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.
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