John Eyre Read online

  Tomorrow, I pray Mr. Rochester will be in a better frame of mind, and then I’ll be able to broach the subject of his behavior. I’m certain he’ll have an apology for me, as well as a reasonable explanation. But honestly, darling, it’s so perplexing to me. How did he know I’d taken those drops of laudanum? How could any person have known?

  I will hide this letter away until Mr. Poole is well enough to take it to Varna. Given his condition, it may be many weeks. By then, I know this incident will be nothing but an unfortunate memory. I daresay Mr. Rochester and I will laugh about it one day.

  Your faithful friend,

  Bertha

  .

  Thornfield Hall

  Yorkshire, England

  February 1844

  John was unaccustomed to visitors at Thornfield Hall. With only himself and a handful of servants in residence, there had been little point in anyone paying a social call. But with Mrs. Rochester home, the locals bestirred themselves. As a result, she was much engaged over the course of the next several days with receiving neighbors and entertaining acquaintances from town. Sometimes she even invited them to remain for dinner.

  Mr. and Mrs. Eshton and their two sons called more than once. Away for the holidays, they had recently returned to the Leas, their estate on the other side of Millcote. According to Mr. Fairfax, they were—along with the Ingrams—the nearest neighbors to Thornfield.

  “Mrs. Rochester practically grew up with the children of the Eshtons and the Ingrams,” he explained to John one evening when the Eshtons stayed to dine. “They’re quite old friends.”

  John was seated with Mr. Fairfax in his small parlor, drinking a cup of after dinner tea. He’d been up on the battlements sketching when the Eshtons arrived, and had seen them disembarking from their fashionable carriage. They were a well-to-do family, clothed in fine silks and smartly tailored superfine. It had been difficult to tell from so far up, but it looked as though the two sons were of an age with Mrs. Rochester.

  “Only friends?” It was none of John’s business. Still, he couldn’t help being curious.

  “The old master did cherish hopes, at one time, that there would be a match between his daughter and one of the Eshton lads. But Mrs. Rochester would have none of her father’s scheming. She was resolved to have a love match.”

  John held his tongue. To his mind, Mrs. Rochester wasn’t at all the romantic type. Quite the reverse. She seemed hard, and rather cynical. If there was any softness to her—any feminine vulnerability—he hadn’t seen it yet.

  Not that he’d been much in her company of late.

  Indeed, after she’d secured his promise not to interfere with this new herbal remedy of hers, she’d seemed to have no more use for him. The most he’d received from her was a distant nod or a cool glance when they happened to pass each other in the hall.

  It nagged at him, her dismissiveness. Especially at night, before bed, when he dutifully swallowed down a teaspoonful of her vile prescription. It tasted of roots and earth, and rather vaguely of rosewater and garlic, with a tinny aftertaste he couldn’t quite identify.

  But a promise was a promise.

  And, to be fair, he hadn’t had a recurrence of his headaches. The strange medicine wasn’t laudanum by any stretch of the imagination, but who was to say that it wasn’t working?

  “I confess I’ve wondered if she’ll marry again,” Mr. Fairfax said. “And if one of the Eshton boys might have a chance this time around. A union between the two families wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

  “Do you think it possible?” John asked.

  “It’s difficult to tell. She’s changed a great deal since returning from her journeys abroad. And it isn’t only that streak of white in her hair.”

  John gave him an interested glance. “That’s something new?”

  “Aye. Indeed. And the oddest thing, sir. She hadn’t any white in her hair at all when she left Thornfield after her parents died. None that I ever saw. But when she returned home last summer—not three years later—there it was, bold as you please. I didn’t like to enquire about it. Ladies can be sensitive about their hair. Their crowning glory, and all that. Though I did wonder, as anyone might. She never mentions it herself. Doesn’t mention much of anything about her travels.”

  “Perhaps she’s ready to settle down?”

  “With one of the Eshton boys? Who can say? I never could understand her, even when she was a girl, but now…” The butler’s lips pursed. He took another sip of his tea. “I expect it’s more likely she’ll leave us again, than that she’ll remarry. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

  “I couldn’t guess,” John said. “We’ve had little interaction since she returned.”

  “She may yet ask you to bring the children in to her. The Eshtons will have heard of them by now and might like to see them.”

  John wasn’t so sure. But Mr. Fairfax had the right of it. A short time after the Eshtons departed, a message was sent up, summoning John and the boys to the drawing room.

  Mrs. Rochester awaited them there, disposed on the silk-upholstered sofa near the fire, wearing her usual black crepe. A long necklace of jet hung loose at her throat, and jet combs adorned the intricate coils of her hair.

  On a table near the windows sat a large white box tied up in satin ribbons.

  “Stephen, Peter,” Mrs. Rochester said, making no move to look in their direction. “The Eshtons have brought you a present. You may open it.”

  John ushered the boys to the table where, with his assistance, they untied the ribbons and opened the box. Inside were layers of tissue paper that, once pulled away, revealed a beautifully rendered set of wooden blocks. On one side were pictures, and on the other, letters and numbers.

  Stephen picked up the letter D and examined it, flipping it over to look at the picture of a dog on the back. Peter did the same with the letters R and C, which featured rats and cats, respectively.

  “Mr. Eyre?” Mrs. Rochester at last turned her head away from the fire. Her eyes briefly met his. “Come and sit down. The children can amuse themselves.”

  John did as she bid him, taking a seat across from her in one of the armchairs that resided by the hearth.

  “Draw your chair closer to me,” she said. “You’re too far away. I can’t see your face in the shadows.”

  He’d have preferred to remain where he was. To hide himself outside the range of the low light that emanated from the fire and the flickering branch of candles that stood on the mantelpiece. But he knew better than to disobey a direct order. He drew his chair forward.

  Mrs. Rochester resumed staring into the flames. She looked different this evening. Not quite so stern or forbidding. Her cheeks were faintly flushed, her bronze-and-green-flecked eyes brilliant in the firelight. John suspected she’d had wine at dinner and possibly an after-dinner drink as well. Her manner was easier, her expression softer.

  She’d been among friends this evening. Had she enjoyed their company? She must have done to look so much at her ease.

  A long minute passed, and then another, as she looked into the fire and John looked at her, when quite suddenly, she turned her head and caught the direction of his gaze.

  “You examine me, Mr. Eyre. Do you find me beautiful?”

  “No, ma’am.” The reply passed his lips before he’d fully deliberated on it. A feeling of horror followed. Had he just said…?

  Good lord.

  If a hole in the floor had opened up at that moment, he’d have gladly jumped into it.

  “Upon my word, sir, you’re a man of decided opinions. And you don’t cringe from uttering them, for all that you sit there as quiet and contemplative as a man of God.”

  “I beg your pardon. I ought to have said that questions about appearances are difficult to answer. Tastes differ so widely.”

  “I’m not to your taste, is that it?”
>
  He inwardly groaned. He was making things worse, but couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  Why couldn’t he have simply admitted to her beauty? He’d thought her beautiful before, hadn’t he? Strangely beautiful.

  And oddly forbidding.

  He moistened his lips. “It’s not that. It’s only—”

  “Pray, tell me, what is it about my appearance that you object to?”

  “Nothing,” he said. It was the truth. She may not be beautiful in the traditional sense, but she was deeply alluring. The kind of female who put every other woman in the shade.

  How to say that without sounding like a demented fool?

  He struggled for the right words. “You are, in every way—”

  “What am I? You’ve already admitted I’m no beauty.”

  Heat crept up his neck. “Please allow me to take back that answer.”

  “I’ll allow nothing of the sort. I value a little plain speaking, even if it stings my pride.” Her mouth twitched at one corner, the barest threat of a smile. “Go on. Tell me what I am, sir. A gorgon? A dragon?”

  “You are formidable.”

  “At last. And does it follow that what is formidable cannot also be beautiful?”

  “I’ve never considered it,” he said. “Perhaps therein lies my difficulty.”

  “Beauty, you believe, is weakness? A fair damsel in distress?”

  “Yes. I suppose I’ve been guilty of thinking that on occasion.”

  “How, then, do you view strength? Is it an ugly quality in a woman?”

  “Not at all. It’s…admirable.”

  Her eyes briefly sparkled with amusement. “But I’m not admirable, am I? Nor am I beautiful.”

  “You’re exceedingly handsome.”

  She laughed. “A spontaneous compliment. Thank you, Mr. Eyre. I believe you’ve been made to squirm enough.”

  He smiled slightly. “I’m not squirming yet, ma’am.”

  “No? Then perhaps I may be so bold as to tell you what I think of your appearance?”

  “You already have. Rather frequently.”

  Her brows lifted.

  “You believe I look like a curate,” he reminded her. “An ascetic.”

  “That’s your manner, not your face and figure. Mind you, it doesn’t help that you dress all in black.”

  “Would you prefer plaid waistcoats and trousers?” Brightly colored plaids were all the rage at the moment in gentlemen’s suiting. They were also incredibly garish as far as John was concerned, and not at all proper for a man in his position.

  “It isn’t a criticism, Mr. Eyre. Merely an observation. Just as I’ve observed that you’re really quite handsome, though I suspect you try to conceal it.”

  Quite handsome?

  His heart beat hard. “I’ve never—”

  “Come, sir. I know when a person is seeking invisibility. I’ve sought it myself on occasion. I only wonder why? Did you suffer such abuse in your last position that you decided it was better to lurk in the shadows than to draw attention to yourself?”

  “A man in my profession is content to remain in the background,” he said. “It’s the job of others to shine.”

  “You’re a supporting player, then? Not a hero?”

  “Hardly.” He was tempted to smile again. “What’s heroic about a schoolmaster?”

  She leaned back on the sofa. “I wonder.”

  Across the room, the boys were playing with their blocks. The echo of wood clacking against wood sounded along with the crackling of the fire.

  “If you’d wished it,” John said, “I could have brought Stephen and Peter down earlier. They might have been introduced to your guests.”

  Mrs. Rochester’s expression of amusement faded. “I have no intention of introducing the boys to any of my guests. They’re not trained monkeys to be made to perform for strangers.”

  “Certainly not. But they’re doing better these days. They’re writing their letters and numbers, and can do their sums. They haven’t yet spoken to me, but—” He broke off.

  Her eyes narrowed. “But what?”

  “I thought perhaps Mr. Fairfax might have told you.” He lowered his voice. “I heard them once, whispering through the wall.”

  “Whispering what?”

  “Nothing I could make out. I suppose it was Romani. Which is another reason why it would be helpful to—”

  “Out of the question. They’ll talk on their own when they’re ready. Until then, I won’t have you introducing them to strangers who may or may not speak their native tongue. It would be far too disruptive.”

  “You’d rather they remain silent?”

  “It’s not a question of silence. It’s a matter of timing. And right now…” She shook her head. “It’s too soon.”

  “They’ve been living here since July, and under my care since October. That’s more than half a year altogether. In my opinion—”

  “Your opinion?” Her eyes kindled. “What right have you to preach to me? You, who have never set foot outside the safety of this small island? You speak of life in Hertfordshire, London, and Surrey. While I, I have traveled the depth and breadth of this world. I’ve seen its beauty, and its depravity. Have encountered evils you could never dream of. Don’t think to tell me of your opinion on matters you don’t understand, or I shall be obliged to crush that opinion with my experience. It will not be pleasant, I promise you.”

  John’s mouth compressed. He said nothing.

  Nor did she for several taut seconds. And then: “I suppose I’ve hurt your feelings.”

  “Not at all,” he said stiffly. “I’m your paid subordinate. You may speak to me in whatever manner you choose.”

  “My paid subordinate,” she scoffed.

  He rose, deeming it useless to continue their conversation when she was lapsing into one of her foul moods.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To return the children to the nursery. It’s past their bedtime.”

  “You’re afraid of my temper.”

  “I’m bewildered by it,” John said. “But I’m not afraid.”

  “Do you never feel passion, Mr. Eyre?” she asked. “Do you never bellow and roar?”

  “What good would it do me? In my experience, talking about one’s problems is far more productive than shouting about them.”

  “Yes, I daresay.” She turned her attention back to the fire. Her voice fell quiet. He couldn’t tell if she was speaking to him or to herself. “I sometimes think that I should like someone to talk to. Someone to confide in.”

  There was a rare vulnerability in her words. A deep thread of loneliness. It inspired a pang of sympathy within John’s breast. He stilled, waiting for her to say something more.

  The long moment stretched out between them, and in that silence he was struck with the rather disconcerting urge to ease this mysterious burden of hers. Despite her changeable moods, and her seemingly irrational demands, he wanted to be of service to her, even if only in some small way.

  But it wasn’t to be.

  Mrs. Rochester had withdrawn into herself again. She waved him to the door with a distracted flick of her hand. “Away with you. You may take my wards back to the nursery.”

  John didn’t see Mrs. Rochester again until later that week. He chanced to meet her out on the grounds when he was walking with Stephen and Peter. While the boys occupied themselves with a game of battledore and shuttlecock, she invited John to stroll with her along the edge of the meadow.

  It was an icy February afternoon, the ever-present mist swirling down the drive and settling over the snow-covered lawn. John was wearing his heavy wool coat, scarf, and gloves. Mrs. Rochester was similarly bundled up in a black cloak, her hands thrust into the confines of a fur-trimmed muff that she wore suspended from a silken
cord round her neck.

  “I’ve been thinking about something you said, Mr. Eyre.”

  He cast her a wary glance. “Have you?”

  “You told me that you had lately lost your faith.”

  “Ah.” John had forgotten about that conversation.

  “Were you in earnest?”

  “I was.”

  “Will you tell me what precipitated your loss of faith? Mind you, you’re not obliged to. Even if you are my paid subordinate.”

  He forced a grim smile. There was no reason to prevaricate. “I suppose it was the death of Lady Helen. Not but that my faith wasn’t already waning.”

  “The wife of your former employer? She appeared young in that portrait of yours.”

  “She was the same age as you and I.”

  Her brows lifted. “You presume to know my age, sir? I don’t recall having shared it with you.”

  “Forgive me. Another assumption of mine. But it seems to me that you can’t be much older than I am. Despite your—” He broke off, his eyes closing briefly on a private grimace.

  Dash it all! Was he doomed to always be saying the wrong thing when he spoke to her?

  “Despite what?” she asked.

  He exhaled slowly. There was nothing for it but to answer her honestly. Indeed, he was certain she already knew of what he spoke. “The white in your hair. It might lead one to think you older than you are.”

  Her hand emerged from her muff. She brought it to her temple, gloved fingers briefly touching the aforementioned streak. “A nuisance. I sometimes forget it’s there.”

  John didn’t reply. He could scarcely tell her that he found the streak strangely attractive. That it caught the eye—as singular and mysterious as all the rest of her.

  She tucked her hand back into her muff. “We’ve established that Lady Helen was young. And your portrait tells me that she was beautiful. But you haven’t yet mentioned how it was she died.”

  He hesitated before answering. “She took her own life.”

  Understanding registered in Mrs. Rochester’s gaze. “I see.” She slowed her step. “How did she do it?”