Chapter 11
Carrot eventually got over his ire at my missing Derby Day, and he continued—even more forcefully—to urge me to visit.
I was pleased that he seemed as anxious as I to rekindle our friendship, imagining the enjoyable time we two would have together.
But of necessity I put him off as best I could, for I was still determined to prove myself to my father as well as to Mr. Wilson.
And then, in midsummer, I received a short letter from my father:
I have heard word of Mr. Wilson’s unfortunate accident of some months ago, and I presume you have taken over more responsibilities in light of the situation.
This certainly will be invaluable experience for you—running a manufactory on your own.
I could not have hoped for better. I assume Mr. Wilson will have a speedy recovery—perhaps he already has—and you, with your newfound experience and responsibilities, will remain of greater benefit to his mill operation than either he or I imagined of you at this point.
Therefore, it seems only logical that our arrangement has further need of revision.
I cannot at the present take the time to come there and arrange a new agreement.
Please advise Mr. Wilson to write to me what new arrangements he is prepared to make.
I read the missive with astonishment. Mr. Wilson was far from recovered and was not in a position to express what arrangements should be made.
I withheld the news of my father’s letter until I had a chance to share it with Mr. Landes, but when that gentleman read it, he let out an impatient breath and looked up at me.
“Do you know anything of the understanding between your father and Mr. Wilson concerning you?” he asked.
“I do not,” I said, “except that I was to be trained in the running of a manufactory, like the mill, and that Mr. Wilson was to give me room and meals and a small sum to cover my incidental expenses. And when perforce I needed to find lodgings of my own, they made another agreement that would cover my further living expenses.”
Mr. Landes frowned. “Did you never ask what exactly that agreement stated?”
“I have never been in the habit of questioning my father,” I admitted. And then I added, because that excuse seemed rather lame for a young man of my age and current responsibilities, “I thought everything was quite clear between them.”
“I wonder if there is something written,” he said. “Perhaps there is something in the ledgers—some accounting of money paid.”
Since Mr. Wilson’s illness I had had full access to the mill accounts. “I never saw anything, nor heard mention of it,” I said. “It must have been a personal arrangement between them.” And I voiced what he must have been thinking: “We may be at my father’s mercy on this.”
“Indeed,” he responded. We both knew that without Mr. Wilson, my father would have the advantage in any negotiation.
“He may not be an easy man in this,” I warned.
“There’s a chance there’s something in writing somewhere,” Mr. Landes said. “We can hope for that.”
“If only Mr. Wilson would recover—” I began, but he cut me off.
“Rochester, that is not going to happen.”
I knew it was true, but the fact of it had not yet been mentioned between us. “What will we do?” I asked.
Mr. Landes was silent for a time, and then he said, “You will write to your father and tell him that Wilson is not yet fully recovered but will make those decisions at the earliest opportunity, and that in the meantime, if there are any points of clarity that should be included, to please express them. That ought to hold him for a time while we ponder this.”
I wrote that letter, and a week or so later a short note came from my father:
Thank you for informing me of John Wilson’s continuing situation. I do hope that you are taking advantage of your position to display your full capabilities in handling the responsibility which has fallen into your lap, for responsibility is what makes a man a man.
I look forward to a response from Wilson, as soon as possible.
And there was a note for Mr. Wilson as well, which I shared with Mr. Landes when he came by the mill to see how things were going:
My dear sir,
I understand you are still invalided and require additional time of healing.
Please be aware that my son is yours for as long as you need him.
I assume that you recognize how much his responsibilities have increased, and I await your word as to what financial rearrangements you have made to address that issue.
“I’m sorry,” I said, after Mr. Landes had read the letter.
He didn’t respond directly to that, just saying, “I will speak to Wilson.”
* * *
When I came home that evening, the housekeeper told me that Mr. Landes had already arrived and was in Mr. Wilson’s bedroom.
I went into the parlor and sat down, attempting to read the newspaper but too distracted to comprehend the simplest sentence.
I could not imagine the attempt at conversation that was going on upstairs.
When I heard Mr. Landes’ footsteps on the stairs, I folded the paper and rose to greet him. He entered the room brusquely and made for the hearth, just the sort of place where my father might stand to dress me down.
“Sir,” I said.
“Sit down,” he said, and I did. He got right to the point. “Your father seems a…a determined man.”
“Yes, he is, sir.”
“Nevertheless, he has a point. In the last few months, you have been as John Wilson would have been, if he had been able—”
“No, sir,” I interrupted, “not at all. He would have—”
Mr. Landes shook his head. “Never mind how he would have handled things. You have done your very best, which is all that can be asked of any of us. It was remiss of us—of me; I cannot put it to poor John’s fault—not to have realized that you were owed more than you were being paid.
Therefore, I will write to your father immediately and tell him what John and I have decided.
He will find it suitable, I should imagine.
” He stared into the fire for a time, and then he added, “We shall have to sell the place, you and I.”
“Oh no. Mr. Wilson would not want that. The mill is…is—”
“Indeed he does not. But he has no choice.”
I looked away from that hard truth.
“He is more aware than you think,” Mr. Landes went on.
“He doesn’t want to sell. He did not even want to hear me speak of it, but he will not improve much more than he already has.
He can think; he can talk, in his fashion.
He most probably will never again walk. Nor could he hold his own against another Luddite uprising.
In life, one cannot depend on what has always been or, even less so, what has never been.
You have your whole life in front of you, Rochester.
We know that, John and I, and his life may well be drawing down. It would not be right for us—”
“It would not be right for me to leave him un—un—”
“You will not leave him unassisted. Indeed, I hope you will remain until we have sold the mill—I hope that your father will agree to that. In my letter to him, explaining our arrangement, I will tell our plans, and I hope he can allow to let you stay a bit longer. Would you be amenable to that?”
What could I say? I did not even know what my choices might have been, but Mr. Wilson had been a father to me. How could I turn my back on him? “Of course,” I said, “I will do whatever I can.”
“Fine. Then, it’s settled. Do not speak of this with Wilson, unless he broaches the subject first. It is, as you can well imagine, difficult for him to have reached this juncture, but there it is. He can do little else. And neither can either of us.” With that he left.
And I carried a lamp upstairs to my room, where I undressed and got into bed and did not sleep.
* * *
I was up and breakfasted and out of the house before Mr. Wilson awoke the next morning, so I had a slight reprieve from seeing him, now that I knew more than I wished to know.
At the mill, I walked through the day in a daze: all seemed new, and yet terribly familiar.
I felt a general unease among the workers, which puzzled me.
Rufus Shap stared at me through the window glass of the countinghouse—his gaze black and more defiant than ever.
Was I only imagining it, now that the mill was likely to be sold, or was there some sort of worker psychical perception that could read the minds of the managers?
At noon I did not go to the Crown or back to the Wilson home, but sent a boy out for a cheese pie, and though the task fell under his general duties, when he returned I gave him a whole shilling for his trouble.
Mr. Landes came by late in the afternoon, full of apologies for not having come sooner, but I was so relieved to see him that I nearly hugged him in greeting. “And how was the day?” he asked.
“It was terrible,” was the best I could think to say.
He nodded and smiled kindly. “The first day after a big decision is made is usually the worst. One always thinks of what else one could or should have done. Second thoughts are the destroyers of good ideas. We are doing the best we can.”
“But how is it,” I asked, “that the workers seem to know things without being told?”