Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  “Then why do you stay?” I asked him.

  “Because I, too, seek my best interest,” he answered. “I am closer to the negroes than you are. I can sense the tension. But in the meantime I am saving money. When the sugar estates are gone, opportunities will come to the men who have the experience and the funds in hand.”

  “How soon do you think it will be?” I asked.

  He gazed absently at the cigar in his hand. “Who knows?” he said, turning away and staring out over the cane fields. “You will be lucky if it’s another eight or ten years,” he murmured.

  “And what then?”

  “God knows,” he said.

  God knows, I thought. “Are there rumors of an uprising?”

  “There are always rumors,” he responded.

  “But still you stay.”

  “I am a single man.”

  I nodded. He was alone in the world, with no wife or children or possessions other than the savings he had accumulated. But I; I had Bertha. And Bertha would go nowhere without Molly and Molly would go nowhere without her Tiso.

  He rose finally, bade me good night, and made his way to his cottage, but I sat for a time by myself on the veranda, wondering how it would come. In the distance I could smell the remainders of the cooking fires from the negro quarters. If they rose in rebellion, would it be on a quiet night like this? Or would it be later in the year, when the rains came every day and sometimes the wind whipped trees back and forth and the sea rose in a fury that damaged boats and buildings alike? Or would they wait until winter, when the weather was calm and dry and the fields would burn more easily? Or would they plan it at all—would they simply rise at the least expected moment and for no reason, like Bertha, lash out in a passion that could not be sated until all was destroyed? And perhaps not even then.

  Chapter 13

  Despite that I had anxiously awaited Everson’s response, when I actually held it in my hand I could barely bring myself to open it. It was my future. My entire life-to-be was inclosed in that slim packet. I took it into Jonas’ room—a room in which I still felt his presence—and I sat at his desk and held the missive in my hands. Finally, I forced myself to break the seal.

  Mr. Rochester—

  You ask about your brother, Rowland Howell Rochester: perhaps your father did not inform you that Rowland Rochester was seriously wounded by a careless shot during a grouse-hunting expedition in Scotland in the month of August last year.

  Your father was quite distraught, but the seeming culprit was a Scottish earl, and the barrister was of the opinion that pursuance was inadvisable, given the lack of available witnesses. If I may say so, I believe it was that blow that weakened your father’s constitution and made him even more susceptible to the dropsy to which he was already inclined. I am greatly sorry to be the bearer of such unpleasant news.

  You ask the extent of the Estate that had once been your father’s, and then your brother’s, and now has fallen to you. Thornfield Estate is as it has been for the last many years, consisting of something over thirty-five hundred acres. It includes a residence, Thornfield-Hall by name, and the village of Thornfield and its chapel, as well as the village of Hay. And of course there are the usual outbuildings suitable for such an Estate, most of which have been reasonably maintained, as well as the farm cottages, also in acceptable condition, although that is the responsibility of the tenants. The property in all provides a comfortable living of ten to twelve thousand pounds per annum.

  In addition, there is Ferndean Manor, a residence including some five hundred acres, mostly wooded, a distance of thirty miles or so from Thornfield Estate, a property that the late Mr. George Howell Rochester used as a hunting retreat.

  The Hall has not been occupied for the last year, since the unfortunate accident that took your brother’s life, and the servants—only a few remained at any road—were dismissed.

  I await your instructions as to your intentions for Thornfield Estate and the ways in which I may be of further service to you.

  In addition, there are a number of other ventures that had been your father’s. You will find them listed on the accompanying page.

  Sincerely,

  Paul W. Everson, Esq.

  I sat back in Jonas’ chair, the letter still in my hand. Beyond the window was the lush expanse of the cane fields. I felt I should be grieved over the loss of Rowland and my father, and I suppose I was, but what grieved me more, I realized, was the absence of any sense of deep feeling toward either of them.

  And, as well, I understood that despite all my fretting those last weeks about what path I should take, I had only been waiting for what this letter affirmed. Thornfield was mine. I had not lived there in nearly twenty years, had not seen it in nearly ten, and even back then I had come to it almost as a stranger, an intruder in a place where I had no right to be. Cook had greeted me then with tears in her eyes, and I had sat down at that familiar, worn kitchen table with trepidation. My father would not have wanted me there; Rowland would also almost surely not have wanted me there, and it was only by the grace of God that he was absent when I came.

  It was for Thornfield itself that my heart longed most. With Rowland dead for more than a year—Rowland, dead! I still could not fathom it—Thornfield had been standing empty. I could not imagine it: empty. If I could have flown there within the hour, I would have. But, in fact, there was a great deal for me to do in Jamaica before my journey could become a reality.

  It was already nearly November. The skies would have turned gray over Thornfield, and the cold would have descended on the moors, and the Hall would be damp and cold with no one living there to keep up the fires. It was one thing to completely disrupt Bertha, to take her to an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar sounds and smells and food and people. But it would be downright cruel to do so in weather she had never known, in a chill that would creep into her bones in ways she had never experienced. And Molly: Bertha would go nowhere without Molly, and yet the moment Molly set foot on England’s shore, she would be free. I could, as her master, force her to leave Jamaica, but if she were unhappy in England, I could not force her to stay.

  No, I would have to be patient. I would have to wait until spring, wait so that we could arrive in June with its pleasant weather, its lark-filled skies and flower-strewn meadows. I had to bring them both, Bertha and Molly—and Tiso, too—at a time that had the best chance of enticing them. The thought of it excited me so that I even began to imagine that a new place could perhaps enthrall Bertha and cure her mind. It could be, could it not? I told myself.

  I wrote back to Everson, thanking him, and engaging him to make a visit to Thornfield and find a suitable housekeeper and begin looking for a butler and cooks and maids, to make ready for my arrival in early June. I urged him to see if he could entice Mrs. Knox and Cook to return, and perhaps even Holdredge, and any former housemaids and footmen. I was giddy with the thought of bringing them all back, just as it had been, but in another moment I knew that could not be. They would be gone, scattered to other houses; they would have no reason to come back to Thornfield, save for my desire to have them there. To them, I was still just a wild little boy.

  And I asked Everson to send me the name of the neighborhood physician as soon as possible.

  The next day, my plans forming as I went, I rode to Kingston to check the sailing schedules of my ships, though I knew them by heart. Of my five ships, only the Calypso’s schedule could be worked to make such a passage possible. I would need her in port in Kingston for at least an extra week to prepare for our passage.

  I had decided to ask Whitledge to be the plantation’s attorney on my behalf, and to that end, I invited him to visit Valley View, and to meet Osmon for the first time since our journey from England. I needed to assure myself that the two of them could put their original distaste aside and work together.

  The evening Whitledge arrived we sat together on the veranda for a time, spending the night in true West Indies style: passing the sugar and
limes around, each of us mixing our own drinks, lighting our tobacco and drinking our grog and catching one another up. The two had greeted each other warily, Osmon in part because he felt quite capable of taking my place himself, but, as I hoped, the Jamaican style of congeniality worked its magic, and soon we were all three chatting amiably. Whitledge proudly displayed the miniature that he carried of his wife and their baby daughter, but Bertha went nearly unmentioned, except that I told them that I would be taking her and Molly with me. I gave Osmon what I hoped was a meaningful look when I revealed that information, and he nodded. I had already confirmed with him that he was not to mention our leaving to anyone, for if anyone else were to know the plan, it would be all over the plantation before sunrise the next day.

  I noticed a lessening of the strain between the two men as the evening progressed, and the next day, when we made a tour around Valley View, I purposely allowed them to ride beside each other while I brought up the rear. As well, I kept my silence so that Osmon could point out salient features and respond to Whitledge’s questions. The tactic worked quite well, and soon the two were engaged in a quiet conversation in which I had no part. It was important that I could trust the two of them in my absence, and, if that day were any measure, it seemed Valley View would surely prosper in their hands.

  The next morning, after breakfast, Osmon and I stood on the veranda and watched as Whitledge mounted his horse for his trip home. “You two will do well together, I think,” I said to Osmon.

  “What about you?” he asked. “How will you fare?”

  I gazed over toward the sugar mill, where negroes were on the rooftop, patching the cane-lattice roof. “I think it will be good for me,” I said.

  “And for your wife?”

  I had already started toward the door, but I stopped and faced him. “How could things be worse for her?”

  But of course, things can always be worse. I had hoped the change would be a good thing, though God knows why I thought so.

  * * *

  Everson’s response arrived in February, assuring me that he was diligently seeking appropriate persons for employment at Thornfield-Hall, although he regretted the fact that none of the old servants whom I remembered were available. Holdredge was now the landlord of the Thornfield Inn in Hay and had no interest in becoming a butler again; Cook had passed on; and Mrs. Knox was elderly and infirm and living in York with her sister. He did, however, send me the name and address of a physician, Mr. Daniel Carter, a young man of “sterling reputation,” who would be most happy to assist me in whatever ways I desired.

  I composed a letter that very same day to Mr. Carter, requesting his assistance in assessing the Grimsby Retreat, of which, I told him, I had heard. Truly, it had been years before, when I made my short visit to Thornfield, that Cook mentioned to me that my childhood playmate had worked there. I found it necessary to reveal to Mr. Carter—in strictest confidence, I urged—that I was returning from several years in Jamaica and was bringing with me a relative who required the kind of care that I believed the Retreat to provide. As I wrote those very words, I felt as if I had been suddenly struck on the chest, for I had promised Bertha she would never be placed in the sort of institution her mother inhabited. I did still truly intend to hold to that promise, but I felt it necessary to know, at least, what kind of place was available if all else failed.

  As I sat there at Jonas’ desk, in his room, his last words came again to me: Promise you will never abandon my daughter. I had made promises—to Bertha and to her father, in addition to my wedding vows—and I felt myself standing at a precipice now, not knowing if I could keep those promises without destroying my own life. But I was still determined to do the best I could.

  My letters completed, I sealed them, placed them in my pocket, and called for my horse. I had three final tasks. One was the selling of the last of the business interests in Jamaica that I had received from my father, including the three sailing vessels that had been his. I would keep the Sea Nymph and the Dragon. I had already made initial inquiries regarding my intentions to sell and had in hand an offer; all that was needed was to finalize the papers. Did I feel guilty, selling all that my father and Jonas had built, save for the plantation itself? No, I did not. Certainly, I could have kept it all—surely my father would have—but I was not my father. I had learned, in the years I was in Jamaica, that I indeed had a head for business, but I hadn’t the heart for it, and I had no regrets in ridding myself of all of it.

  The second task was to meet with Foster to arrange for the papers to be drawn up for Sukey’s freedom. She would not receive them, or know anything about them, until after I was gone. And I left her the town house, to do with as she pleased. I felt a bit of regret at those arrangements, for Sukey had been a comfort, and Jamaica itself had done me no harm, had, in fact, pushed me into becoming a man. But there was nothing left for me there, except waiting for the day the slaves would revolt or Parliament would order them freed.

  The third, most delicate task was to visit a chemist and purchase enough laudanum to quiet Bertha on our journey. I would have to receive instructions from the chemist as to its use; that was certain, as I needed to take care that she not become addicted. But I could imagine no other way to accomplish the journey that lay ahead of us.

  When I had done all that, I could mail the letters I had written. I would be fully committed and fully prepared to quit Jamaica forever. There was, as I rode the familiar road from Valley View, a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was about to burn my bridges behind me. I wanted to feel a release, but instead I felt only trepidation.

  Book Three

  Chapter 1

  In all the years of my life, this return to England was my first important decision—beyond the purchase of the Sea Nymph and the Dragon—that had not been orchestrated by my father, and I took substantial joy and confidence in that fact. I kept this decision to myself, save for Everson in England and my solicitor in Jamaica, and, of course, Osmon and Whitledge, and I made sure they understood the importance of confidentiality in this matter. Even Molly would not know until absolutely necessary.

  I was determined to ensure that Bertha would be as comfortable as possible on the tedious sea journey to England, both for her sake and for the sake of the other passengers aboard the Calypso. Keeping her calm, quiet, and content would be a significant part of that, so late in March I started visiting her regularly in the evenings, bringing a mug of grog, and sitting with her for a time. Bertha was always happy to imbibe, and I had learned to carefully measure out the laudanum, pleased to note how it quieted her just at the hour she was most agitated. Often, she grew dreamy and seemed to enjoy recounting her reveries. Sometimes she was convinced that she had ten or twelve babies of her own, and she would spend much of her time counting them in her imagination, as if she expected some of them to go missing, and I would feel a pity for her, she who so wished for a child and would never have one. Occasionally she spoke of her father, seeming unaware that he had passed away. She never mentioned her mother.

  In fact, Bertha grew so docile that I have to admit that I thought a time or two how easy it would be to keep her forever in this dream state. But I had studied the dangers of that path, and I had no wish to put her into a permanent addiction, no matter how convenient it might at first appear.

  When the date of departure at last came, I gave Bertha a slightly larger dose in the evening and then turned to Molly and revealed my plan. She was to pack up three valises for a journey; I told her we would be leaving Valley View early in the morning and by noontime we would be on a boat. Her eyes widened. “Leave Jamaica?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I responded. After all my careful plans, I hadn’t realized until that instant that Molly might refuse to follow Bertha.

  “Me cannot,” she said.

  “You may bring Tiso, if you choose.”

  “Me cannot.”

  “Why?” I demanded.

  “Me only know Jamaica,” she said, and I k
new exactly what she meant.

  And yet, I had something to offer her. “Come with us, to England,” I said. “You and Tiso. You help me get my wife to my home there. If…” I paused, for I did not really want to make the offer, yet I might as well, as it was true whether I wanted to suggest it or not. “If you do not want to stay, you may come back here, to Jamaica. But”—I moved closer and held her with my eyes—“in Jamaica you are a slave and always will be. In England there are no slaves. In England you and your daughter will be free.”

  She caught her breath at that. “No slave?” she asked.

  “No slave.”

  She shifted her eyes away from me, as if she were trying to see herself in the future as a free woman. “How long?” she asked.

  “Six weeks, more or less, to get there,” I said. I did not emphasize the more.

  “After?”

  I did not want to give her the after, but I knew I must. “After, you do as you wish. After, you are free.”

  “And Tiso?”

  “Tiso also.”

  She stared at me straight on, as if deciding whether she could trust me.

  “Have I not always treated you well?” I urged. “With honesty? Have I not?”

  She nodded then, and relief overwhelmed me. If Bertha was to be wholly my responsibility after we arrived at Thornfield, so be it. At least the worst would be over. Or so I thought.

  * * *

  The journey, though not easy, was, thank God, uneventful. Molly and Tiso and I managed to get Bertha on board early, when the few onlookers simply saw a gentleman and an obviously unwell woman settling into the first stateroom. Although Bertha asked several times into what house I had moved her, she seemed as content there as she had been in her chambers at Valley View.