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?
*