Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  Was that cruel? Perhaps it was, but we did not know what else to do. Jonas was with me to the end in this endeavor, but Richard turned against us both, holding me responsible for Bertha’s disintegration, even as we did the best we could to prevent it from worsening. Once he even demanded to be allowed to take Bertha under his own care, insisting she would recover and be the woman she had been before I came upon the scene. I might have succumbed to this last resort, but Jonas knew his son better than I, knew he hadn’t the will or the stomach to deal with his sister, and forbade it. Indeed, as it was, Richard rarely visited her apartment, always promising to do so the next time.

  I spoke to him about it once, saying, as gently as I could, that Bertha might well enjoy an occasional visit from her brother. He, in turn, stared at me in surprise and countered that I was the interloper, coming between his sister and her family. I begged to differ, but he grew quite sullen, complaining that I had taken his sister from him and his father as well. I hardly knew what to say to that, but the coolness between us remained.

  In the end, Jonas prevailed upon someone he knew who had migrated from Jamaica to Madeira and asked him to offer Richard some sort of position there. I never knew the whole of it, but I would not be surprised if Jonas had included a monetary offer to entice the move. Jonas was like that. He deeply suffered over the taint that his wife’s madness had brought upon his children, and he would have done anything in the world to ease it from their lives. Thank God, I never had to worry over my own children of such a marriage.

  Somehow, with Bertha tucked safely away in her apartment and without Richard attacking my motives at every turn, I fell into a more settled, calmer existence. As time passed, I realized how little true satisfaction I received from my business dealings. Yes, the income was rewarding, as were my business decisions in general—I was proud of my investment in the two ships. But I did not enjoy the daily work of it. I could not take satisfaction in besting my competitors as my father did. He reveled in the challenge of the chase, the thrill of the conquest, but I am of a different mind.

  One day, in Spanish Town, I turned a corner and ran right into Geoffrey Osmon. We stared at each other, unbelieving, for a moment, and then burst into laughter, our arms around each other. Nothing would do but that we go to a tavern and renew our friendship over drinks. He was in town on business and proudly told me that he had moved up from book-keeper to overseer at an estate, and I was pleased for him. As for me, I revealed as little as possible about my private life, except that I was married but had no children. We spent a pleasant evening together reminiscing, and when we left, we promised to keep in touch, though I doubt that we really intended to.

  Also, I joined the militia. One could choose one’s regiment, and I wisely chose the mounted, as had Richard before me. Although we practiced regularly on the parade ground under the watchful eye of the governor, looking right smart as we did so, I learned far more strategy around Mr. Lincoln’s table than I ever did in the militia. I had thought I might make friends in that group, and they were certainly fine fellows, but their interests did not match mine, except for one who had a particular fondness for horticulture. From him I learned the pleasure of gardening, and the orchard at Valley View soon became my real interest and occupation.

  That garden had been planted in Jonas’ father’s time but had fallen into disrepair over the years. It boasted the usual tropical banana plants with their cascades of fronds; avocados, whose shiny, bright green leaves never failed to lift my spirits; and citrus trees and ornamental palms and tamarinds, frangipani and mangoes; and it was there I became acquainted with the glorious Jamaican rain tree and its brilliant yellow flowers. As well, there was a magnificent cedro, whose aroma far exceeds that of the common cedar, and there was ginger and orchids of all descriptions, some native and others imported from Africa and Asia. I cherished the time I spent there, pulling up weeds, sitting on the little bench I had placed there, and reading. Sometimes I could even imagine myself in the orchard at Thornfield.

  * * *

  That summer Daniels announced he was leaving us. He had accepted an offer to manage a much larger plantation in the north. There was a time when I had pictured Valley View’s two thousand acres, plus my seven hundred, as nearly as large as a plantation could be, but by the time Daniels left, I knew of places twice our size. Jonas and I were sorry to see him go, for he had been a fine manager, and I had learned so much from him.

  “The full burden will be upon my shoulders,” I said to Jonas. “I confess I’m rather looking forward to it.”

  He turned toward me in surprise. “You do not mean to take Daniels’ place, surely?”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “It’s not done,” he responded.

  “But I was trained for it, was I not?”

  Jonas laughed. “Rochester, your father wanted you to understand how a prosperous operation works, not to run it yourself. The owner never runs it; only the lowliest of plantation owners operate their holdings. No, of course not.”

  “Then I am nearly useless here,” I protested.

  “So, you think I am useless?”

  “No, but—”

  “You will take my place one day. Surely you know there must always be a master.”

  I did not know how to respond to that. Despite that I did not feel myself to be a businessman, I still wanted to be useful.

  “Rochester,” he said gently, “most men work all their lives for what you have.”

  What I had. A mad wife who looked and acted like a harridan. No one with whom to sit of an evening and read, or sing or play an instrument. No chance for children, unless I were to take a mistress, as Jonas had done, but I could not imagine bringing children into the world who would be destined only to become servants, like Molly, or like Sukey.

  And then I thought to hire Osmon to replace Daniels. It was a risk, because Osmon had only been a book-keeper and later an overseer for a short time, and I did not know how well run the plantation where he had worked had been. Still, I desperately wanted for someone my own age to talk with, and I imagined I could spend at least part of my time in overseeing the plantation under the guise of teaching Osmon. As it turned out, we were a good pair. Despite that he had not been to university, he was well-read and had an abiding curiosity about the world. Many were the evenings that we would sit on the veranda, grog at our elbows, and talk, especially about literature. He had a distinctly different view of Rob Roy from mine, and he appreciated Jane Austen more than I ever had, and we spent a good part of a month reading and talking about a book by an American, James Fenimore Cooper.

  I was surprised at this interest of his, and how deeply he understood the works, for he had made no mention of it on board the ship. To him, I probably appeared at first as unthinking as Bertha seemed to me, though I strove to make up for it. He told me his father had been a day laborer, too poor to educate him properly, but Osmon had always found pleasure and relief in reading. He had come to Jamaica as the next best thing to college—a place, he had hoped, where he could continue his education on his own. We both laughed at that, although he did insist he had learned as much in the past four years as he would have done at Oxford.

  With Osmon at hand, I was able to feel as content as possible in my life at Valley View. Even Jonas seemed more at ease, usually joining Osmon and me in the evenings on the veranda. Though he said little, I know he also felt a kind of peace settling down into Valley View. “I was skeptical about your bringing on this green hand, but he is doing well,” he told me after a few weeks. “Things could not be smoother, and of that I am abundantly glad.”

  Chapter 10

  Some months after Daniels left and just before harvest, Jonas passed. It was a quiet death: he rose as usual, early in the morning, had some breakfast, but complained nearly right away of indigestion. I suggested he lie down for a while, and as he was making his way back toward his room, his legs suddenly gave way under him and he fell. I rushed to help him up and found his
face gray and his body nearly limp, and it was all I could do to prop him up against me on the floor. I called out for help, and his walking boy came in. He took one look and ran back for damp towels with which to swab Jonas’ face. He was nearly gone by the time the boy returned to place a cool cloth on his forehead. Jonas’ eyes opened and he tried to speak, but he seemed not to have the strength even for a word. “I have sent for the physician,” I said, nodding at the boy to go immediately. “Relax, you will be fine,” I added. “It’s just a little something.”

  But he and I both knew better. His hand raised slightly and clutched at my shirt, and his mouth moved urgently. I leaned closer to make out his guttural whispering, and at first I could make no sense of it, but then I heard the word, “Promise…promise.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said, imagining his concerns for Valley View in his absence.

  “Promise me…,” he murmured again.

  “Yes,” I said soothingly.

  He must have known I didn’t understand. Summoning the last of his strength, he pulled me closer, and he said, “Promise…you will never…never…abandon my daughter.”

  These last words were barely more than a sigh, but they ran through me like a jolt. At the same time, I saw the light begin to fade from his eyes. “Yes,” I said, “of course.”

  As if I had given him permission to pass, his hand released my shirt, his head slumped, and he was gone.

  I held him in silence, feeling, somehow, as if the floor had given way beneath me. I could not imagine him gone. I stayed with him until the physician arrived, but finally I rose and left the house. There was nowhere to go, but I walked anyway, into a cane field, the stalks rising above my head, leaves brushing against my face, losing myself, losing for a while all sense of time and place.

  * * *

  We debated whether Bertha should be told, Osmon and I. Bertha now led a life quite opposite from that of the rest of us, rising at dusk, pacing through her little apartment, sometimes talking or even shouting at imagined beings, and sometimes playing childish games with Molly and Tiso while the rest of the world slept. She still had her fits of anger and attempted destruction, but she had ceased demanding my attention as a price for her imprisonment. Indeed, I didn’t believe she saw it as such. When she wasn’t at the center of a ballroom, she had always preferred dark, inclosed places, and now she lived a dark, inclosed life, which seemed to comfort her as little else could.

  I was wary of disrupting her precious equilibrium with this tragic news, for I had no idea how she would react, nor if she would even be able to comprehend it. But Osmon thought that she should come to the burial as any daughter would. When we retired that night, the issue was still undecided.

  In the morning, with great trepidation, I went to Bertha’s apartment. Molly let me in, and I crept into the little bedchamber, where I sat down on the bed beside my sleeping wife. As always, the shutters were closed, yet even in the gloom, relaxed in sleep, she was nearly as beautiful as ever. I did not then fully understand the weight of Jonas’ last words, for Bertha was content in her rooms, or as content as she could ever be. Surely, I thought, we could continue our life at Valley View and go on as we had.

  I touched her cheek lightly, running my finger along it from her temple to her chin. I felt her stirring, and then Molly was there with a lamp so that Bertha could see me and I her.

  “You came,” Bertha said, a slight smile on her lips.

  “Yes,” I responded, not knowing how to tell her.

  “Is this a dream?” she asked.

  “No, it is not a dream. I must tell you something.” I leaned closer, smoothing her hair away from her face. “Your father…passed.”

  She shook her head slowly. “It is a dream,” she said.

  “No, I am afraid it is not.”

  “My father?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry to have to tell you.”

  “But he is a young man.”

  “Not so very young, Bertha.”

  “Call me Antoinetta.”

  “Antoinetta.”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling. “That is my true name.” Then she smiled even more widely. “And you have come to me for love.”

  “I think this is not a good time,” I said, starting to move away from her.

  But she pulled me to her.

  Molly set the lamp on a table and quietly left the room.

  Bertha held me tight. “Say my name again,” she said.

  “Antoinetta.”

  And then she wept, loud, excruciating sobs, and I wept with her.

  Chapter 11

  We buried Jonas Mason on a hill overlooking his beloved Valley View. We had sent a notification to his son, but there was not time in that climate to wait for him to return from Madeira, and Bertha refused to leave the house in the daylight. Daniels returned from his new position in Trelawny, which was kind of him, but despite our earlier rapport, he gazed across the grave opening at me as if I had been to blame, as if in his presence Jonas would never have left this mortal coil. After the burial he shook my hand brusquely, stared at Osmon appraisingly, and left. The neighbors who had come for the service followed me into the house, and we ate and drank the day away, sharing reminiscences of Jonas. Sukey came and stood in the background, and it only served to remind me that there had not been, as far as I ever saw, any relationship between the two. Is that what it becomes? A man fathers a child and has no sense of connection with her—or him—except perhaps to make sure she does not work in the fields? That she is not subject to the blows of the whip? That the child’s life is at least not as bad as it might have been?

  But no, in Sukey’s case, he gave her to his business partner. Or sold her; I did not know which, and did not care to know. But I did wonder about her. She had never spoken of him; I had no idea what she thought of him, or if she thought anything at all. Yet she had come.

  When all the guests had left, I walked silently into Jonas’ chamber. A few articles were neatly placed on his desk; his riding crop leaned against the wall in a corner, though I could not remember when I had last seen him ride; his boots stood beside the chair.

  The next day I sent Alexander for my horse, and I mounted her and rode into town. The house was quiet when I entered, but I could smell pepper pot, and I walked into the kitchen. Sukey was there at the stove. “I don’t know what to say,” I said, “except that I am sorry.”

  “Sir,” she said softly. “He was a man; that’s all.”

  She said no more, and I could not bring myself to state the obvious, but her words hung in the room between us. Then I said, again, “I’m very sorry.”

  She gazed at me across the room, and I could not tell what was in her eyes, but I left for my office, where I had papers to sign. And from there, even though it was late, I returned directly to Valley View.

  * * *

  Once again it was crop time—Jonas’ death could not stop time, or our responsibilities to the land. Work continued around the clock; we slept when and where we could. I kept imagining Jonas’ voice in my ear, telling me that it was not my job to oversee the operations, that that was what we had an overseer for, but I wanted more than anything to throw myself into it and to lose sense of all else.

  After crop-over time, when things had once again quieted, I realized that I should have informed my father of the passing of his erstwhile partner. Hesitantly, I sat down one evening and wrote to him. It was an uncomfortable letter to write, as I had not forgiven him for the part he had played in encouraging my marriage, for I had become well convinced that he had known of Bertha’s inclinations. But I did not mention Bertha. Let him wonder, I thought.

  * * *

  Richard returned with the spring, ready to be the master of the estate, riding up the valley in grand fashion on an enormous black stallion. It was evening, and I was on the veranda, and I watched him come, at first curious as to who it might be and, when he was close enough to recognize, curious as to what would transpire. In the short time that Richard and I h
ad been friendly before my marriage to Bertha and before he left for Madeira, I had come to understand that his father’s blunt assessment of him was, sadly, most likely correct: though there was nothing malicious in him, he was shallow minded, somewhat lazy, and prone to exhibit the trappings of wealth, as if they would convey a kind of distinction. I wondered if Madeira had changed him, but it did not appear so.

  I descended the steps to greet him, and he was all smiles as he dismounted. “Everything looks fine,” he announced. “Is the crop over?” As if he could see any canes still to be cut.

  “It’s over,” I said. “It was a good crop. Your father would have been pleased.”

  “Ah then, I am pleased as well.”

  He gave a flit of his hand, as if his absence at the funeral couldn’t have been helped, which it couldn’t have been. Had we waited for him for the burial, Jonas’ body would have been ripe indeed. “Yes, well,” he said, “I am pleased you have kept up your end of the bargain until I could arrive.”

  “Yes?” I did not know what exactly he meant by that.

  “You have already moved into a house on your own property, I presume.”

  I paused, and he filled the silence: “Oh? You have not yet done so?” A breeze from the east blew just then, ruffling his hair, and I should have taken it for an omen. “It is time, don’t you think? You and Bertha cannot always live under the roof of the big house. It is mine now.”

  “It is not the usual kind of marriage,” I said, although, truly, that was not his business.

  His eyes hardened. “It is nothing to me what kind of marriage you have, though God knows my sister was a woman whom any man would have been happy to have as his wife. Where you live is not my affair. But this house”—he looked beyond me toward it—“is mine now. And that is my affair.” He pushed past me and mounted the steps, and I understood then that Richard actually believed that he could so easily replace his father, with whom, during his father’s life, he could barely exchange two pleasant words.