Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  I could have let him go. I could have packed a bag and mounted my horse and left him with Bertha and his precious house. If I had known what was to come, I might well have, for in a few years’ time slavery would be abolished in Jamaica, and even if Richard had not already run Valley View into the ground, he couldn’t have dealt with slavery’s end.

  But Bertha was still my wife and I had a responsibility to her, no matter what else. And I had a responsibility to Jonas as well, and I knew what his plan had been. “It is not that simple,” I called after him.

  He had already reached the top of the steps, and he paused, not turning around.

  “There is an entailment,” I said.

  He turned then and gazed at me, his eyes still hard, though I saw a question take root in them.

  “You should speak with his solicitor,” I added.

  “You tell me,” he said.

  “I think you should speak with his solicitor, Mr. Arthur Foster. I’m sure you have met him, and you must have heard from him since your father’s passing. You can spend the night here and ride back to see him in Spanish Town in the morning.”

  “I have no interest in riding to Spanish Town,” he countered. “Send for him, if you must.” And he walked into the house.

  So I sent for Foster to come in the morning, and, having no particular desire to entertain Richard, I retired to my room.

  The next morning Richard accosted me at breakfast, blaming me for Bertha’s reaction to him and for her so-called miserable living conditions and for her appalling appearance. I listened quietly, for it seemed he had forgotten all about her deterioration before he had left, and he was convinced that her entire situation was due to my neglect. There was no way I could make him understand what the situation was, or what had gone on before, or even what Jonas had arranged. That latter was not for me to reveal.

  At midmorning, Foster arrived, a tall, thin man with a permanent stoop. He carried with him three parcels, bound in black, and I ushered him into the house, where Richard sat at Jonas’ desk, trying to pretend he was attending to some sort of business. Foster tipped his hat to Richard, who nodded wordlessly at him, and then Foster said, “My condolences for your father’s passing. It must have been a surprise to you. And, as a consequence, we have some matters to discuss.”

  I could not wait to hear how this would work itself out, but, perhaps mercifully, Richard stared coldly past him at me. “I think it is between you and me, Foster. It is none of Rochester’s affair. He is only my sister’s husband—if barely that—and not a blood descendant to my father.”

  Foster tilted his head. “As you wish, Mr. Mason,” he said.

  So instead I rode to Kingston, where the Mary Rose was in port undergoing some minor repairs. I was only too willing to let the solicitor explain everything in terms Richard could understand. I already knew the contents of Jonas’ will: he had left the property to Bertha and Richard jointly, with myself acting on Bertha’s behalf and in permanent control of operations, and entailed so that it could never be sold or mortgaged. Richard would receive half of all income, but beyond that, he had no material interest in the estate.

  I intended to stay away for three days—I had business in Spanish Town as well, regarding the purchase of some additional land in the county—but as it turned out, that was two days more than necessary. Richard appeared at my town house on the second day, pounding on the door before I had even risen from bed. I could hear his voice the moment Sukey opened the door to him, and he did not stop yelling until I descended the stairs.

  “You set him against me!” he accused. “You turned everyone against me! You Judas!” His face was red with exertion and I feared for his health.

  “Will you have some breakfast with me?” I asked.

  He balled his fists and for a moment I thought he was going to strike me. “I would not grace your table for all the tea in China! I will never speak with you again!” he shouted.

  “I had nothing to do with it. It was your father’s wish.” I knew there was no point in saying that; he had already made up his mind. But I felt I needed to say so anyway, in my own defense.

  “And you have shut up my sister in a prison!”

  It was true; I could not deny it. But she preferred that prison to any alternative, and her own father and I had concluded that it was far better for her there than in the kind of place her mother was kept. And, at any rate, Bertha’s mind had become a much worse prison than I could ever have concocted for her. I did not respond.

  He ranted longer than I would have thought I could bear, and I listened wordlessly, until his fury abated and he gave me a final black glare and stormed out of the house. Hearing him leave, Sukey came in and refreshed my tea. “Are you all right, sir? Sometimes I think they all—”

  “It’s enough,” I said. “We do not need to discuss it.”

  She nodded.

  We never again spoke of that episode. Sometimes I think they all are mad was what I knew she had started to say. I could not dispute it, but if I had let her finish, I would have had to.

  * * *

  I thought I had seen the last of Richard, but I should have known better. That same evening I returned to Valley View and was astonished to find him seated on the veranda, waiting for me, no doubt.

  “We are not finished,” he said as I mounted the steps. “You have no right to take over my inheritance.”

  “You will receive one-half; the other half is your sister’s. I am only the executor.”

  “It is I who should be in charge!” he shouted. He had been drinking, more than he should, I thought.

  “It was your father’s decision,” I said.

  “You drove him to it! You turned him against me!”

  It seemed nothing I could say would dissuade him, and, unable to unleash his pique anymore on me, he rose abruptly and strode into the house, slamming the door behind him. I remained on the veranda, giving him time to cool down, but within a few minutes he returned, a box under his arm. I could hardly believe what he was proposing. Surely even Richard was not that foolish. Or stupid.

  He made a great show of opening the box, displaying inside the two dueling pistols.

  “Richard,” I said.

  “Now,” he said. “Now we will settle it.”

  “Have you ever in your life fought a duel before?” I asked.

  “Have you?”

  “This is foolish,” I said.

  “Foolish? Foolish? You think I am a fool to demand my own rights?”

  “Where did you get those?” I asked.

  That stopped him for a moment. He had not expected to be interrogated. “They were my father’s,” he said in a voice suddenly less agitated.

  “Have you ever fought a duel?” I asked again. “Do you know how to load and cock them?” I knew, but only in theory, for Mr. Lincoln had drilled us on all kinds of weapons, but I had never used the knowledge, for in the mounted militia we had only sabers.

  He shoved the box toward me. “Take your choice,” he said.

  “I will not fight a duel with you.”

  “Coward!”

  “Richard. If you should kill me, who will look after your sister? Will you take care of her from now on?”

  “She is your wife.”

  “If you kill me,” I repeated, “she will be my widow. You will be her only relative. Are you ready for that responsibility?” I remembered that he had tried to claim that custodianship before, but I did not think he would have ever been actually willing to do such a thing.

  But, in response, he boasted: “I would take it gladly.”

  “But don’t we need seconds?” I asked. “Don’t we need to make arrangements to meet at dawn?” That was what always happened in books.

  He stood there in silence until I understood that he was trying to figure out how to get out of such a rash act, and I took a step toward him. “It does neither of us any good to kill the other,” I said. “No one gains by that, Bertha least of all. Your father wou
ld not have wanted us to end up this way.”

  “My father,” he said, nearly mournfully. “My father. He gave me up for you.”

  “Your father loved you. As he loved Bertha. He wanted only to see the two of you provided for.”

  He stared at me.

  “Is that not right?” I pushed. I could have said more. I could have asked if that was not why Jonas and my father had conspired to bring me to Jamaica, why I was sent at the age of thirteen to apprentice in a manufactory, for even in those days, Jonas had known that his son would never truly want to be a planter, that he would always rather someone else do the work.

  “It was…,” he started, but then he paused, and I could not tell what was in his eyes. “My father thought I was worthless,” he said at last.

  “Your father loved you. That is why he tried to make sure you and Bertha would still have Valley View for the rest of your lives.”

  The opened box was still in his arms. “He came to love you more,” he said petulantly.

  “He gave me the responsibility; he gave you the living, because you were his son. Without ties, simply because he loved you.”

  I saw the resignation come into his face then, and I pitied him. And envied him.

  Chapter 12

  Richard stayed for a few more uncomfortable days before returning to Madeira, and life returned to its usual rhythm at Valley View, with me at the helm. And then, in late July, I received a letter from England. I did not recognize the hand; it was not my father’s. I took it from the girl and opened it as I walked toward my desk, but the first line of it startled me into stillness.

  My dear sir—

  I am saddened to inform you that your father, Mr. George Howell Rochester, was himself deceased this May last, due to a bout with the fever, his physician tells me.

  Among his papers, I found your letter, dated 10 February, which he may or may not have answered, as he was, I believe, not yet stricken. Since you are his sole surviving heir, I am awaiting your instructions concerning the Estate that has thus fallen to you.

  Yours, at your service,

  Paul W. Everson, Esq.

  I stood stock-still for some moments, dumbfounded, a sound like the rush of wind in my ears. I cannot even recall the thoughts that ran through my head, and it is difficult now to say what stunned me most: that my father had died or that I was his sole heir. Where was Rowland? If something had happened to him, why had my father not informed me? And, when I got past all that: my father’s estate had fallen to me? What, exactly, did that mean for me? For my future? My God, for my whole life?

  * * *

  Within an hour of reading the letter from Mr. Everson, I found myself riding madly toward Spanish Town, as if to escape from—or catch up with—my own future. I had thought that my future lay forever in Jamaica; now, with this single letter, everything had changed. Over the years, the town house had become a refuge for me, and I had made it my own. There were not just law and tax books, as in my father’s day; now there were histories and travel books, novels, and even poetry. There was a globe in the study and maps on the walls. I could not be at Valley View without Bertha remaining at the back of my mind, a burden I was unable to ever fully set down. But in Spanish Town I felt more free. And now; now I needed space to think. My father dead: I still could not comprehend it. I wished, not for the first time, that Mr. Wilson were still alive, that I could go to him for advice, for the comfort of his wisdom, he who had been so much more of a father to me than my own had ever been.

  At the town house, Sukey had been in her room, I suppose, but she always came at the sound of my hand on the latch, unless she was otherwise fully occupied. This time she stopped and took a step back immediately when she saw me. I must have looked wild with anguish or despair or at least confusion.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Has she—”

  “My father has died,” I blurted, and her face turned suddenly as still as stone. I cursed myself, for in my own shock and confusion I had momentarily forgotten her connection with him. “I am very sorry,” I said. “It has been a shock.” What else could I say?

  She took another step back and put a hand to her cheek, almost as if I had slapped her. “And I am sorry for you,” she responded.

  I came closer and put my hands on her shoulders, and I felt a shudder run through her, and finally a quieting and a deep breath, and she gazed up at me.

  She was only a few years older than I and she had been kind to me since the day I had arrived, and at that moment I felt certain we both needed someone to hold, so I held her. We stood there together in the hall, and it would have been an easy thing to do whatever I chose, and I could have, for she was mine. But I would not. If for no other reason: she had been my father’s; I could never.

  I remained in Spanish Town for nearly a week, and in that remove I was able to take a close look at my life, at what it had been and what it could become, nearly overwhelmed by what might be opening to me. I wrote to Everson immediately, requesting more information on what had happened to Rowland, and a more thorough accounting of the estate and its buildings—did it contain Thornfield-Hall? It must. And what part of it was under management? It was strange to me, to lose my father and brother at the same time, at least in the same letter, and stranger still to think that I might be able to live, again, at Thornfield one day, perhaps even soon.

  Thinking back, the choice appears easy, but at the time, it was the furthest thing from obvious. I had a life in Jamaica—if one could call it that—but, yes, it was a life, and in fact a good one in many ways. I had as many responsibilities—and opportunities—on the estate as I chose to pursue, and I had the respect of my neighbors. I had a good friend and overseer in Osmon, despite that many of my equals thought he was beneath me. It was true my wife was no companion and never would be, and I could never bring her into company, but there could be worse burdens for a man to bear.

  Still—was Thornfield mine? Mine? Were the fields and the woods and the moors that I had once wandered and loved now mine?

  But I had made a pledge—a promise—to God, and to Jonas, to keep Bertha as my wife, never to abandon her. God knew, she was not my wife in any sense but the legal and the moral, and never would be again, but neither could I abandon her. Given that, what kind life could I have there? What kind of life could I have in either place?

  * * *

  On my return to Valley View, I took a walk in the orchard, the one place on the estate in which I felt true peace. In the evening breeze the avocado leaves brushed against one another in a soothing rhythm and a nearby parrot screeched into the night. The citrus scents of oranges and lemons surrounded me, and I closed my eyes and imagined myself at Thornfield—would that it were so easy to transport oneself from one place to another, with no cares and no responsibilities. After a time, I rose and went to the house and drank a mug of grog and another and another, and I finally managed to find my way to my own bed and fell into a deep sleep.

  I dreamed of Bertha, of her setting the cane fields afire, of her attacking me with a machete, of her tormented screams that went on and on, until I woke and realized it truly was her screaming—as she did often enough in the night hours—and I rose, still half-drugged with sleep and overpowered with a sense of hopelessness. I could choose either Valley View or Thornfield; it made no difference: I would always be burdened with a mad wife.

  I opened the jalousied window further, expecting a rush of cooler air, but it was a steamy Jamaican night, the beginning of the hurricane season. The moon was setting bloodred in the west, half-covered with clouds; mosquitoes flew into the room, surrounding me with their maddening whines. Bertha—two rooms away—still screamed curses at me, at her father, at God, at whomever or whatever she could imagine. What kind of life is this? I asked myself. It is hell. She is as sound of body as she is unsound of mind. She will live for years and years, and I will have to endure it all. I suddenly felt I could not. I could not go on living in that hell, and I wished I had not talked Ri
chard out of a duel, wished I had stood before him and let him shoot me as many times as it would take for him to find the target and kill me. For I felt, at that moment, that only death would relieve me of a burden that had become too heavy to bear.

  I pulled a little trunk from under my bed and unlocked it and took out the case with the loaded pistols. I had placed it there after Richard had left, for safekeeping. Now I lifted one, heavier than I would have thought, and I held it in my hand for a time, thinking how easy it would be. I put it to my temple. So easy.

  But then a breeze came and brought with it a rainstorm. The skies opened and rain poured down, cleansing the air. I closed the window, pistol still in hand, and watched the rain pelt against the casement. As quickly as it had come, the storm was gone, moving off to the west. I opened the window again and the air felt purer, and with it came a new sensibility. I laid the pistol back into its box and locked it away.

  I left the house then, my mind already working, and I strolled across the wet grass to the orchard, where I walked again among the trees. A sweet breath of wind from Europe was on my face. I could sense the thunder of the distant Atlantic against the shore and my heart swelled within me. There is a way, I thought. There has to be a way. If I must, I will take Bertha with me. She can be cared for as well at Thornfield as she is here. For England—Thornfield—pulled on me, now that I knew it could be mine, was mine.

  In the morning, I doubted my decision. How could I do such a thing? Did I not have a good life at Valley View? How in God’s name would I make a life for Bertha at Thornfield? But my heart had already fled there, and I slowly came to understand it fully: Thornfield-Hall had always been my home in ways that Valley View had never, and would never, become.

  * * *

  In the following weeks, as I anxiously waited for Everson’s response, I shared with Osmon my situation. It was only fair that he should know, since he would have full management responsibility if I returned to England. We had often spoken of the future of Jamaica and the life we led. He was a keen reader of history. “Men wait and watch and take advantage when they can,” he said one evening. “It will be no different when the negroes finally rise.”