they had come. Mr. Wilson expressed dismay that he had been pulled away from his place at the battle, but I quoted Tacitus at him about living to fight another day, and he was so surprised that I not only knew it but could say it in Latin that he quite forgot to be angry with me.

  Indeed, in the days after, he expressed his gratitude to me again and again, but he was also subdued for a time, as was everyone else at the mill, going about their business with quiet and serious faces. It was only Rufus Shap who glared at me, and I remembered his words: At least you can manage that. It was clear he despised me. On the other hand, he had saved Mr. Wilson, and I could not deny that.

  And then two completely unexpected things happened: I received a letter from Mr. Lincoln, with whom I had held desultory communication since I left Black Hill; and Mr. Wilson fell ill. Mr. Lincoln’s letter was the usual accounting of his present boys, their strengths and their foibles (which always led me to wonder what he had written to others about me). But at the end, a few simple sentences stopped my breath and quickened the beat of my heart:

  You will remember Carrot, I daresay. He is the Earl of Lanham now, as you may know, and he writes asking of you. I had not been in communication with him as I have been with you, so I did not know if you two had maintained a connection after leaving Black Hill. I am inclosing his address, for I am not aware if you are in a position to want him to know where you are and what you have been about. So I leave that to you.

  I remain,

  Mr. Hiram Lincoln

  Black Hill

  For some strange reason, my eyes suddenly watered with tears. Carrot…Carrot asking about me. I heard again my brother’s terse words: You surely do not think that the nephew of the Prince Regent of England is really interested in what became of a clerk in a countinghouse in Maysbeck, do you?

  Perhaps not. And yet, he was Carrot and we had shared a great deal together, and he had asked about me. He himself had said it: I missed you, too, Jam.

  Besides, I was no longer merely a clerk, for all the difference that might make to the Earl of Lanham. I sat down a dozen times to write to Carrot, struggling to find words that would reintroduce us, that would convey my hopes of seeing him again without sounding maudlin, but each time I threw away my attempt, and it was nearly a month after I received Mr. Lincoln’s correspondence when I got up my courage and wrote something that might have been suitable. I posted it before I lost my nerve.

  Four days later Mr. Wilson crashed down onto the mill floor with apoplexia. The mill foreman came for me and I sent Wrisley for a carriage, and the three of us managed to get Mr. Wilson outside and installed into it. I accompanied him, still unconscious, to his home.

  Mrs. Wilson was all aflutter and Mrs. Brewer hurried Miss Little upstairs when we arrived. The coachman helped me carry Mr. Wilson into the house, and then I ordered him to collect the physician posthaste. After an examination, the physician shook his head and would not forecast the future but only ordered nourishment when he regained consciousness, and complete rest—as if Mr. Wilson could do anything else. Through it all, Mrs. Wilson clung to me, weeping into my chest, and I comforted her as best I could.

  She was determined to spend the night in the parlor with her husband, but I convinced her to go upstairs and sleep in her own bed; I would hold vigil with him. He did recover consciousness the next day, but his speech was muddled—it was harder to tell about his mind—he had lost all control of the limbs on his left side, and that side of his face seemed almost to have melted. After breakfast I felt it imperative to return to the mill to ascertain that all was running properly, though Mrs. Wilson begged me to return as soon as possible. Mr. Landes came as soon as he heard and offered whatever help was needed, which was kind, given that he had his own mill to run and his own house and his own wife, who had been poorly for years.

  Mr. Wilson owned the mill outright, and that was a good thing in the respect that there was no doubt who should have been in control, if only he were capable. But now there was only I and Bob Wrisley—who, though he had many more years’ experience of the mill than I, was still only a countinghouse clerk—and Jeremy Hardback, the overlooker. Jeremy was a good enough man, as Mr. Wilson had often said, but not cut out to be more than he had already risen to. In other words, it was now up to me to run Maysbeck Mill, with Mr. Landes’ help and advice.

  Those workers who had been at the mill for many years still saw me as the near child I had been when I arrived, and it was difficult for them—especially the men—to countenance the fact that I was now truly acting in Mr. Wilson’s stead. Somehow, I needed to establish myself in their eyes, if only by force of will. Mr. Landes laid it out for me in no uncertain terms: “I imagine these folk are decent people, most of them, but they, like servants, must keep to their places, and you must keep to yours. One cannot converse with them on terms of equality; one must keep them always at a distance, or one will lose all authority.”

  I worked at doing that, and I was aware that some at the mill disliked it, but steady work was scarce enough that no one dared to leave. It was always the men who grumbled behind my back; women, I thought at the time and still think, are more practical than men, perhaps because they are used to being powerless and therefore bear what they must, and often more honorably. Certainly, I was often nervous about my new responsibilities, worried that I would fail and let Mr. Wilson down when he needed me most, but I also learned that even if one is unsure, one can play the role with no one else the wiser.

  Mrs. Wilson insisted I come back to stay at the house, and I did so out of pity for her. However, that was not an easy choice, for Miss Little continued to abhor the sight of me, and she screamed whenever I appeared, until Mrs. Wilson, who
could neither abandon her sister nor bear life without my presence, came up with a solution. I was to move into the second-floor guest room that Miss Little and Mrs. Brewer had been using, and they in turn would take up residence in the third-floor room, where meals could be brought to Miss Little, and she would never have need to come down, nor ever accidentally meet me on the stairway. With that resolved, quiet and almost peacefulness returned to the house.

  * * *

  It was weeks later that I heard from Carrot. My letter, sent to him at Lanham-Hall, had followed him to Bath and then to Baden-Baden, which was just gaining a reputation for all the pleasures that aimless young men enjoy. His return letter exhibited a gratifying level of enthusiasm at having heard from me, and he invited me to join him at my earliest convenience. I noted with a kind of schadenfreude that Rowland was not mentioned. I responded that I could not leave my present position, as I was direly needed, but that I would be delighted to see him as soon as possible after he returned to England.

  His reply was pure Carrot:

  Surely you have nothing to do there in that godforsaken town that is as important as reestablishing our friendship. Nevertheless, I know that sometimes one must do what one must, and I look forward to seeing you soonest. At the end of May we will be going to Epsom Downs for the Derby. Have you been? You must join us there; it is wonderful fun! My friend Willy’s father owns the favorite, Tiresias. We shall be sitting in his box.

  I badly wanted to do as Carrot urged, but I knew I could not; it was just not possible at the time for me to leave Maysbeck for even as much as a day. There will be other times, I consoled myself; I have the rest of my life. Some days later, sitting in Mr. Wilson’s parlor in the evening, reading the newspaper to him, I discovered that Tiresias had indeed won the Derby, and I imagined the thrill it must have been to stand among the party of the winner’s owner. I wondered if Rowland had been there, enjoying the gaiety of the event. I gazed at Mr. Wilson, half-asleep in his chair, and I thought of Carrot, from whom I had received two days previous a letter expressing his disgust over my inability to come to Derby Day. I admit I had been torn, but I had known the responsible course, and I had done it, if for no other reason than to prove myself. I wished I were in Carrot’s position—or even Rowland’s—but I was not: I could not shed my life at a moment’s notice. I was a second son and had to earn my own way.

  Slowly, slowly, Mr. Wilson started to regain his ability to speak. In the beginning it was almost meaningless garble, but his face would brighten if his answer to a question ought to be yes, and a glower appeared in his eyes if it was to be no. And we began to understand his attempts at words, almost like learning a different dialect of the same language. I would come into his room each morning before leaving for the mill, for he was invariably awake, and I would tell him what I had in mind for the day, or remind him what new orders we were working on, and he would smile or glower and give me advice as best he could. I came back at noontime usually, as I knew he would be anxious to hear the latest—if a frame had broken down or if the orders were keeping up, if the quality remained high or if there was too much shoddy. And again in the evening I went first to him to let him know that all had been taken care of, that there was naught to worry about. I suspected that he barely believed me most of the time, but it was true that Mr. Landes stopped in to the mill nearly every day to make sure I had everything under control. I was pleased indeed when his visits tapered off to only two or three times a week, which I took to mean that he thought I was capable of handling most things by myself.

  One would think that all this new responsibility would have pleased me no end, but in fact, while I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my decisions carried out, it only made me more anxious than ever to move on. My father had plans for me, and I was eager to get on with them. Yet no matter what I or my father might have preferred, I could not leave Mr. Wilson, who had been more than a father to me.

  Chapter 11

  Carrot eventually got over his ire at my missing Derby Day, and he continued—even more forcefully—to urge me to visit. I was pleased that he seemed as anxious as I to rekindle our friendship, imagining the enjoyable time we two would have together. But of necessity I put him off as best I could, for I was still determined to prove myself to my father as well as to Mr. Wilson. And then, in midsummer, I received a short letter from my father:

  I have heard word of Mr. Wilson’s unfortunate accident of some months ago, and I presume you have taken over more responsibilities in light of the situation. This certainly will be invaluable experience for you—running a manufactory on your own. I could not have hoped for better. I assume Mr. Wilson will have a speedy recovery—perhaps he already has—and you, with your newfound experience and responsibilities, will remain of greater benefit to his mill operation than either he or I imagined of you at this point. Therefore, it seems only logical that our arrangement has further need of revision. I cannot at the present take the time to come there and arrange a new agreement. Please advise Mr. Wilson to write to me what new arrangements he is prepared to make.

  I read the missive with astonishment. Mr. Wilson was far from recovered and was not in a position to express what arrangements should be made. I withheld the news of my father’s letter until I had a chance to share it with Mr. Landes, but when that gentleman read it, he let out an impatient breath and looked up at me. “Do you know anything of the understanding between your father and Mr. Wilson concerning you?” he asked.

  “I do not,” I said, “except that I was to be trained in the running of a manufactory, like the mill, and that Mr. Wilson was to give me room and meals and a small sum to cover my incidental expenses. And when perforce I needed to find lodgings of my own, they made another agreement that would cover my further living expenses.”

  Mr. Landes frowned. “Did you never ask what exactly that agreement stated?”

  “I have never been in the habit of questioning my father,” I admitted. And then I added, because that excuse seemed rather lame for a young man of my age and current responsibilities, “I thought everything was quite clear between them.”

  “I wonder if there is something written,” he said. “Perhaps there is something in the ledgers—some accounting of money paid.”

  Since Mr. Wilson’s illness I had had full access to the mill accounts. “I never saw anything, nor heard mention of it,” I said. “It must have been a personal arrangement between them.” And I voiced what he must have been thinking: “We may be at my father’s mercy on this.”

  “Indeed,” he responded. We both knew that without Mr. Wilson, my father would have the advantage in any negotiation.

  “He may not be an easy man in this,” I warned.

  “There’s a chance there’s something in writing somewhere,” Mr. Landes said. “We can hope for that.”

  “If only Mr. Wilson would recover—” I began, but he cut me off.

  “Rochester, that is not going to happen.”

  I knew it was true, but the fact of it had not yet been mentioned between us. “What will we do?” I asked.

  Mr. Landes was silent for a time, and then he said, “You will write to your father and tell him that Wilson is not yet fully recovered but will make those decisions at the earliest opportunity, and that in the meantime, if there are any points of clarity that should be included, to please express them. That ought to hold him for a time while we ponder this.”

  I wrote that letter, and a week or so later a short note came from my father:

  Thank you for informing me of John Wilson’s continuing situation. I do hope that you are taking advantage of your position to display your full capabilities in handling the responsibility which has fallen into your lap, for responsibility is what makes a man a man.

  I look forward to a response from Wilson, as soon as possible.

  And there was a note for Mr. Wilson as well, which I shared with Mr. Landes when he came by the mill to see how things were going:

  My dear sir,
<
br />   I understand you are still invalided and require additional time of healing. Please be aware that my son is yours for as long as you need him. I assume that you recognize how much his responsibilities have increased, and I await your word as to what financial rearrangements you have made to address that issue.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, after Mr. Landes had read the letter.

  He didn’t respond directly to that, just saying, “I will speak to Wilson.”

  * * *

  When I came home that evening, the housekeeper told me that Mr. Landes had already arrived and was in Mr. Wilson’s bedroom. I went into the parlor and sat down, attempting to read the newspaper but too distracted to comprehend the simplest sentence. I could not imagine the attempt at conversation that was going on upstairs.

  When I heard Mr. Landes’ footsteps on the stairs, I folded the paper and rose to greet him. He entered the room brusquely and made for the hearth, just the sort of place where my father might stand to dress me down.

  “Sir,” I said.

  “Sit down,” he said, and I did. He got right to the point. “Your father seems a…a determined man.”

  “Yes, he is, sir.”

  “Nevertheless, he has a point. In the last few months, you have been as John Wilson would have been, if he had been able—”

  “No, sir,” I interrupted, “not at all. He would have—”

  Mr. Landes shook his head. “Never mind how he would have handled things. You have done your very best, which is all that can be asked of any of us. It was remiss of us—of me; I cannot put it to poor John’s fault—not to have realized that you were owed more than you were being paid. Therefore, I will write to your father immediately and tell him what John and I have decided. He will find it suitable, I should imagine.” He stared into the fire for a time, and then he added, “We shall have to sell the place, you and I.”