Mr. Rochester


By Sarah Shoemaker

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“A CRACKING-GOOD READ!”– People, Best New Books
A deft and irresistible retelling of Charlotte Bronte´s beloved classic Jane Eyre–from the point of view of the dashing, mysterious Mr. Rochester himself.
For 170 years, Edward Fairfax Rochester has stood as one of literature’s most complex and captivating romantic heroes. Sometimes cruel, sometimes tender, Jane Eyre’s mercurial master at Thornfield Hall has mesmerized, beguiled, and, yes, baffled fans of Charlotte Brontv´’s masterpiece for generations. But his own story has never been told.
We first meet this brilliant, tormented hero as a motherless boy roaming Thornfield’s lonely corridors. On the morning of Edward’s eighth birthday, his father issues a decree: He is to be sent away to get an education, exiled from all he ever loved. Young Edward’s journey will take him across working-class England and the decadence of continental Europe before he lands on the warm, languid shores of faraway Jamaica, where his inheritance lies.
That island, however, holds secrets of its own, and Edward soon grows entangled in morally dubious business dealings and a passionate, whirlwind love affair with the town’s ravishing heiress, Bertha Antoinetta Mason. Eventually, in the wake of a devastating betrayal, Edward must return to England with his increasingly unstable wife to take over as master of Thornfield. And it is there, on a twilight ride, that he meets the stubborn, plain young governess who will steal his heart and teach him how to love again.
Mr. Rochester is a sweeping coming-of-age story and a stirring tale of adventure, romance, and deceit. Faithful in every particular to Brontv´’s original yet full of unexpected twists and riveting behind-the-scenes drama, this novel will completely, deliciously, and forever change how we read and remember Jane Eyre.


…without esteem true love cannot exist.

—Charlotte Brontë

Book One

Chapter 1

I know little of my birth, for my mother died long before she could tell me—before I ever heard her voice or gazed at her face—and my father banished the woman who helped deliver me, blaming her for my mother's death. Of course, my father himself had no interest in telling me the least part of it, even if he did remember, which he almost certainly did not. There was no room for sentiment in my father's existence. Although my mother had proved her worth by providing him with two healthy boys, he would still have considered it a waste to lose a good broodmare.

But with her gone, who was there to oversee the raising of his sons? Not himself, that was certain, as he was away on business most of the time, so he turned to Holdredge, his butler, and to his housekeeper, Mrs. Knox, and a succession of nursemaids and governesses, who were sometimes bad and other times worse. It was years before I could think of a governess as anyone other than a presence that must be borne. But in large part, my brother and I were left to entertain ourselves, and we did so separately. Rowland was eight years older than I, and as one might imagine, eight years between brothers does not make for a great deal of affinity. I do not recall much of what he did with himself in those days, but as for me, whenever I was released from the schoolroom I was content to ramble the gardens and fields and woods of Thornfield-Hall.

Even now, when I think of Thornfield-Hall, I choose to remember what it was then—the playground of my childhood—and not what it was to become: a place of secrets and threats, of angers and fears. If I had been prescient in those days, I might have attempted to destroy it myself.

My mother was never spoken of; I never heard her name pass anyone's lips, and it was years before I even knew what it was. But one of my earliest memories is of the portrait that hung over the mantel of the front drawing room, a cozy place where a fire was always laid, and which my father rarely entered. He spent his time at Thornfield riding around his holdings, seeing to business here and there. Running an estate as large as Thornfield occupied all of a man's time, and my father had a steward to do the daily work of it, but when he was home, he took part in overseeing it all, leaving early and returning late, grumbling the whole time about the price of grain or the lack of dependable labor. As if I had antennae, I knew what he was about; it was in my best interests to do so. How else is a child to survive?

But how I loved the drawing room—its walls of a soft green, almost like moss, echoing in more muted tones the lawns beyond the window casements; its ivory-colored carpet and white ceiling with moldings of grapevines; the velvet-covered chairs whose dark wood glowed from decades of polish; the gleaming silver candlesticks; and, most of all, the portrait above the fireplace. The woman was fair-haired and fair skinned, with eyes the shade of the summer sky, standing slim and proud in a dress whose color seemed but a poor copy of her eyes. She stood on a terrace—which I did not recognize—and in the distance a pair of peacocks paused in mid-strut, as if taken aback by her beauty. Of course, without having to be told, I knew who she was; my brother, Rowland, was her exact image.

It became my habit, first thing in the morning and just before bedtime, to stand before that portrait, as if standing before the reality, as if waiting for her approbation, or, when I had done some little thing of which I might be ashamed, as if sensing her disapproval. My father caught me at it one day when I thought he was gone from the Hall. He must have come back for some forgotten item and passed the half-opened door and seen me there. "Boy!" he said, startling me. "Come away from there! You have no business in there."

I stepped back, and then, fearing his quick hand, darted past him and up the stairs to the nursery, another place he never came. I stayed away from my mother for two whole days, but I kept hearing her calling me, until finally I crept back to the parlor and pushed the door open—and she was gone. In her place was another painting—a hunting scene, with horses and red-coated riders milling around, dogs nearly underfoot, the master of the hunt with horn in hand—the sort of thing that hangs in public houses. There was nothing familiar or reassuring about it, nothing to fill the aching hole that suddenly came to my gut. It was a painting that should have been in the dining room, or my father's library or his bedchamber, not in this room that I loved so dearly.

I had, after that, only the memory of her portrait. From then on, I stayed mostly in the nursery or the schoolroom, when I was not in the kitchen or the stables looking for a kind word or a pat on the head, or outside wandering through the wood or across the moors. I peeked a few times into the parlor, hoping that I had been mistaken about the hunting scene, but after that I rarely entered that room again.

As the years passed, my father left more and more of the estate responsibilities to his steward, while he traveled far distances. He was building up his business interests, and sometimes he took Rowland with him, but never me. This was a vast relief to me, as I had no idea how to speak with him or whether he would think me impossibly stupid if I tried to do so.

It is true that, though I lacked for love, I was never actually mistreated. I was fed and clothed—perhaps not in the fanciest ways, but adequately. I generally ate what the servants ate; in fact, when I was not being fed in the nursery, I usually dined with them in the kitchen. It was plain fare, and to this day, having tried the other, I much prefer Cook's simple dishes. In dress, I could have been mistaken for the stableboy in a clean set of clothes, and that I preferred as well. Breeches and waistcoats are a damned nuisance, if you ask me.

While Thornfield-Hall was never truly warm in the winter months, it was never freezing, either, and the cupboards harbored goose down enough for anyone's tastes—though more than once I heard my father berating the housekeeper, Knox, over the quilts on my bed. "The boy must learn to be a man, standing on his own, putting up with whatever life brings him," he'd say, and she would gather up a goose down and slowly fold it for storage. Soon it would appear again, but not a word of it passed between the two of us, though I would try to flash her a smile when I could. She was a slim, black-clad woman with reddish-brown hair, and usually a frown above her gray eyes. But despite her stern appearance, she almost never had a harsh word for me, and for that I am grateful. We both understood that her job was to please the master, not to cosset his second son.

And no one beat me, though there were times when the touch of a hand would have been welcome, even in anger—a slap to the head or a good shaking of the shoulders.

Except of course for Rowland, who'd give me a swipe whenever I was within arm's reach, and if I particularly annoyed him, he would take up the cane. He was enough older, and I was naïve enough then, to believe that that was the job of an older brother: to keep the younger one in his place. By the time I learned differently, he was gone. I will have to keep this in mind, for I have learned the ways of second sons and it would be a sore useless experience if I cannot set things aright.

In those days, Thornfield-Hall was an impressive building constructed of the gray stone so familiar in the area. Two bays, one on each wing and running the full height of its three stories, served to prevent the building from looking like a simple square box, and battlements of carved stonework on the rooftop further softened the effect. The front door was of half glass, with black oak shutters against nightfall and inclement weather. Just inside was a large entrance hall with tall doors to the downstairs rooms, and between them hung portraits of people I presumed to be my ancestors. A massive bronze lamp hung in the center, and in one corner stood a carved clock, taller than my father. I loved that clock, loved to run my finger along its carvings. A grand staircase of oak with twin newel-posts the size of a grown man led from the entrance hall up to the family's private chambers and, beyond, the guest rooms, and on the very top floor were storage rooms and the servants' quarters. In all, the place had a masculine appearance, with ornate panel boards on the walls, heavy tapestries at the windows, and rich plasterwork on the ceilings.

As an adult, I always felt that the Hall was built for show. It was only in the nursery—and, of course, in the drawing room, until I was banished—that I felt the comfort one ought to feel in one's own home. Perhaps that was another reason why I spent so much of my time in those early years hovering about the kitchen begging for a scrap of sweetened dough, or in the stables asking Jem and Kip if I could help with brushing down the horses or polishing and oiling the tack. "No, Young Master," they would always say, adding, "Go ask Cook for a bunch of carrots for the horses, there's a good boy." Cook would wink as she handed them over, and I would dash back, eager to deliver my offering of friendship to those patient beasts.

In the storage rooms on the third floor (a place forbidden to me, which made it all the more attractive), I found treasures: cast-off fishing tackle and butterfly nets, but I never caught any fish, perhaps because I had no one to teach me. I did catch butterflies, but I could never bear to stick a pin through the tiny quivering bodies, so I set them free. There were all sorts of other treasures to be discovered in those rooms as well: trunks of clothing from another era, toys I had never seen or played with, vases gathering dust, furniture blanketed with canvas coverings, and various other items whose use or purpose was a mystery to me—and since I was not supposed to be there in the first place, I could not ask about them. I scoured those rooms, searching for the long-lost painting of my mother, but I never found it.

On three sides, beyond the house and its gardens, were fields of wheat and barley, and on the fourth side was the hawthorn wood that gave the Hall its name and that fueled the many fireplaces and the kitchen stoves. In the springtime the wood bloomed with a haze of bluebells and the delicate white starbursts of wild garlic; in the summer it provided cool respite; in the autumn I practiced creeping through fallen leaves as silently as a fox; and in the winter bare branches clawed their way toward the sky. And beyond the wood and the fields, as far as the eye could see, were the moors: tall grasses bending in the wind; heather seeming scrubby and useless in the springtime but blossoming to brilliant pinkish purple in late summer; lowering skies warning of weather on its way; hawks circling high above; rabbits darting between tussocks; and random outcrops of silent stones.

The nannies and governesses never lasted, for various reasons. The place was remote, with little social life, my father being gone so much of the time and seeming to care little for society when he was home. Rowland could be curt and dismissive of those he considered beneath his station, and I suppose I seemed untamed and unmanageable much of the time. All in all, there was little to recommend it to anyone who might be hunting for work, although the household servants were remarkably steady.

We were insular at Thornfield-Hall, and I imagine I thought life would go on like that forever. But on my eighth birthday, everything changed.

We did not generally celebrate birthdays, but Cook always made a special sweet just for me, smiling as she laid it before me. Her smiles were rare, but when they appeared they were a sight to behold: dimples deep enough to lose a farthing in, and not one but two wide gaps between her front teeth, one up and one below. Once I thought I heard someone call her Susan, but for the most part we called her "Cook." She was extraordinary in her skills, making feasts at short notice and with whatever she had in her larder at the moment. My father nearly always ate by himself, and he wanted only plain food to fill his stomach, the quicker the better; but by the time Rowland was twelve, he was demanding the most exotic items he could think of, probably only to see if he could confound Cook and give reason for a scolding. She always nodded at his outlandish requests and smoothed her apron and set to work, and he rarely found excuse to complain.

Which does not mean he never did so.

Rowland, when he was home, ate mostly in the dining room, in full dress with a white neckcloth, sitting alone when Father was not in residence, reading the trade news from London or abroad, or examining his butterfly collection. I envied that collection—such astonishing beauties—but I could never understand how anyone could bear to kill those defenseless creatures. As for myself, once I was released from dining in the nursery, I usually ate in the kitchen, if for no other reason than that there I was less likely to offend my brother, and therefore less likely to receive a box on the head or a rap on the knuckles.

Rowland had had a tutor since he was eight or ten, and I looked forward to the day when I could have a proper scholar to be teaching me as well. Rowland's tutor was, no doubt, the second or third or fourth son of someone not wealthy enough or too old-fashioned to provide well for all his offspring, or perhaps he was the son of a penniless vicar. I was naïve at that age, but I'd overheard enough gossip among the servants to know that if there was any fortune to be had in a family, it was vastly advantageous to be the eldest son. I had not yet thought what that might mean for me, as I was too enthralled with ideas of knights and pirates to be having practical notions about my own future.

I imagine that Mr. Richards, the tutor, was actually a decent teacher, but Rowland, who was anxious only to get on with life, was at best an indifferent student. Except in maths. Rowland loved calculations of all sorts. The income needed per month to reach three thousand pounds in two years. The odds at a horse race. The likelihood of being able to buy some tumbledown building in any given town or city and hire laborers to fix it up—if only to dab on a bit of whitewash to hide the worst of the damage—and then sell it at enough of a profit to make the whole thing worth the trouble. Or the market advantage of planting rye instead of oats, or raising cattle versus sheep. One of the earliest arguments I ever heard him have with our father must have been when I was about four and Rowland would have been twelve, and Rowland was trying to talk Father into inclosing more of his land to increase his crop yields, sending the less-industrious tenant farmers packing and turning over their fields to more assiduous ones. "You can charge higher rents," I remember him saying, "and the crop yields will be better. It is not our responsibility to provide a living to incompetents."

Father just laughed and gave Rowland an affectionate cuff on the shoulder. He never followed through on any of Rowland's ideas, but even I could see his pride that this first son of his showed such interest in economic betterment.

I had always imagined that when I was old enough for the tutor, I would become as wise in the ways of the world as Rowland, and Father would laugh and cuff me on the shoulder too, and we three would dream up more and more inventive ways to make Father's wealth greater and greater.

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.

*  *  *

Glover was waiting with the trap in the front courtyard at seven o'clock in the morning. Cook had already given me as hearty a breakfast as I could eat, and had further wrapped three pork pies and a half dozen ginger biscuits into a square of muslin for me to take, "to keep that stomach of yours from rebelling." She held me close to her ample bosom, careless for once of her floury hands, then hurried me along and turned quickly away. Holdredge and Knox waited at the front door to bid me farewell, the kind of display one might expect for my father or even Rowland but that came as a surprise to me. Holdredge shook my hand wordlessly in good-bye, and Knox put her hands on my shoulders and told me that she would expect me to comport myself in a proper manner, but I thought I saw moisture in her eyes. Then it was down the step and across the paving stones, and I climbed onto the trap, where my rope-bound trunk had already been laid, and I was off. I gazed back at Thornfield-Hall as it disappeared from sight, and Knox remained in the doorway for as long as I could see her.


  • "Satisfying... If you haven't read Jane Eyre, suspense is keen as the climactic end approaches. If you have - as will most of those who come to Mr. Rochester - the novel's dramatic final act provides the quieter pleasure of revisiting one of literature's great love stories from a fresh perspective."—USA Today
  • "A cracking-good read!"—People, Best New Books
  • "Lovers of Emily Brontë and Jane Eyre, this one's for you: If you've ever wondered about the backstory of the man who Jane eventually teaches to love again, Mr. Rochester is officially wish fulfillment."—Refinery29
  • "A winner! Even if you never read Jane Eyre, you would still find Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester fascinating and hang on every word of his extraordinary story, told in perfect nineteenth-century language. A richly rewarding read."—Margaret George, New York Times bestselling author of Elizabeth I: A Novel and The Confessions of Young Nero
  • "With flair and heart, MR. ROCHESTER tells the story that legions of Jane Eyre fans have been waiting more than a century to hear. Sarah Shoemaker's impressive novel takes readers into the mind of one of literature's most vexing and compelling romantic heroes and paints a nuanced portrait of a man torn between responsibility and passion. Packed with historical detail and a fresh look at a classic story, MR. ROCHESTER is a page-turning delight."—Tara Conklin, New York Times bestselling author of The House Girl
  • "Prepare to be swept off your feet by Sarah Shoemaker's stunning MR. ROCHESTER. As one of countless readers who adored Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, but never quite understood what Jane saw in Mr. Rochester, I was spellbound. Beautifully written, exquisitely crafted, and deeply engaging, MR. ROCHESTER is pure book club gold."—Mary Sharratt, author of The Dark Lady's Mask: A Novel of Shakespeare's Muse and Illuminations: A Novel of Hildegard Von Bingen
  • "Shoemaker's detailed writing will transport readers to a bygone age of romance and heartbreak."—Publishers Weekly
  • "Mr. Rochester is beautifully paced and compelling as it delivers a sweeping narrative and a new perspective to one of literature's most famous love stories... Though the novel will appeal most to fans of Jane Eyre, Shoemaker has recreated the spirit of the original, which will help those unfamiliar with the text enjoy this retelling."—BookPage
  • "It's interesting to Shoemaker constructs a biography from the information provided in Bronte's novel and also to see the events familiar from that novel through [Rochester's] point of view. Recommend this to anyone eager for another take on Jane Eyre."—Booklist
  • "Compelling...Shoemaker knows her Brontë well, channeling her so expertly that it's easy to imagine that one author wrote both novels."— Star Tribune
  • "Shoemaker's elegant prose is worth reading at every step. Charlotte Brontë's mercurial hero is brought to brilliant life in this novel. Highly recommended."—Historical Novels Review
  • "There is a Dickensian quality to the story... The wonderfully executed details of Victorian life in England and Jamaica add to the atmosphere and lure the reader deeper into the tale... many will be fascinated with Edward's side of the story."—RT Book Reviews
  • "Mr. Rochester... is nothing less than captivating... A realistic and entertaining narrative... If Charlotte Bronte were alive, I cannot help but think that she would be pleased..."—Old Mission Gazette
  • "Mr. Rochester is a great, sweeping, classic coming-of-age story, and a stirring tale of adventure, romance, and deceit."—Roses are Blue
  • "Thoroughly satisfying and creatively imagined...It's a bold task to take on a heroic figure from such a well-loved novel, and it's easy to imagine fans rejecting any attempt to dabble with a story often read not once but several times. However, readers are safe and well entertained in Shoemaker's capable hands....Both fans of Jane Eyre and readers new to the story will delight in this novel. Not only will they discover who and what shaped Rochester into a dashing but infuriating landowner who is equal parts forceful and capricious, but they will also enjoy a compelling tale in its own right."

p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #010e66}span.s1 {font-kerning: none}Washington Independent Review of Books

On Sale
Mar 20, 2018
Page Count
464 pages

Sarah Shoemaker

About the Author

Sarah Shoemaker is a former university librarian and currently lives in northern Michigan.

Learn more about this author