Mr. Rochester Read online

  Father just laughed and gave Rowland an affectionate cuff on the shoulder. He never followed through on any of Rowland’s ideas, but even I could see his pride that this first son of his showed such interest in economic betterment.

  I had always imagined that when I was old enough for the tutor, I would become as wise in the ways of the world as Rowland, and Father would laugh and cuff me on the shoulder too, and we three would dream up more and more inventive ways to make Father’s wealth greater and greater.

  Chapter 2

  I rose early on that thirty-first day of March, my eighth birthday. I had gone to bed the night before with the anticipation of great things in the day or days ahead. There were hints of such possibilities—subtle ones, but even so, I, in my mostly careless abandon, had noticed. Several communications had arrived in the preceding weeks, some of which I managed to snatch a quick peek at before they were whisked away, but while I was not privy to their contents I saw that most were from my father, and I imagined that I, too, would soon begin my formal education. As well, there were whispered consultations in the kitchen and the back stairs, which ended the moment I appeared. I would have been dense indeed not to be aware that change was afoot.

  Cook laid out two raisin buns for me at breakfast that day with an indulgent smile and offered to cook my eggs in whatever style I chose. I briefly thought over that momentous decision, and then fell back into what she always fixed: two boiled eggs with extra butter. She gave my shoulder a squeeze at that, and turned quickly away. I was buttering the buns when Holdredge stepped into the kitchen. As butler, Holdredge was much too busy and important most days for the likes of me, so it was a surprise when he strode right up to me. Immediately I wondered what I had done wrong, what mischief he had attributed to me. But he said only, “Master Edward, teatime in the dining room today. Promptly.” And then he turned on his heel and left.

  The formality of it terrified me. He had called me only “boy” before, as did my father, always. But my father was away, so whom was I being summoned to meet? I scraped through my mind, trying to think of what I had done in recent days to earn such a frightening order. It was true that I had forgotten to clean my boots after slogging through the horse yard on the last rainy day. My father and brother, of course, routinely left their messes for others to clean, but I was not—yet—privileged to do so. And I had tied a cowbell around the neck of Father’s prize bull to see if its gentle sounds would render him as docile as the cows. That did not work, I discovered, and in fact he was nearly driven mad by the bell’s insistent clanking. Removing it fell to one of the farm laborers, who was almost gored in the process. But that was two or three weeks before, and I had drawn only a sharp reprimand from Ames, my father’s steward, and an order forbidding me to come within ten yards of any cattle. Yet I could not think of any other sin or transgression worthy enough to have me called “Master Edward” and summoned to the dining room.

  The worry of it preyed on me as I ate my breakfast, and as soon as I finished I fled to the nursery, which was where Rowland found me. He was dressed for riding, which he did nearly every morning on his great black stallion, Thunder. “Well, Toad,” he said, as if he were imparting news of which I, a mere child, was unaware, “it’s your birthday today.”

  “It is,” I responded amiably, suddenly imagining a gift of some sort in the hand he was hiding behind his back.

  But he grabbed me by the collar and, throwing me facedown onto my cot, brought his riding crop from behind his back and gave me eight quick whacks. He left the room then without another word.

  It is true that in certain households it is customary to give the birthday child spankings equal to his years, and it is also true that I was fully dressed and the crop left no lasting pain. Yet it was so far from the kindness I had allowed myself to hope for that I could do no other than remain, face in the bedclothes, weeping.

  At this distance in time I recognize that my self-pity was perhaps overplayed. So many others have lived in far worse conditions that I cannot excuse it, except to say that I was a child and longed for a loving, or at least a friendly, act from time to time.

  When I had recovered, I slipped down the back stairs, shoved my feet into my boots at the side-passage door, and stepped out into the courtyard, where I quickly dipped my head into the horse trough to wash away the redness of my eyes. The water, on that last day of March, was cold indeed, and it helped shock away whatever self-pity remained. I wandered across the rime-covered lawn and into the woods, where the undergrowth was wet and the trees stood bare and black against the cloud-driven sky, and I tore a little switch from a low-hanging branch and beat the trees with it as I passed them, one by one. In all honesty, I don’t remember that the beating I gave them made me feel any better, but, again, I was eight years old. At some point, it occurred to me that if indeed the governess should be leaving and if, henceforth, I would be sharing the tutor with Rowland, I would be forced into Rowland’s presence for hours at a time every day. I could not imagine how I could stand that, and it suddenly also occurred to me that Rowland might be feeling exactly the same way and was already laying out the terms of our accommodation.

  * * *

  I was, by a bare two minutes according to the clock in the Great Hall, early for teatime. But Rowland was already seated in his usual place in our father’s absence, at the foot of the table. Pausing just briefly to determine my own appropriate place at that vast mahogany board, I knew two things immediately: one, that to sit at the opposite end would be an encroachment I dared not make; and two, to sit at his right hand, usually reserved for the female guest of highest honor, was to imply something I cared not to. So I chose his left hand instead, pulling out the chair and sitting in it as if I had every right in the world to be there. Rowland barely cast a glance at me.

  Holdredge appeared exactly on the stroke of the hour, followed by Emily, bearing the tea tray. Holdredge stood behind Rowland and slightly to his left as Emily poured the tea, added the milk and sugar according to our preferences, which she well knew, and then set down a plate of scones and tea cakes and two small butter pats before slipping out of the room.

  Holdredge cleared his throat and pulled a letter from the inside pocket of his waistcoat. He cleared his throat again and stared at the paper in his hand and said, “Your father requests that I read this correspondence to the two of you on the occasion of the young Master Edward’s birthday.” He cleared his throat a third time, and read:

  26 March, Liverpool

  For the edification of my sons:

  Rowland is now sixteen years of age, high time for him to step out into the world. Edward is eight, time to put away childish things.

  I have ordered that Richards be sent off; his work as Rowland’s tutor is finished. Rowland will join me in Liverpool as expressly as can be arranged. He is to bring only a small valise of personal belongings. I will purchase for him whatever is needed for his new position in life. He will be journeying with me to Jamaica at the earliest next sailing, to serve and help me as I continue my ventures in that part of the world.

  Edward is to go into tutelage with Mr. Hiram Lincoln of Black Hill, near Leeford. He is to pack immediately all his clothes and necessities, and Glover will drive him to Millcote, from which he can take the coach. Mr. Lincoln is expecting him on the third day of April. I charge Edward to comport himself in such a way that he will not be an embarrassment to the Rochester name. He will remain in Mr. Lincoln’s care exclusively until I make further arrangements.

  Until then, I remain,

  George Howell Rochester, Esq.

  I heard that letter with astonishment. And with a multitude of questions. Jamaica? Where is that? And then: Where is Black Hill? So far away that I cannot come back for holidays? Even for the summer? Or will I be finished with Mr. Lincoln by summer?

  I looked at Rowland, as if he would be able to clarify everything, but Rowland had pushed his chair back from the table and was grinning as broadly as a person possibly
could. And no wonder: he was going to Liverpool, and after that to wherever Jamaica might be. He was going to be with Father, helping him with his business; all his financial calculations could be put into practice. In short, he was going to be in heaven. And I; I was going to be in Black Hill, for better or for worse.

  I had two days in which to decide what to pack, and that mostly meant two days in which to decide how much of home to take with me. Fortunately, Knox was kind enough to help me with those decisions. She encouraged me to take the oft-mended cloth dog that I had slept with each night since Cook gave it to me the Christmas I was four. I had thought I should put away such a childish thing, but Knox confided, with a knowing nod, that when one is in a strange place, it can be a great comfort to have something familiar close at hand. Something in her voice made me picture her, as a child, in a situation not unlike my own, perhaps sent into service in a strange house with no one to comfort her. Without thinking, I reached my arms around her waist for the hug that I had so often hoped for, and she held me tight, her cheek against my hair for a moment, and it was all I could do to keep from crying as I lost what I had barely known I had.

  * * *

  Glover was waiting with the trap in the front courtyard at seven o’clock in the morning. Cook had already given me as hearty a breakfast as I could eat, and had further wrapped three pork pies and a half dozen ginger biscuits into a square of muslin for me to take, “to keep that stomach of yours from rebelling.” She held me close to her ample bosom, careless for once of her floury hands, then hurried me along and turned quickly away. Holdredge and Knox waited at the front door to bid me farewell, the kind of display one might expect for my father or even Rowland but that came as a surprise to me. Holdredge shook my hand wordlessly in good-bye, and Knox put her hands on my shoulders and told me that she would expect me to comport myself in a proper manner, but I thought I saw moisture in her eyes. Then it was down the step and across the paving stones, and I climbed onto the trap, where my rope-bound trunk had already been laid, and I was off. I gazed back at Thornfield-Hall as it disappeared from sight, and Knox remained in the doorway for as long as I could see her.

  In Millcote, Glover was kind enough to wait with me at the George Inn until the coach came through, whereupon he put my trunk up and made sure I was settled inside. He told the driver where I was bound before he gave a perfunctory wave and walked back to the trap. I had been a careless child, it is clear. In my yearning for the larger shows of love, I had barely noticed such little kindnesses. I forced back the tears and distracted myself by gazing about me, the cloth-wrapped parcel held possessively in my lap. To my left was a portly gentleman in a brown waistcoat and yellow trousers who smelled of snuff and who had an abundance of whiskers covering his jowls. To my right was a lady in a dark gray traveling outfit who spent most of her time holding her skirts close, as if afraid I might infect her. Across from me sat another woman, with a girl younger than I, and beside them a man, large and red-faced, opened his eyes just enough to see me enter and then closed them again and proceeded to snore.

  I had never been farther from home than Millcote, and there only three or four times, so I spent most of the journey staring out the coach windows at moors and fields, hills and dales, and occasional villages with muddy sheep grazing in the commons. The woman and the girl left us at Keighley, but two men took their place, wearing heavy blue greatcoats that seemed the worse for wear. Their entrance disturbed the sleeping man in the corner and caused much grumbling and resettling among the three of them. A few times they glanced across at me and the lady beside me, as if wondering whether one of us, who took up so much less space, could be persuaded to change places, but they never asked. I sat back into my seat as comfortably as possible, sleepy after a night of anticipation and fear. The coach stopped a few more times, but no one got off and the new passengers had to climb up top. The day waned, and shadows spread over the fells and dales around us.

  The coach let us all off at the Four Bells, where the others would spend the night, and from which I was to be picked up and driven to Black Hill. By that time it was dark, and there seemed to be no one there for me, so I lugged my trunk into the common room and found a place to sit. It was far from the fire, near which all the seats had already been taken, but it was still warmer and somewhat lighter than it was outside. My stomach rumbled, but with everything else taken care of for me, I had been sent off without money, and I had long since eaten the pork pies and biscuits. The lady who had been sitting beside me had disappeared, but the two men in greatcoats were standing near the fire, engaged in banter with the innkeeper. One of them eventually noticed me and strode over. “You’re by yourself, boy?” he asked. “Not with the lovely lady?”

  “No, sir, I am on my own.”

  “And not having anything to eat?”

  “They are coming for me,” I said, not wanting to reveal that I had no money.

  “Who is coming?”

  I shrugged, because indeed I had no idea who was coming. “From Black Hill,” I said.

  He turned away then, going back to his companion and the landlord, who said something to the men that made them laugh, but he looked over at me with a new curiosity. Some minutes later a barmaid brought me a plate of cold roast beef and a knob of bread, but I shook my head, telling her I had no money to pay. She smiled, showing blackened teeth. “Never mind,” she said, and she shoved the plate into my hands. I fell to it, thinking it the best meal I had had in months.

  I must have nodded off, because the next thing I knew someone was shaking me awake. I opened my eyes to see a man, short and broad and nearly square, grasping my shoulders with both hands. “Master Rochester,” he said in a gravelly voice, “is this you?”

  I nodded wordlessly.

  “And it’s me to get you,” he said. When, still dazed with sleep, I didn’t respond, he added, “For Black Hill.”

  With that I was up like a shot. He shouldered my trunk and led the way to an old cart parked outside, drawn by an even older horse. There was but one seat—for the driver—so I climbed into the cart and sat beside my trunk as we jolted along in the darkness. Not a star was in sight; even the moon had disappeared, and I wondered how the strange man could find the way in such complete darkness, until I realized that he was probably giving the horse its rein and letting it find its own way home.

  It must have been about an hour, though it seemed half the night, before the driver turned to me and said, “There it is, just ahead.” I could still see nothing—no candle burning in a window, no slant of moonlight against a brass door handle, nothing. Then I began to hear a difference in the hoofbeats, as if the horse were hurrying toward the stable, and the driver said, “Yee,” to stop him. In the sudden silence I could hear only the wind in the trees and a distant owl and the snort of the horse.

  The driver climbed down and pulled my trunk from the cart, leaving me to get out in darkness as he walked to the door. He did not pull a bell but just walked in, and as soon as the door opened I could see a faint light—enough to follow him by. He preceded me into a room with a fireplace burning low and a lump of something seen dimly in the glow of a single candle.

  As we came closer, the lump stirred and I could make out that it must be a man sitting in a chair, and I stopped. The cart driver dropped my trunk unceremoniously and left. “Come closer,” said the man in the chair. “Let me see you in the light.”

  I stepped as close as I dared, shivering from the cold or from anxiety, or both.

  “Closer,” he said, and I took another step. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  “Mr. Hiram Lincoln?” I responded.

  “You are young Edward Rochester,” he said. It was not a question, so I did not reply.

  “Are you not?” he demanded.

  “Yes, sir, I am,” I said.

  “You are very late.”

  “I had to wait for the cart. I did not know how to come otherwise.”

  “Hmm,” he said. I had gotten a better
look at him by then—he seemed a huge man, both tall and heavy, and his voice was unusually high. “We go to bed with the sun here at Black Hill,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” I said.

  “And we rise with the sun.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He gazed at me for a time without saying anything. There was something about him that I sensed, a kind of latent power, and I realized that not only was I powerless—a feeling I was used to anyway—but I had little idea of where I was, or for how long, or what was to become of me afterwards. “There are three of you boys now,” he said. “The other two share the big bed. You will sleep on the cot. Did you bring your own bedding?”

  “No, sir, I did not know—”

  “You should have known. Your people should have told you.”

  I said nothing, dismay rising in my throat.

  He sighed heavily. “It’s up the steps,” he said. “Just the one room. You will have to sleep in your clothes tonight, then.”

  Standing, he proved to be the biggest man I had ever seen, even in the semidarkness. “Are you waiting for a candle?” he asked. “You won’t need one; the cot is just at the top of the steps, next to the wall on your left.” He turned away, taking the one candle with him, and I scurried to the steps before the candle glow fully disappeared, leaving my trunk where the driver had dropped it.

  Chapter 3

  A thumb and forefinger lifted my eyelid. “He’s dark,” said a voice.

  I shook my head away from the fingers, opening my eyes on my own and raising myself on my elbows. There were two boys. One appeared to be three or four years older than I, with flaming ginger hair; the other was small, with a freckled oval face and light brown hair.