Chapter 18
I preceded my father to his town house by only a few hours, but a few hours was enough time for me to settle in and to pace the floor in anticipation.
He had said, Take care you are not delayed, and I understood that to mean that he had plans for me before my departure, as indeed he did.
First thing the next morning he took me to his tailor and ordered a complete outfitting of clothing suitable to the life of a Jamaican planter.
I had thought that after Cambridge I was finished with tutorials, but I could not have been more mistaken.
Even before the tailor’s, over breakfast, he started me on the last set of lectures I would ever receive, and they kept on for much of the next week or so, preparing me for the life I was henceforth to lead.
“You are used to our social order here in England,” he said, “the upper classes who wield influence and power—and below them the merchant classes and the other educated people and lastly the working people and the cottage folk, and at the bottom, the poorhouse dwellers. Do you know where you fit in this scheme?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” I said.
He chuckled dismissively. “Do you? Do you really?”
“We are of the merchant class, surely.”
“Surely. Surely? What of Thornfield?”
“But…you are—”
“I am what? And what of Rowland, what is he?”
What of Rowland? “He is…You are…”
“Ah, yes, there it is. Rowland is landed gentry: Thornfield is his. He has no need to work and he chooses not to, which is indeed his choice. For generations the Rochesters have held Thornfield and its lands, but living in a manor house and the life it entails has never suited me. By choice I am also a merchant—in trade, as is said; I am not ashamed, and, indeed, I like the challenge of it. It will suit you as well. The day will come when members of the gentry are only too happy to marry their sons and daughters to members of the merchant class. Times change, boy, and men must change with them.”
I nodded uncertainly. Was he telling me that I was to wind up more fortunate than Rowland?
“You have no experience with slaves yet, of course.”
“No, sir, I haven’t,” I said.
He looked straight at me, his eyes holding mine.
“It is different now from what it was when the slave trade was legal. You were but a child when that was ended—so let me clarify: Parliament made illegal the importation of slaves, but the institution of slavery survives, and it is the only way that the economy of the West Indies is able to survive. I suppose you find that difficult to comprehend, but you will see soon enough the truth of what I say.”
He went on to describe more fully the slave system, and I listened carefully, for I thought he was trying to smooth my way. But now I know differently; now I realize it was simply his way of ensuring that I would understand the world just as he did.
“At this point,” he said in conclusion, “you may assume that your purpose will be to act as a plantation manager or even an overseer, as you are surely equipped to do, but that would be lowering yourself.
However, many a landowner discovers that he has entrusted too much power to his manager, and as a result that he has been cheated of his due.
With your training and experience, you will prevent such a likelihood happening to you, and your neighbors will learn to take advantage of your expertise, which will be to your own benefit.
“That, son, is what you have been educated for. You will move in the highest of society; you will learn quickly the operation of a plantation and thus become an adviser to many. There will be no dearth of opportunity for you. There will be nothing you cannot accomplish, and with a beautiful and charming wife at your side, you will have a life in the West Indies that you have never imagined possible for yourself.”
I hardly knew what to say. He had planned and provided for my entire future, it seemed, and, after wishing my whole life for my father’s care and attention, I felt one part of me wanting to rebel and refuse and make my own way.
But another, larger part told me I would be a fool to turn my back on all that he offered.
I was a fool. That day I smiled at my father and thanked him and promised I would make the most of the opportunity that had been laid out for me.
I regret now to say how much I gushed my gratitude and how I praised him for all he had done for me.
I would like to think that, knowing what he did, he was embarrassed at my effusiveness. Embarrassed and ashamed.
But most likely not. Most likely he smiled to himself to think how well he had arranged things.
But I wonder, even today, did he know? Could he have, even in his darkest self, known what might come of it?
Or was he simply pleased to have this younger son—the one who looked so much like him—out of the way, taken care of? And the older son delivered to safety.
I still struggle to think of it, and I cannot say that it is possible now to harbor good thoughts of him.
But then I remind myself that if I had turned my back on my father’s plans, my journey would have been entirely different, and while I might have found a satisfactory sort of life much sooner, I would never have found Jane.