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 ~
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