Chapter 13
I have always been an early riser, and the next morning I was up before dawn and dressed quickly.
At Thornfield-Hall, I would have wandered to the kitchen to see what was afoot, but I was a stranger at Lanham-Hall, and no doubt not welcome in the nether regions, so I stepped outside into the chill air and made for the stable.
In my childhood days I especially loved the stables: the damp, musky smell of the horses, the sharp, earthy odor of straw and the sweet perfume of hay, the rich scent of oiled leather.
And the wood of the stalls, rubbed as smooth and satiny as the flanks of the animals they inclosed; and the warm touch of an animal’s withers, the moist velvet of its nose.
The one who caught my eye that morning was a large chestnut filly that nuzzled me as I put out my hand, turning away in disappointment when she found no treat.
I took her halter, though, and turned her back, and spoke sweet, soft words to her, and she stretched her neck and nibbled at my ear and I could not help laughing from the tickle of it.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” I started at the sound.
“Knew I would find you here,” Rowland went on. “You used to like them. Horses.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Ride much?”
“Not really. Is she yours?”
“Oh yes.” He drew the halter from my hands. “You will be leaving Maysbeck soon?” he asked, without glancing back at me.
“Perhaps not so soon. Mr. Wilson had a stroke, and now I am more or less in charge.” It was vanity on my part to say that; he was no doubt in correspondence with our father and would already have known.
His back to me, he shrugged as if it were nothing to him who was in charge of a mill. I watched as he saddled the filly, not even waiting for a groom to do so. “You’ll have to get yourself a horse when you are in Jamaica,” he said. “One can’t live a proper life there without a horse.”
“Am I really going to Jamaica?” I asked. Though it had been mentioned to me, the possibility still seemed distant, unimaginable.
“Of course. It’s all settled.”
All settled? He knew that and I did not? And, further, what exactly was settled? I should have asked him more, but I was wary of showing too much ignorance of my own fate. Instead, I only asked, “When? When will I go?”
He turned to me, an odd smile on his face. “When you are ready.”
When you are ready. My father—our father—had said that. There was a plan for me that even Rowland knew. Why did I not? “Did you like Jamaica?” I asked, though I remembered that he had said something in Maysbeck that had led me to think that he hadn’t.
“It didn’t suit me. The people there are stupid, and they have stupid rules. It will be different for you, though.”
“Why different for me?”
“It just will be. It’s all set for you.”
Without saying more, he led the filly out into the stable yard and she clopped across the cobblestones as if she were as anxious as he was to be off across the fields on such a bright and promising morning.
As I watched him ride away, I wondered: did Carrot really like him so very much?
Brothers, Carrot had said: was there something to Rowland that I did not understand?
Or was it simply that he took the effort to court and charm a friend like Carrot who could benefit him, while I, the younger brother, had nothing to offer?
I wandered back to the house and found the dining room still empty of guests, and a young maid just setting out the dishes.
I nodded to her and she dipped a little curtsy and went about her business.
We had a housekeeper and a cook and a scullery maid at the Wilsons’.
And there had been Athena and North at Mr. Lincoln’s, and even Mrs. Clem had a housekeeper and someone to help her in the kitchen.
But it had only been back all those years ago at Thornfield-Hall that there had been genuine servants around: a butler and a housekeeper and Cook and chambermaids.
In those days I was only a child, with not much more status than a servant myself.
So it was nearly a new thing to me to have people around to wait on me, to bow and curtsy at my nods, to provision me almost before I knew I needed provisioning.
And I must admit that I found it quite comfortable.
I took a plate and filled it with eggs and ham and fried potatoes and bread, and black pudding.
It was to me a clear reminder of Thornfield-Hall and the breakfasts that Cook used to make, and I was just settling into it when Carrot entered the room and greeted me.
“Up so early, Jam? Matthews tells me you have already been to the stables to see Rowland off.”
“Yes, I was there. That’s a handsome filly he has.”
“Indeed. He won the bid on her. I was after her as well. As was Willy, in fact. You should have been to that one. Jam, I was really sorry you didn’t come to the Derby. We could have…we could have had a marvelous time.”
“I’m sorry as well,” I said. I wanted to say more, but there was no way Carrot could understand the childish jealousy I was feeling toward Rowland.
“And I suppose you’ve never been to Newmarket, either. Well, we shall fix that. Next time. You must join us, if I have to come to Maysbeck myself and drag you there.”
I laughed, the warmth of Carrot’s obvious affection spreading through me, Rowland for the moment forgotten.
“So you and the lovely Miss Kent have a date this morning for a music lesson!” he said as he filled his plate.
“We do,” I managed to say, despite that I was having second thoughts, fearful still of making a fool of myself in front of Rowland. Nevertheless, I determined I would not be intimidated. “She so kindly offered that it seemed uncouth not to accept,” I added.
Carrot laughed again. “Uncouth. God knows, no one should be uncouth!” Then he leaned forward, closer. “Must you really leave tomorrow? You have only just gotten here.”
“I warned it could only be a day or so.”
“But, Jam, tomorrow? Do you know that Rowland is leaving tomorrow as well? Surely you won’t leave me on my own with these two girls? Whatever shall I do with them?”
“I’m sorry, but I must go back,” I said. “I have responsibilities there.”
He nodded, though I imagined he had no idea what a working life was like. “We have a lot behind us, you and I,” he said. “A lot of history. But now, tell me: what is your future?”
That stopped me. I longed to be the determiner of my own fate, but, unlike Frank in Rob Roy, I hadn’t the courage—or the foolhardiness—to turn my back on what was being offered, and to strike out on my own.
Carrot, I told myself, had also chosen the way that his father had given him.
As had Rowland. But I was the second son and had to take the lesser portion, whatever it turned out to be.
I hadn’t the vision for myself that Frank had, and now, only partway through the first book, one did not even know how it would turn out for him.
“I don’t know for sure. It’s in Jamaica, I think,” I said.
“But—Jamaica!—it’s the place you always dreamed of.” He beamed at me.
“Yes, it is.” Though not as much as it used to be, I thought.
“How soon will you go?”
“I don’t know. Not soon, I’m sure. Actually, it’s in my father’s hands.”
He put his hand on my arm. “I’m glad if your father has taken an interest in you. I remember—” He didn’t finish, but I knew he was thinking of all the years that his own father had not publicly claimed him.
“And I remember your saying one must take the hand one is dealt,” I said.
“Ah yes. And I have to admit that in the end I was dealt a fine one indeed. As you have been.”
I stared at him for a moment. I? Dealt a fine hand? What was he thinking?
“Jam,” he said, “what could have been better for a boy than the time we had at Black Hill? We were fed, were we not? And most of the time we were warm enough. And the things we did! The siege engine we built, the blue face paint—what did he call that stuff?”
“Woad.”
“Yes: woad. And the weapons we fashioned, and reenacting the battles; what fun we had with all that! It was as if everything were a game. I have met many a man who would give his right arm to have had the time we had at Black Hill. There are so many worse places of education.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I said.
“My God, Jam. It was heaven. And, now, look at you, the manager of a woolen mill! I could not imagine how to do the things you must do every day. Your father has done you well, hasn’t he?”
“I suppose he has.” It was all I could think to say. Carrot saw my whole life so differently from how I did.
He touched his finger to the side of his nose. “Trust me, Jam. Things usually turn out much better than one fears. And you will return for a visit. Soon.”
Miss Kent came in just then, dressed in white muslin, her curls tied back with a blue ribbon. We both watched her cross to the sideboard and pour herself a cup of tea. “Up so early?” Carrot asked her.
She laughed. “How can one sleep on such a lovely day! I’m hoping for an outing with the pony trap. We could take a picnic lunch.” She placed a dainty slice of ham, a single egg, and a piece of dry toast on her plate, and sat opposite me at the table.
“I thought you two were doing music lessons today,” Carrot said, saving me the embarrassment of asking.
“Well, yes, of course we are,” she said, smiling gaily at me. “But not all morning, I should think?”
“Not at all. I’m not expecting to turn into another Farinelli,” I said, pleased with my ability to throw out the name of a famous opera singer.
Miss Kent’s hand rose to her mouth and her face turned red, and at the same moment Carrot burst out laughing.
“And thank God for that, is all I have to say,” he managed to get out between guffaws.
Miss Kent grew redder as Carrot laughed, and she suddenly pushed back her chair, rose, and ran from the room.