Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  He left me there until some kind souls came by, and, drunk themselves, poured a jug of something over me to bring me back to awareness. When I was able to tell them where I lived, they were good enough to stagger home with me and pound on the door until Mrs. Wilson’s maid came to the door in her night-robe, her mobcap askew, and let me in. I poured whatever coins I had in my pocket into the men’s palms and thanked them profusely, as they, at the same time, explained as best they could to the maid, and then they fled, as if fearing they might be held responsible for my condition.

  And what a condition it was: filthy clothes soaked in rum, in pain from head to toe, and contusions and bruises all over me. At the commotion, Mrs. Wilson came downstairs, took one look, and helped the maid get me into the parlor before ordering water and offering me Mr. Wilson’s brandy, though I already stank to high heaven. She directed the maid to bring a quilt and a pillow so that I could spend the night in the parlor, as it was clear to all of us that I could not negotiate the stairs. But first she ordered me to take off my dirty clothing before I soiled her furnishings.

  In the morning, I woke to Mrs. Wilson staring down at me. “Mr. Rochester,” she said (I was no longer her Eddie, it seemed), “would you be so kind as to tell me what happened last evening, when I thought you to be at tea at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Phillips?”

  “I was there—” I attempted to rise, but the pain seared through my chest. “I was there, and I must have left about nine o’clock or after—”

  She clucked at the tardiness of it.

  “Yes, and I’m sorry about that, but it was such a pleasant evening, and the company was charming. Miss Phillips sang and I accompanied her. I was the last to leave, and to be honest, I was strolling home in a kind of lovesick daze, when I heard steps behind me, and then someone called out to me by name and I turned, and it was…” Suddenly I realized that I needed not to mention Rufus Shap—not so much, I admit, to protect him as to protect myself in case someone should decide to hold him accountable. “I didn’t know who it was,” I went on, “just…some ruffians. I don’t know why they picked on me.” It is easy to lie to protect oneself, I realized. “Perhaps someone who once worked at the mill—I don’t know,” I said. “And—and, I don’t know what they had against me, or if it was just the drink, but without warning, they attacked me. I lost consciousness until those other men who brought me home came along. And I think they must have had a jug of rum that they poured over me to bring me back, for when I awoke, the smell was terribly strong.”

  She stared at me, shaking her head. “I don’t know what the world is coming to,” she said. “People used to know their places. Such a thing never happened to my John.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” I said. “But Mr. Wilson was usually home with you, wasn’t he, not out courting pretty young women?”

  “Not since I married him, you can be sure of that.”

  “She is pretty—Miss Phillips—don’t you think?”

  “And you, going to Jamaica, you suppose. What good can come of it?”

  “Do you think she might go with me?”

  “Heaven knows. But—”

  “But what?”

  “I should not have taken you to the balls,” she said with a sigh. “I did not think what would come of it; I just wanted to see you happy.”

  “Don’t apologize; I’ve enjoyed it thoroughly,” I responded.

  “Are you sure you want to go all that distance away?” she asked suddenly.

  “My father has—”

  “Your father!” she interrupted, surprising me, for she never interrupted anyone. “Your father! Do you have any idea what he will have you doing there, so far away?”

  “No,” I admitted, “but I’m sure he has my best interests in mind.”

  “Humph!” was all she said. And that was, as well, all that was said of the episode, except that the doctor was called, and after some poking and prodding, he affirmed a broken arm and probably broken ribs. He bound up the arm and put plaster on my ribs and told me to stay home for a day or two. We sent the message around to Mr. Landes and he notified David Wilson, and for a day Mrs. Wilson had another invalid in her house.

  It was the next day before I remembered that I had planned to go to Epsom for the Derby in two days’ time. Much as I wanted to go, I did not relish appearing in Carrot’s company and—worse, if it came to that—in Rowland’s, looking as if I had been on the losing end of a street brawl. I had a discolored eye, a bandage on my arm, plaster on my ribs, and bruises all over me. With much regret, I sent a short note to Carrot saying that I had been in an accident and was injured and could not manage a coach ride of that distance. I could have kicked myself: If only I had fought back, I thought, though I knew I would have been no match for Rufus, who was much larger and stronger and no doubt used to street brawls. The fact of my powerlessness against him disgusted me.

  It was only after Derby Day that I received Carrot’s response:

  Dear Jam,

  I was annoyed with you at first; missing Derby Day for a second time seemed unimaginable to me, and for what seemed like a poor excuse. And then I thought: perhaps Jam is much worse than he lets on. I hope that is not the case: not an accident at the mill, I hope. Not a missing limb or some such. Write soon, and let me know the truth of it, for my own peace of mind.

  Your brother-in-arms,

  Carrot

  I held that letter in my hand, Carrot in my mind, torn by contrary feelings: shame at having overplayed my injuries, and relief and gratitude for his concern and affection. We were indeed brothers-in-arms, and brothers in so many other ways. We had grown up together in those four years at Black Hill—we had played at being soldiers and pirates and explorers; we had fought, argued, and shared a bed.

  I responded immediately, downplaying my injuries a bit so that he did not think I was too badly hurt, and regretting most vociferously my not being at the Derby. I even added that perhaps a visit to Lanham-Hall could be arranged if it were amenable to him. It was a blatant hint for an invitation that, unfortunately, never came.

  What did come, nearly the next day, was a letter from my father, addressed not to me, but to Mr. Landes:

  My dear Landes—

  It is high time for my son to be quit of Maysbeck Mill and his responsibilities there. My plans require that he be with me at my residence in Liverpool by the tenth day of June. I understand that a process for the selling of the mill is under way, and therefore I am sure that this will present no great difficulty to all involved.

  I recognize that you have acted in the stead of Mr. John Wilson in many ways, and I am sure that it has been of benefit to my son. I hereby acknowledge that you and Mr. Wilson have satisfactorily fulfilled the arrangements that have been made in regard to him.

  I remain,

  George Howell Rochester, Esq.

  Mr. Landes showed me the letter and watched closely as I read it, and I imagine he must have examined the expression on my face. The tenth of June was less than a week away, not nearly enough time for me to do all that flooded into my mind: say my farewells to Miss Phillips and perhaps ask for her hand (for how could I do that at a distance, if I were to be sailing off to Jamaica soon?), and see Carrot once more, to say nothing of sorting through the belongings that I had accumulated in the past five years and deciding what I needed for the next phase of my life. And, of course, I must say my farewells to Mr. and Mrs. Wilson and thank them for all that they had done for me, for they had, in all ways, stood in the stead of parents, and I was ever grateful to them for that. As I was, indeed, to Mr. Landes himself, who had never contracted with my father to oversee my apprenticeship, but who had done so, nevertheless. What could I ever say to thank him? For a moment I stood in silence, which Mr. Landes must have interpreted as reluctance.

  “He is your father,” he said to me, “but you are capable of finding your own way now.”

  I nodded, unsure what he was trying to say.

  “Your life is yours. While
I would never advise a young man to ignore his father, the time does come when a man must make his own decisions. If you do not want to go to Jamaica, you do not have to go.”

  “I understand, sir,” I responded, “but to tell the truth, I have always had a great curiosity to see Jamaica. I think it would not disappoint me in the least if that is my future.”

  “Well then,” he said, “I pray that you will be happy there.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, and shook his hand. “I shall not forget all you have done for me.” It seems now little enough to have said, and how different my life might have been if our conversation had not ended there. However, that brief exchange did set me to thinking: Jamaica was indeed a very long way from England, and a very different place. I would have to learn, I realized, what my own prospects were before I could approach Miss Phillips with a marriage proposal. Still, I spent as much time with her in the next few days as I could manage, cementing—I hoped—our relationship. I told her that I was to leave Maysbeck, and barely had the words left my lips when she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

  “But you will be returning?” she asked.

  “Not permanently, but I will return to see you, of course. Of course.”

  “But where are you going? Is it so far away?”

  “My father has many business interests. I do not yet know where I will be going, but, but…” I was stammering then, because I did not know how to go on.

  “But…?” she whispered, anticipation spreading across her face. “But…?”

  Gazing into her face, it was all I could do to refrain from asking for her hand right there on the spot, but how could I, when my future was so little known to me? Instead, I stumbled around and said something completely meaningless, and she recovered her composure, but I lost mine, and I made my excuses shortly afterwards and left. It was badly done, I knew, and yet I was not willing to ask for her hand when I was in no position to support a wife.

  After that, I could not leave Maysbeck soon enough. I did not see Miss Phillips again, but I did have conversations with Mrs. Wilson, who, knowing my inclinations, promised to keep an eye on Miss Phillips for me; I hugged her and we both wept, not knowing when we would see each other again. I sat for hours with Mr. Wilson, who may or may not have known I was there, and on the ninth day of June, my luggage and I were on a stagecoach bound for Liverpool.

  Chapter 15

  I cannot explain the fullness in my chest that I experienced as I made that trip toward Liverpool, other than the fact that I was at last traveling toward my father, at his behest. I had no notion of how he would treat me, but he had directed me to come, and I could only hope for the best. I could not help but think of Frank’s gladsome reunion with his father in Rob Roy. How childish—how utterly ignorant—can it be to take one’s life lessons from a novel! Looking back now, I see how desperate I was to find my place in the world.

  My father was not at his residence when I arrived. I banged the knocker several times before an elderly man appeared at the door and stared at me. Nodding as if confirming that I was not an apparition, he let me in, then turned on his heel, and leaving me to find my own way, he closed a rear door firmly behind himself. I stood in the entrance hall for a few moments before exploring the house. It was a fine town house, as might be expected of a prosperous businessman. There was a parlor and a library and a dining room on the main floor, and above were two large bedrooms, each with its own sitting room. What was apparently my father’s room faced the street and could be recognized as his bedroom only by the clothing in the cupboard. Nothing else personal was in evidence.

  It was just at this point of my investigation that it occurred to me that perhaps the painting of my mother might be somewhere in the house, and I retraced my steps, searching each room in earnest. I did not go belowstairs, where I surmised the kitchen and storage rooms and any servants’ rooms might be, but the painting was nowhere to be found, and perhaps it was foolish of me, after all those years, to think that it would be.

  Still, a strong sense of disappointment burdened me: my father had not been there to greet me, when I had dared to imagine a happier homecoming for a son who had followed his dictates so faithfully. Dusk was falling, and I lit a lamp in the parlor and took up a newspaper, but lonely and miserable, I didn’t register the words at all. For this emptiness I had left the comfort of the Wilson home?

  In an attempt to throw off my self-pity, I wandered into my father’s library, took in the law and tariff books on the shelves, flipped cautiously through the papers on his desk, and slid open each unlocked drawer before wandering back into the parlor. The whole house, as far as I could see, was a man’s place through and through: no feminine touches, no fresh flowers or music boxes, nor indeed any elegant little tables on which to place them. A utilitarian house, fit for a man who did little other than sleep and eat and attend to his business. That fact told me something about my father that I should have expected, and it calmed me a bit, for it was clear he had no personal life or interests, no use for anything or anyone who did not pertain to his business goals. I picked up the newspaper and began to read it in earnest.

  My father arrived shortly before midnight, breezing into the room as if our separation had been hours, not years. “You’ve arrived, I see,” he said.

  “I have, sir,” I said, standing.

  “Well then, it’s time to bed, I should say.”

  “Yes, sir, I think so.”

  “Yours is up the stairs, at the back of the house. I daresay you have already made your investigations of the place.”

  “Yes, sir, I have,” I said, not knowing if he would consider it amiss that I had.

  But he seemed to have not given it a second thought. “Breakfast is at six o’clock.” His eyes narrowed at me. “You are used to early hours?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Well, that’s one good thing.” With that, he turned and left the parlor.

  The next morning I was in the dining room just before six—though I had awakened much earlier—and my father was already there, eating breakfast and reading the Mercury. “Good morning, sir,” I said to him.

  He nodded a response and went on with his reading, pausing only to say, “Breakfast is there on the buffet.”

  “Thank you, sir, I see it,” I said, pleased that he had thought to point it out to me, as I helped myself. A place had been laid for me at the side of the table, so I took it and unfolded my napkin and began to eat, no other words passing between us.

  I was halfway through my meal when my father closed his newspaper, shoved his empty plate forward, and spoke. “You are wondering, no doubt, why you are here.”

  “Yes, I am,” I said, though in fact the only question in my mind was whether or not my father was to accompany me on my imminent journey to Jamaica.

  “I have many business dealings, as you probably know,” he said. “Some operate here in Liverpool; others are in other places.”

  He paused and so I nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Some—most—are designated for your brother.”

  “Yes, sir, so I underst—”

  “But you are not to be left a pauper. The interests I have in Jamaica are yours, if you can manage to keep hold of them.” I wondered what he meant by that, but he went on. “You have had experience now in managing a manufactory, but you know nothing of the law nor how finances are best to be managed. So you will spend the next few weeks following me around, seeing how I tend to my affairs, and then you will be off to”—he looked at me firmly—“to Cambridge.”

  “Cambridge? But I thought—”

  “Leave the thinking to me, if you will. Few men in Jamaica of your class—of any class—have university degrees. They do not consider it necessary over there. They have family and position in society to hold them up. You will not have those advantages, but you will have the education.” He leaned forward, toward me. “You will take law studies at Cambridge, not so much for the content of the law as for the
ability to think clearly, to see beyond the obvious, to make an argument, if necessary. You understand that?”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir,” I said, hardly knowing whether I understood or not, but realizing that that was the answer he expected.

  “Life in Jamaica is very different from here. Slaves do everything. I mean everything. If you drop your napkin from your lap, if you want a book from the other side of the room, from the time you dress in the morning until your bedcovers are turned down for you at night, slaves will follow along behind to do what you have always done for yourself. It will take time to acclimatize yourself to all of that, to say nothing of the climate itself. However, there is one thing—one thing—you will have that will be to your advantage, and that will be your university education. For that reason, if for no other, you will make the most of yourself at Cambridge.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said again, bewildered. University? I had not been at school since I was thirteen years of age, and even then it was at Black Hill, which to my mind seemed more play than study.

  As if he fully understood my thoughts, my father interrupted my musings. “You are thinking you have never been traditionally schooled, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  “You would be correct. And there are reasons for that. I might have said more accurately that in the next weeks you will be with me in the mornings; in the afternoon you will go to Mr. Horace Gayle, who will coax your brain back into action. You must be ready for Trinity College in the autumn.”