“I don’t know, sir,” I said. “My father does not truck well with dandies.” I had no idea why I said that, since I could not remember my father’s opinions on almost anything. And surely Rowland did not dress as if he were concerned about such a thing.
“Well, at least,” Mr. Wilson amended, his eyes not having left me, and I now understood that he was seeing me as he thought my father would, and, further, that he would be held accountable if my appearance were less than what my father would be expecting. “You must at least get your hair trimmed up nicely.”
I did that, and even wandered past a tailor’s shop or two, but I could not bring myself to order anything new. Much as I wanted to impress my father, I didn’t want him to be aware of it. I was, still, young and foolish.
I shouldn’t have been concerned about not being able to recognize him, or him me. The astonishing thing was that I had not fully realized it until I came face-to-face with him, but I was the picture of what he must have been in his youth, and he, in turn, showed me how I would appear in my later years. I was the taller by a couple of inches, but he was the broader, his face more lined, of course, his black hair paling but not yet gray, his posture still erect, his step firm.
He gazed at me, and I at him. I had been right about the new clothes; my father wore a well-used black traveling outfit with black top boots. With his hat removed, his hair proved to be longish, scraping his shoulders, and slightly waved, just as mine was at that length. We had the same black eyes, the same intent expression. His skin was darker than mine, a result, perhaps, of his years in the Jamaican sun. “Edward,” he said to me. It was the first time he had ever called me that, to my recollection, and, as it turned out, the last.
“Sir,” I responded. Then I added, keeping Mr. Lincoln in mind, “I’m pleased to see you again after all these years.”
“Yes,” he said, already turning to Mr. Wilson, who was hovering about us. The countinghouse once again seemed overly small.
“May I get you a chair?” Mr. Wrisley asked solicitously.
“I think not,” my father said, not even deigning to glance his way. “We shall be off, I think. It’s past noon and I am hungry, and I understand, Wilson, that there’s an inn not far.”
“Of course,” Mr. Wilson said. “Young Rochester here—young Edward, I mean—knows the way.”
“I was counting on your attendance as well,” my father said.
“Of course,” Mr. Wilson said, “I would be only too glad to join you. It is just that I thought—”
“Leave the thinking to me, Wilson, if you don’t mind,” my father said.
At the Crown Inn, the discussion was awkward for me, and doubly so because I felt it awkward for Mr. Wilson. Clearly, my father was used to giving orders and not to taking advice. I sat quietly, sipping my drink, pushing the roast—which usually was quite delicious—around my plate, and listening to my father question Mr. Wilson as to my suitability for business, paying me no more attention than if I had been a leaden saltcellar left on the table by mistake. Mr. Wilson gave a good account of me, which was kind. I caught him stretching the truth more than once, and it pleased us both that my father seemed satisfied with his report.
Then it came to the change in my living accommodations, and with the first words out of his mouth on the subject, it was clear that my father was used to driving a hard bargain. But Mr. Wilson, in his own quiet way, held his ground, politely mentioning that perhaps Maysbeck was more expensive than Liverpool, given that we were more inland and thus farther from the port of entry of so many goods, and that it surely would be embarrassing for us all if I hadn’t enough funds to pay for my daily needs.
At this my father gave me a baleful glance—almost the only time he had looked at me all the while we were there—and when he turned back, he made a compromise. There were a few more details to be settled between them, and just when I thought he had truly forgotten my presence, my father turned to me. “Well, boy, what have you to say for yourself?”
Surprised by the sudden attention, I stared wordlessly at him.
“Do you have any questions?” Mr. Wilson quickly prompted.
“Sir, what…what do you have in mind for me in the end?” I asked.
“In the end?” My father scowled. “In the end, that you can oversee a manufactory on your own, of course.”
I took a deep breath and barged ahead. “Where might that be?”
“Surely you must know I have interests in the West Indies—in Jamaica. Surely that has not escaped your attention.”
“No, sir, it has not,” I said, and I blundered on. “It’s just that I know you have interests in other places as well—Liverpool, and London I presume, and of course Thornfield.”
“Thornfield is not for you. Thornfield is Rowland’s.”
His words struck like a blow. Much as I had always fancied myself visiting Jamaica, I still imagined that Thornfield was my home. My mouth was suddenly dry; I could think of nothing more to say. It must have become clear to him that he needed to clarify my situation so that there would be no mistake.
“You are the second son. I will not divide—and therefore diminish—the family holdings to give you a portion: that is all Rowland’s. Furthermore, I disapprove of sending any son of mine toward one of the traditional routes for fellows in your position. I have no interest in seeing you a vicar of some forlorn parish, or an officer in the king’s navy with little to show for himself beyond a uniform, and I certainly will not have you ending up a simpering muffin living at the whim of some wealthy widow. No, I will not have the Rochester name besmirched by someone who cannot hold up his head in good company. I have not arranged your education thus far for nothing. You will go to Jamaica when you are ready—that is, when you have had the education appropriate for someone in your position—and you will build yourself there an empire and a reputation worthy of the Rochester name. I will give advice or direction if needed, but you will build it yourself. It will make a man of you, if you are not one already by the time you arrive.”
May I not come to Thornfield even for a visit?I thought to ask, but stopped myself. If I asked, and if he said no, the door would have definitely been closed. But since I was not expressly forbidden…
My father left shortly thereafter, having told the innkeeper to send for a hackney carriage. He shook Mr. Wilson’s hand, and mine, his grip hard on mine as he did so, and then he turned and mounted the carriage. Without another glance toward us, he urged the driver forward, and, much as I wish I had not, I watched him go until the carriage was out of sight. Mr. Wilson stood silently beside me the whole time, and then he took my arm. “I see we have our work cut out for us, young Rochester,” he said.
I did indeed feel young just then, but I forced back any emotion that had welled up in me and made myself a firm resolve. I would put away any childish dreams and expectations. Henceforth, I would do whatever was necessary to become a man my father could be proud of.
Chapter 10
