Ξ From the Journals of Edward Rochester ~ circa 1796 Ξ

““Aury, you may leave us now,”” Henry abruptly addressed my mother. ““This is between me and the boy.”

““But Henry…””

““No, damn it, no! You know bloody well what effect you have on me, and this time I won’t countenance it.””

Aurelia Rochester knew when not to cross her husband. Without another word to him, she slipped past me and walked to the door. Henry watched her go, as did I. She stood a moment in the doorway, looking at me. Her glistening eyes seemed to smile, as if to remind me of the words she had spoken a few minutes before. Then she was gone, and I stood alone in the library. With him.

““Look at me, boy,”” he growled. ““Stand up like a man.””

It required all my courage, but I lifted my face and met his eye. And waited for the blow to strike.

But it did not come. At least…not yet.

““Well , speak up, Edward! What have you got to say for yourself this time?””

His question took me completely by surprise, because I had no thought I would be called upon to defend myself. I stood there, dumb, unable to utter a sound.

““Are you going to deny your guilt? Let me remind you, there were witnesses. Are you going to stand before me and contradict their testimony? That with no leave from anyone, you recklessly let that colt carry you right out of the stable? You bloody little fool! –That horse could damn well have broken its leg. I laid out more than an hundred pounds for that animal!”

Henry’’s agitation mounted as my silence remained unbroken. Abruptly he began to slap his boot with the riding crop, which he had hitherto been holding behind his back. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! I winced involuntarily as each blow struck with more force than the one before it. As he smacked the leather, the mud still clinging to his boots splattered in sticky droplets on my shirt and face. At last, his tolerance strained to its limits by what he no doubt perceived as my refusal to answer, he paced a few steps away from me, then spun around and pointed at me with his crop.

““You damn well knew what that colt meant to Rowland. You knew it and thought to lame the poor beast, didn’’t you? Well, didn’’t you?””

In spite of all my efforts to suppress them, the lump of tears gathering in my throat made it all the more difficult to speak. I was guilty. I had taken the colt out of the stable, but not for the reason he ascribed. How could I explain myself to him? Week after week, I had seen them riding away, laughing and talking: a father and son together, and I longed to go with them. More times than I could count, but always I was put off by Rowland with some excuse. ‘You’’re much too young. You could never keep pace. ‘Stick to your music, Edward, it suits you better.’ Rowland would never assent to my pleas to join them, therefore I must do something to arrest Father’’s attention. And anything concerning his eldest son was the swiftest way to achieve that end.

““No…!”” was all I managed to say before he cut me short.

““Besides being foolhardy, it was a wicked and unkind thing to do to your brother,” he thundered. “I suppose you thought he would return to find his horse crippled up, as good as dead!””

He began pacing back and forth before me, breathing faster, becoming more agitated with every step. I had, as yet, answered none of his questions, but once this notion had fixed itself in Henry’’s mind, there would be no getting around it.

““Tell me the truth, boy!”” he roared. ““That’’s why you did it!””

““No!”” I shouted back at him.   

Henry was pacing wildly now, all the while slapping his boot with the riding crop. His face was flushed, and sweaty. ““Do you hate your brother so very much, Edward?””

““No, no!”  I pleaded, my eyes filling with tears in spite of my frustration. ““Please, Father…”

~ End Part V ~

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

Ξ From the Journals of Edward Rochester ~ circa 1796 Ξ

““Father, you cannot allow…””

Rowland never saw the blow which sent him tumbling to the carpet. As he rolled over, clutching the side of his face which had been slapped, I could see a drop or two of blood trickle from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes, wide in surprise, rapidly filling with tears as he wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve.

Henry was unmoved. ““Don’t you ever talk back to me, boy. Get out. Now.””

Rowland, who at fifteen tried to be as imperious and dictatorial as my father, had been laid out by one swift backhand. His astonishment soon became resentment, however, for as he staggered to his feet, I saw an angry scowl of hatred darken his countenance. Without a word, he stumbled out of the room, blubbering and sobbing as I had never heard before.

How I wanted to laugh out loud! For once, Rowland’’s attempts to disgrace me had been thwarted. More injurious to him, however, was the wounding of his pride. To be humiliated in such a manner, and in front of me, was unpardonable. Alas, my ectasy would be all too brief. I knew that my brother would be waiting for me. Perhaps not today, but he would have his retribution. For this moment, however, I savored this triumph. It had not been won by my hand, but still, tasted sweet.

My sense of victory soon ebbed away, however, as a more pressing concern was before me. Henry Rochester now directed his full attention to me.

““Come here, Edward.””

Any hesitation to obey would not be tolerated. I stood up from the little stool and moved out from behind the table. But in my haste, I stumbled. Just when I thought I should land on my face at his feet, my mother’s quick hand caught me. As I regained my footing, I glanced at her face. Her eyes beamed, and I heard her whisper, ““Courage, Edward.””

How her words invigorated my failing heart! Even as I trembled with the dread of what was to come, I felt my spirit expand within me, so much so that I suddenly knew that whatever my father was going to do, I would not this time wilt beneath his hand. Both Rowland and I indulged in our share of boyhood pranks, but riding his horse without leave was the most brazen, impudent deed I had ever perpetrated. For that reason alone he deemed it worthy of the severest punishment my father could inflict. What Henry Rochester’’s assessment of the crime had been, I was about to discover.

I now stood before him, my eyes cast down. In spite of my mother’’s bold words and my new-found resolve, still I was trembling. I knew my father’’s anger was great, for his boots were still muddy. In his haste to confront me, he had forgotten to scrape them clean before entering the house. To risk my mother’s displeasure, in even a trifling offense such as this, was not his habit.

Not daring to look up at his face, my gaze followed after the muddy track he had deposited on the carpet.

~ End Part IV ~

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

Ξ From the Journals of Edward Rochester ~ circa 1796 Ξ

The deep voice of Henry Rochester, whose imposing presence all at once filled the room, visibly startled him. Like the mice surprised at the appearance of the cat, there we two were: I sat unmoving on the stool, and Rowland, ceasing his efforts to snatch me, lay on the table. Slowly, he tucked his arms beneath his chest, while his mouth gaped open in mute accusation. He glared hatred at me. Flushed from his exertions, he remained rigidly still, stretched out like a specimen pinned to a card.

My mother, quite accustomed to her husband’s mercurial temper, calmly laid her quill upon the desk, rose from her chair and stepped out from behind the table.

““What the deuce do you think you’’re doing, Rowland?”” exclaimed Henry. ““Get down from there before I throw you off.””

Rowland’s gaze remained fixed on me as he pushed himself up and slid off the table. When his boots touched the floor and he stood upright, his stupified expression of astonishment metamorphosed into a lazy, self-satisfied smirk. I was in for it now.

With gleeful malice, he pointed at me. “Look…there he is, Father.– I found him for you.””

““Be silent! Now…pick up your mother’’s books and papers and put them back where they belong.””

Rowland seemed unaware that he had disturbed anything in his attempts to seize me, and now saw the jumble of papers and volumes on the carpet. He stooped and gathered them up as one then dropped them in a heap onto the desk.

“Rowland, for God’’s sake..”.”

““Nevermind.” said my mother softly. ““I’’ll sort them out later.””

Henry looked at his wife, then shrugged. He turned again to Rowland and motioned for him to move out of his path. ““Stand aside. I will deal with Edward.””

““That little beggar, he’’s trying to hide from you, Father!”” cried Rowland. ““What a little horse thief he is!”” He glanced round at me again, a menacing look of triumph on his face. ““You do know that horse thieves hang, don’’t you Edward? Father, what are you going to do to him? Shall I fetch him out of there for you? Shall I…””

““Leave the room this minute.”” muttered Henry ominously.

But my brother would not be put off. His temper had taken hold of him, and nothing short of our father taking a horsewhip to my hide would appease his thirst for vengence.

““But…he stole my horse! You know he did!”” spluttered Rowland furiously, wildly looking back and forth between myself and Henry, as if imploring the latter to act.

My father’’s temper, often meted out upon my person, on rare occasions vented itself against my brother. But as changeable as his disposition was, rarely was Henry Rochester goaded into action by another man’’s inducements, even his eldest son. He turned and leaned forward, his face no more than an inch or two from Rowland’’s as he gestured to the door and whispered between clenched teeth,

““Get out of my way.””

~ End of Part III ~

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

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.