Chapter 2
I rose early on that thirty-first day of March, my eighth birthday.
I had gone to bed the night before with the anticipation of great things in the day or days ahead.
There were hints of such possibilities—subtle ones, but even so, I, in my mostly careless abandon, had noticed.
Several communications had arrived in the preceding weeks, some of which I managed to snatch a quick peek at before they were whisked away, but while I was not privy to their contents I saw that most were from my father, and I imagined that I, too, would soon begin my formal education.
As well, there were whispered consultations in the kitchen and the back stairs, which ended the moment I appeared.
I would have been dense indeed not to be aware that change was afoot.
Cook laid out two raisin buns for me at breakfast that day with an indulgent smile and offered to cook my eggs in whatever style I chose.
I briefly thought over that momentous decision, and then fell back into what she always fixed: two boiled eggs with extra butter.
She gave my shoulder a squeeze at that, and turned quickly away.
I was buttering the buns when Holdredge stepped into the kitchen.
As butler, Holdredge was much too busy and important most days for the likes of me, so it was a surprise when he strode right up to me.
Immediately I wondered what I had done wrong, what mischief he had attributed to me.
But he said only, “Master Edward, teatime in the dining room today. Promptly.” And then he turned on his heel and left.
The formality of it terrified me. He had called me only “boy” before, as did my father, always.
But my father was away, so whom was I being summoned to meet?
I scraped through my mind, trying to think of what I had done in recent days to earn such a frightening order.
It was true that I had forgotten to clean my boots after slogging through the horse yard on the last rainy day.
My father and brother, of course, routinely left their messes for others to clean, but I was not—yet—privileged to do so.
And I had tied a cowbell around the neck of Father’s prize bull to see if its gentle sounds would render him as docile as the cows.
That did not work, I discovered, and in fact he was nearly driven mad by the bell’s insistent clanking.
Removing it fell to one of the farm laborers, who was almost gored in the process.
But that was two or three weeks before, and I had drawn only a sharp reprimand from Ames, my father’s steward, and an order forbidding me to come within ten yards of any cattle.
Yet I could not think of any other sin or transgression worthy enough to have me called “Master Edward” and summoned to the dining room.
The worry of it preyed on me as I ate my breakfast, and as soon as I finished I fled to the nursery, which was where Rowland found me.
He was dressed for riding, which he did nearly every morning on his great black stallion, Thunder.
“Well, Toad,” he said, as if he were imparting news of which I, a mere child, was unaware, “it’s your birthday today. ”
“It is,” I responded amiably, suddenly imagining a gift of some sort in the hand he was hiding behind his back.
But he grabbed me by the collar and, throwing me facedown onto my cot, brought his riding crop from behind his back and gave me eight quick whacks. He left the room then without another word.
It is true that in certain households it is customary to give the birthday child spankings equal to his years, and it is also true that I was fully dressed and the crop left no lasting pain.
Yet it was so far from the kindness I had allowed myself to hope for that I could do no other than remain, face in the bedclothes, weeping.
At this distance in time I recognize that my self-pity was perhaps overplayed. So many others have lived in far worse conditions that I cannot excuse it, except to say that I was a child and longed for a loving, or at least a friendly, act from time to time.
When I had recovered, I slipped down the back stairs, shoved my feet into my boots at the side-passage door, and stepped out into the courtyard, where I quickly dipped my head into the horse trough to wash away the redness of my eyes.
The water, on that last day of March, was cold indeed, and it helped shock away whatever self-pity remained.
I wandered across the rime-covered lawn and into the woods, where the undergrowth was wet and the trees stood bare and black against the cloud-driven sky, and I tore a little switch from a low-hanging branch and beat the trees with it as I passed them, one by one.
In all honesty, I don’t remember that the beating I gave them made me feel any better, but, again, I was eight years old.
At some point, it occurred to me that if indeed the governess should be leaving and if, henceforth, I would be sharing the tutor with Rowland, I would be forced into Rowland’s presence for hours at a time every day.
I could not imagine how I could stand that, and it suddenly also occurred to me that Rowland might be feeling exactly the same way and was already laying out the terms of our accommodation.
* * *
I was, by a bare two minutes according to the clock in the Great Hall, early for teatime.
But Rowland was already seated in his usual place in our father’s absence, at the foot of the table.
Pausing just briefly to determine my own appropriate place at that vast mahogany board, I knew two things immediately: one, that to sit at the opposite end would be an encroachment I dared not make; and two, to sit at his right hand, usually reserved for the female guest of highest honor, was to imply something I cared not to.
So I chose his left hand instead, pulling out the chair and sitting in it as if I had every right in the world to be there. Rowland barely cast a glance at me.
Holdredge appeared exactly on the stroke of the hour, followed by Emily, bearing the tea tray.
Holdredge stood behind Rowland and slightly to his left as Emily poured the tea, added the milk and sugar according to our preferences, which she well knew, and then set down a plate of scones and tea cakes and two small butter pats before slipping out of the room.
Holdredge cleared his throat and pulled a letter from the inside pocket of his waistcoat.
He cleared his throat again and stared at the paper in his hand and said, “Your father requests that I read this correspondence to the two of you on the occasion of the young Master Edward’s birthday.
” He cleared his throat a third time, and read:
26 March, Liverpool
For the edification of my sons:
Rowland is now sixteen years of age, high time for him to step out into the world. Edward is eight, time to put away childish things.
I have ordered that Richards be sent off; his work as Rowland’s tutor is finished.
Rowland will join me in Liverpool as expressly as can be arranged.
He is to bring only a small valise of personal belongings.
I will purchase for him whatever is needed for his new position in life.
He will be journeying with me to Jamaica at the earliest next sailing, to serve and help me as I continue my ventures in that part of the world.
Edward is to go into tutelage with Mr. Hiram Lincoln of Black Hill, near Leeford.
He is to pack immediately all his clothes and necessities, and Glover will drive him to Millcote, from which he can take the coach.
Mr. Lincoln is expecting him on the third day of April.
I charge Edward to comport himself in such a way that he will not be an embarrassment to the Rochester name.
He will remain in Mr. Lincoln’s care exclusively until I make further arrangements.
Until then, I remain,
George Howell Rochester, Esq.
I heard that letter with astonishment. And with a multitude of questions. Jamaica? Where is that? And then: Where is Black Hill? So far away that I cannot come back for holidays? Even for the summer? Or will I be finished with Mr. Lincoln by summer?
I looked at Rowland, as if he would be able to clarify everything, but Rowland had pushed his chair back from the table and was grinning as broadly as a person possibly could.
And no wonder: he was going to Liverpool, and after that to wherever Jamaica might be.
He was going to be with Father, helping him with his business; all his financial calculations could be put into practice.
In short, he was going to be in heaven. And I; I was going to be in Black Hill, for better or for worse.
I had two days in which to decide what to pack, and that mostly meant two days in which to decide how much of home to take with me.
Fortunately, Knox was kind enough to help me with those decisions.
She encouraged me to take the oft-mended cloth dog that I had slept with each night since Cook gave it to me the Christmas I was four.
I had thought I should put away such a childish thing, but Knox confided, with a knowing nod, that when one is in a strange place, it can be a great comfort to have something familiar close at hand.
Something in her voice made me picture her, as a child, in a situation not unlike my own, perhaps sent into service in a strange house with no one to comfort her.
Without thinking, I reached my arms around her waist for the hug that I had so often hoped for, and she held me tight, her cheek against my hair for a moment, and it was all I could do to keep from crying as I lost what I had barely known I had.
* * *