Haragatt Rochester peered down the long, straight bridge of his nose to his second born (remarking that the boys nose too, had such characteristics)
His wife lay on the bed. Stiff. Cold. The colour of her skin already stiffened to blue. His eyes turned to her, and didn't stray to his son for an hour more, until Mrs Fairfax crept into the room, hands folded. "Sir… They want to take her body now, Sir… and the baby will need feeding…"
It was only then he threw a scowling glance to his second son's crib. "Take him" he demanded coldly.
He remained in the room for the entire night
Rowan stretched out his stubby arms and slid his little brother clumsily into his hold "he's so small!" he giggled. Edward beamed his toothless baby smile at the pudgy young face above his.
"He is that!" chuckled Mrs Fairfax, bending down to whisper to the young brother "and when he's your age, you'll play together, eh?" Rowan laughed excitedly
"Put him down son" boomed a voice from the doorway where Mr Rochester stood, grave and still. "Leave him, son. Children are a woman's game" and with that he beckoned his eldest son away as Mrs Fairfax took the little one from him.
Mrs Fairfax rocked and bobbed the now distressed infant. "I've watched a few people grow up, my lad" she said between his gurns and gasps "and you'll be a good 'un!"
Mrs Fairfax fixed her gazed stare out the window. She needed detachment from what she had to say to him. She burned to say it, ever since Mrs Rochester passed away on the lad's birthday.
"Why is the blasted thing wailing!" Mr Rochester continued gruffly "I can hear from all over the house!"
Mrs Fairfax rose from her seat next to the cradle whilst continuing to rock it "I think 'e wants 'is father, sir" she declared.
She fancied that young Edward had ceased his crying the very moment Mr Rochester's black boots started to thud evenly and slowly across the room to the cradle...
His dark eyes looked into his son's (the boy had inherited those, too). Mrs Fairfax dared to peer round to the scene she wanted to see so badly. Her heart melted.
"'E has your eyes, Sir" she nodded.
"Better than having hers, I suppose…" he replied, almost whisperingly. "I don't think I could stomach seeing her own little emerald eyes smiling at me"
He stiffened again, his mouth turning grimmer "my god…" he spat.
"He has her smile".
The coattails whipped the air as he turned to stride from the room. At least Mr Rochester had referred to his son as 'he' this time.
Childhood, adolescence and POSSIBLY youth (all the sleeping about and being sold off by his da') to come; trying to make them interesting!