Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  I had barely turned around when a young mulatto woman appeared from belowstairs and introduced herself as Sukey. She had been accustomed to running the household when my father was in residence, she said, and I recalled my father mentioning something of the sort. But it was not until I began quizzing her as to what her duties had been and what she expected in the way of payment that the realization struck me: she was a slave and she was mine.

  It is an uncomfortable thing to discover that one owns slaves, but I managed to hide my discomfort and forced myself to see her merely as a servant. Indeed, I realized, in Jamaica, where everything was so unfamiliar, she could serve as a guide in my ignorance. “Tell me, please,” I asked her, “what was my father’s daily routine when he was here?”

  “Your father rose early, because buckras do not like the heat,” she said. “And after breakfast he goes to his office—you know where that is?”

  “I have not yet been there, but he gave me directions.”

  “I’ll show you the way. Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow would be good. Thank you.”

  She lifted my portmanteau to carry it to my room, but I wrested it from her. “I can manage,” I said, mounting the stairs.

  “I show you around the house?” she said from behind me.

  I turned, realizing she was as unsure of her position with me as I was. “That would be kind,” I said, though I was perfectly capable of exploring the place myself.

  While she was showing me the house, a young man by the name of Alexander appeared and carried the rest of my baggage up to my room, but instead of unpacking immediately, I left the house to explore the city that was to be my new home. The sun was low in the sky, but the air was still quite warm, and I spent the waning hours wandering. All was so different: the way the sunlight pierced a path between the buildings and heated their surfaces so that they radiated its warmth, the way the sky could be cloudless one moment and dropping buckets of rain the next, the calls of the street vendors, the sounds and colors of strange birds. I could not have felt less at home.

  When I returned to the town house it was late, and a pitcher of grog had been set out for me, along with the calling card of one Richard Mason, with a handwritten note saying that he would come the next morning to make my acquaintance and to offer whatever help I needed to accustom myself to my new life. I could only assume that my father was behind this kindness, and I went to bed that night overwhelmed by all the strangeness that surrounded me.

  * * *

  Richard Mason taught me one of my first lessons of Jamaica that next morning by arriving almost before I had risen from bed. I was learning that Creoles indeed make the most of early mornings, because the heat and humidity enervate a person within only a few hours after rising. Sukey provided us enough breakfast for an army: potatoes, plantains (to which I had to be introduced), yams, turtle steak (also a new delicacy), pickled salmon, and bread—and coffee, of course—more like an English dinner than a breakfast, but one the English Creoles believe will fortify them against the strain of the heat. It seems that so many Europeans die within their first few years from the inhospitable climate or the various fevers that afflict the place that it is called “the graveyard of Europe.” My father had never warned me of that.

  However, what I had most to fear was being carried off by mosquitoes. Despite the netting around my bed, the constant whining of those devilish insects had kept me awake nearly the whole night, and in the morning I was covered with bites. Richard took one look at me when he arrived and chuckled knowingly. “They do like fresh English blood,” he said. “But don’t worry, they’ll get off you as soon as you begin to taste like the rest of us, and then they’ll be gone searching for fresher meat.” He suggested I tell Sukey to burn tobacco or Indian corn in my bedroom to drive out those nasty night flyers.

  Richard had a pleasant and easy manner, and I quite liked him straightaway. Though the Mason family estate was some ten miles west of the city, Richard told me that he made his home in Spanish Town, intimating that he hated country life and was bored with plantation operations. His lack of interest struck a note with me: I remembered my father mentioning that his friend Jonas Mason had a son who was not fit for overseeing a plantation. But Richard and I got on quite well, and I found his friendship and knowledge to be invaluable in those first days while I was trying to get my bearings.

  As we spoke, our conversation came around to the topic of his sister. Richard enthused that a more beautiful woman could not be imagined—those were his exact words. Older or younger? I asked, in an offhand sort of way. He smiled, and his gaze went off in another direction, as if he were remembering fond childhood scenes. A bit older, he said. Well, I was a bit older than he, I guessed, and that seemed to me a very good sign. “Ah,” I said casually, “and is her husband also a planter?”

  Richard’s smile changed slightly, not so fond anymore. “She is not married,” he responded. “Nor promised.”

  I let it go then, but after he left I played the conversation over and over again in my mind. A more beautiful woman could not be imagined, and neither married nor promised. What young man in my position would not rise to that? And, all the better, she carried already my father’s blessing.

  I also learned from Richard that the “small” plantation I had come to own was “only” seven hundred acres, what in Yorkshire would have been a good-size farm. Though it lacked a great house, it was adjacent to the Mason plantation, which went by the name of Valley View. Valley View was two thousand acres and stood at the head of a river valley, from which one could see all the way to the sea.

  In time, Sukey came to take the dishes away and replace them with a pitcher of grog. I was already beginning to like the stuff, perhaps because in Jamaica one always adds lime and sometimes sugar as well. As she moved around the table, I noticed Richard’s eyes following her; she was indeed an attractive woman, her skin smooth and walnut colored, her dark hair pulled back into a bun from which a few tendrils had escaped, her expression both pleasant and modest. I could guess where his imagination had gone—or for all I knew, it was a memory from experience. For my part, I had never cared for dark women; I saw enough darkness every time I caught my reflection in a glass. From the time I had had a crush on little Alma at the mill, I had always preferred light skin and hair.

  When Sukey had finished and retreated, Richard leaned close to me and grinned. “She was your father’s, you know.”

  “My father’s?” I repeated stupidly.

  “She could be yours, if you want her. She has good breeding.” He leaned back in his chair, grinning. “A handsome woman, quite pleasant to be with, sweet voice, does not ask for much. And yes,” he went on, “I know Sukey well. I grew up with her; she came from our plantation, but the time came when my father found another place for her. Your father took her.”

  I looked back at the doorway through which Sukey had disappeared.

  “Don’t tell me you’re surprised,” Richard went on. “Men do not always get away from the plantations to the city as often as they might wish, if you understand my meaning. And their wives are often spoiled and not so interested in pleasing a husband once he has been caught. Of course,” he hastened to add, “my sister is not such a woman, not by any means.”

  But Richard’s sister was not at all what I was thinking of. “Sukey was your father’s mistress?” I asked.

  He laughed. “No. No, not at all. She is his daughter.”

  Chapter 4

  After Richard’s revelations, I saw Sukey with new eyes, but lust was no part of it. I had no interest in bedding someone my father had had before me. How cavalierly one can, in ignorance, make assurances to oneself!

  Still, it was pleasant to have her around the house and to accompany me around the town that day. She showed me the major sights and buildings, as well as the market, and then she left me at what had been my father’s office and was now mine. One whole wall of the office was intimidatingly covered with legal and tax books, and
a middle-aged man by the name of Drew worked there, clearly running the place in my father’s absence. We introduced ourselves, I already realizing that I would have to become a student again, for my apprenticeship under my father in Liverpool had not been nearly extensive enough. We chatted that first day, though he seemed quite guarded, and I was not sure how he would take to serving someone as young and inexperienced as I. But over time, as I let him school me about the business, we both learned to accept the arrangement my father had made.

  It was clear that my father intended for me to build on the business he had founded and to prove myself an insightful and canny businessman. There were three ships in total: The Badger Guinea, on which I had arrived; the Mary Rose Guinea, apparently another former slave ship; and the Calypso. Ofttimes they carried cargo to and from the United States or the Canadas, but mostly it was between Jamaica and England, and while the outbound cargo was invariably rum and sugar, the inbound could be anything from cloth goods to fine china to salt cod. In fact, a bill of lading came to my attention concerning the transport of seven hundred yards of osnaburg to a plantation east of Kingston, and I was reminded of a letter I had copied once for Mr. Wilson at Maysbeck. A plantation attorney somewhere in the West Indies had written complaining of the quality of the fabric that had been sent, that it was too good for the use of negroes and in future more shoddy should go into the manufacture of such materials. It seemed a strange and loathsome request, since the price remained the same, but it was not my place to comment. I copied with diligence Mr. Wilson’s reply: a gentle admonition that Maysbeck Mill was not in the habit of using shoddy in the manufacture of worsteds meant to be used for clothing but would, in future, try to keep his preferences in mind. It dawned on me, sitting in my office in Spanish Town, that that must have been how my father had known Mr. Wilson—that Mr. Wilson had used my father’s ships to export his worsteds to Jamaica.

  As those first days slipped by, Sukey kept herself out of my way for the most part, but I became used to her ability to foresee my needs and even my wishes. It seemed there was always a tray of grog and sugar and limes close to hand. Each morning when she brought in breakfast, I made a point of exchanging pleasantries with her, and she came to understand how much I loved pork pies and seemed able to know my mind enough to produce one or two whenever I had a yearning. We did not converse much, but her quiet presence alleviated some of my loneliness in those early days, when I knew almost no one.

  In addition to Sukey, there was the young man—Alexander—who hovered around the house, though at first I could not imagine what his function might be. Surely he was not a butler, or even a footman, but he seemed determined to follow me wherever I went. Richard at last explained that Alexander’s responsibility was to be my “walking boy,” the person who accompanied me in case I had need of his services, whatever those services might entail. And he did follow behind as I went to my office, or to a tavern when I had lunch, sitting down outside the door, waiting patiently.

  Richard stopped by most days, for breakfast sometimes, but more often in the evening, when the sun was going down and the heat started to dissipate, and we would sit on the veranda with our grog on the railing and talk about nothing in particular. Nearly everyone in Jamaica retired by eight o’clock and rose accordingly early in the morning.

  From the start, Richard urged me to go with him to see my plantation, which was under the care of his father’s overseer, and, of course, to see Valley View as well, which he described as one of the most fertile plantations in Middlesex County. Anxious as I was to see my own property, I was still busy learning my way around importing and exporting routines and regulations and taxes. As well, I was mining Richard for as much as he could tell me about plantation operations, for I was determined that my first meeting with Jonas Mason would not reveal complete ignorance and inexperience.

  To that end, I quietly but persistently pushed Richard to speak about plantation life, especially about how the places were run and their annual routines. He might not have been interested in such a life for himself, but he knew more than I, and he enjoyed his position of superior knowledge on the subject. He also made sure I knew that I, like all white men on the island, was expected to join the militia, for the purpose of defense against invasion or insurrection. After those years at Black Hill, the idea of being in a militia was intriguing, but from Richard’s description it sounded more like grown men playing at the kind of war games I had grown out of by the time I left Black Hill.

  Eventually, Richard won out in his push to get me to Valley View. A ball was to be held at Monteith, a plantation nearby, and the whole neighborhood was invited. The invitation seemed to me an ideal way for me to slip gracefully into the local scene, and Richard assured me that his sister would be in attendance and that she was “dying to meet” me, an assurance that convinced me that it was time to make my appearance. Richard was to leave the next day for Valley View, but I had a few things to attend to, so I planned to go separately and meet him there.

  The sky was a clear and crystalline blue that morning when I started out, Alexander trotting behind, and I was looking forward to being in the countryside and viewing for the first time my own cane fields. It was late morning when I approached Valley View, and the moment a little pickaninny saw me, she darted toward the plantation great house to announce me. And what a house it was! Perched on a hill to catch the breezes coming down from the mountains behind it or the southeasterlies from the sea some ten miles away, it was a large, square white house of two stories, with a tiled roof and galleries on all four sides. Sheep grazed languidly on the lawn in front, and nearer to the road were the buildings of the sugar works. Some distance to the west of the house, far enough away from it that any sounds or odors would be dispersed, were the cane-and-daub huts of the negroes, and beside them the little gardens that they maintained for their own use.

  I was still thirty yards from the house when Richard came running down the steps and across the lawn to greet me. At the same time, I thought I caught a movement in a window of the house behind him, and I realized I was no doubt being observed. I dismounted, and Richard greeted me profusely, as if we had not just seen each other two days before. “Rochester!” he exclaimed. “At last!”

  “What a charming place you have,” I said.

  “Charming?” he replied. “Beyond charming, I would say. Turn around, Rochester; look.”

  He had told me that the view down the river valley was lovely, but I had had no idea how spectacular it was. Over time the river had found a path toward the sea, carving its way as it went through thick stands of ancient trees and tumbling over boulders, its water frothy with the effort. The quicksilver water, the deep green of the woodlands, the brighter green of the pastureland and the cane fields against the blue sky and sea, made a landscape that both rested the eye and enlivened the mind.

  “Beautiful,” I said. “And where is mine?”

  “Over there,” he said, pointing to the west. “But come along. You must be starved.”

  Alexander was already leading my horse toward the stables: beauty, pleasure, a carefree life—these were my first impressions of Valley View, and it turned out that they were truly emblematic of plantation life, at least for the planters. As I mounted the steps to the great house, it crossed my mind that I had been wasting my time in Spanish Town.

  While we were seating ourselves into wickerwork chairs on the veranda, a negress was at my side with a tray containing a pitcher of rum and a glass, a bowl of sugar, and another bowl of cut limes. I had already gotten used to this manner of living, to appreciating grog, whenever or however it was served, and the delicacies that had at first been so unfamiliar to me: the turtle steaks and soup, the plantains, the shellfish. Gentlemen in Jamaica spend a great deal of their time visiting one another and talking around plates of food and mugs of drink. A visitor to a plantation may come for a few hours and end up staying three days. The women of the household—the wife and the daughters, if there are any�
�are more often than not out of sight. But when they appear—at dinner, for example, or at a ball—they are costumed as if for a coronation.

  Soon, Richard’s father stepped out onto the veranda and joined us, cigar in hand. He was a tall man, brown haired like his son, and with observant brown eyes that seemed to catch every detail. Despite their physical similarities, his entire manner was completely opposite to that of his son, whose indolent posture and attitude conveyed disinterest in almost everything around him.

  I rose as he approached. “Edward Fairfax Rochester, Mr. Mason.”

  “Ah yes,” he said. “I have been interested in meeting you, young Rochester. Your father is a fine friend of mine.”

  “And I in meeting you,” I responded. “My father told me a great deal about you and about Jamaica.”

  “And I suppose Richard has been trying to tell you about Valley View?” he asked. “Though he is hardly a worthy instructor.”

  I laughed warily. “He knows a great deal more than I,” I said.

  Jonas Mason’s eyebrows rose at that, and he turned and walked to the nearest chair. “I have no doubt that Richard is anxious for the two of you to be on your way. His interests are more in the social life than in anything to do with the plantation. Always have been.”