A Brash Act – Part I

This entry is part 1 of 6 in the series (Vol 2) Stealing Sirocco

Ξ From the Journals of Edward Rochester ~ circa 1796 Ξ

My brother Rowland was more than seven years my senior.  As a child and youth, I was at every turn the object of his bad temper and ill will. Always the favorite of our father, he would receive the Thornfield property in its entirety. Apportionment of a family estate was never done, and must pass to the eldest son intact. There could be but one Master, and he would be my brother.

In spite of my father’s decided preference for Rowland, I continually tried to attract his notice. He never over-indulged me with his affection, nor spoilt me by any monetary extravagance (his miserly tendencies were legendary). Nor by weakness of temper on his part was I actively given my way. Rather, his attitude was general indifference. I received little guidance or correction from him save when my brother complained of some petty mischief I had wrought, or my mother called attention to behavior that was simply too barbarous to ignore. On these occasions, his hand was swift and harsh.

As Rowland and I grew older, our father could not abide our continual bickering. After a time, he simply ceased to reprimand us for it. Only in our mother’s presence would he threaten his iron hand to enforce our obedience. And obey we did, for we feared his wrath.

I rarely complained of these punishments.  While my youthful heart exulted whenever he exhibited interest in anything concerning me, too, did I suffer that agony peculiar to a child who wants nothing more than the attention of a parent, and willingly endures even cruelty to get it.

It had been my father’’s habit for as long as I could remember to make a weekly circuit of the estate, a task which often took him away from the Hall for an entire day. He was a scrupulous proprietor, though perhaps not so much out of concern for the welfare of our tenants as for their pecuniary interest. Often he, rather than the estate manager, would collect the rents.

Rowland began to accompany him on these rides as soon as he could sit a horse, before I was born. As I grew older, I observed these excursions, which prompted me to the saddle at a tender age. By the time I was eight or nine years old, I was an excellent rider.

And so, every week without fail I begged to go along. But every week I was denied. Father, rather than determine my worthiness as a horsemen for himself, left it to his eldest son, who I knew would never let me go with them.

When week after week went by and still I was excluded from their company, I grew desperate. For reasons I cannot name, one particular morning the refusal stung me to the heart. I retreated to a solitary hiding spot and brooded over the injustice dealt me.

Soon, a desperate anger stirred within me, and I was struck with a singular idea, and made my decision to act. When I appeared in the library for music lessons later that afternoon, my mother had no idea what mischief I had wrought, until my father and brother returned home.

Henry was forever changed by what happened that day, and Rowland’s jealously deepened into hatred for me.

~ End of Part I ~

© 2016 by R.Q. Bell and Imaginality Press; All rights reserved.

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