John Eyre Page 14

  He didn’t know enough of her habits to guess where she’d gone. Riding, perhaps? Or down to an early breakfast? He rather hoped it was the latter. But having washed, dressed, and made his way downstairs, he found the dining room as empty as his own chamber. Only Cook was up and about, uttering her usual monosyllabic greeting as she served John his breakfast.

  Lingering over his meal, he entertained a pathetic hope that Mrs. Rochester would appear and join him. She didn’t, of course. Even Mr. Fairfax, also an early riser, was conspicuously absent. It left John with a distinct feeling of uneasiness.

  When he’d finished eating, he returned upstairs to fetch the boys from the nursery. Servants were bustling in and out of Mrs. Rochester’s chamber. A voice sounded from within.

  “Put your back into it, Alfred! No need to be gentle.”

  John went to the door. A footman was kneeling in front of the fireplace, cleaning inside the chimney with a long brush. Soot fell down into his hair, blackening his face. Standing over him, issuing directions, was another footman.

  They weren’t the only servants present.

  A large, muscular man stood at the window with a hammer in his hand.

  It was Mr. Poole.

  Clad in his usual plain garments, he was lining up a row of nails on the exposed window ledge, preparing to drive one of them home. He was wholly focused upon his work, his broad features giving no indication of the villain that lay beneath.

  If villain he be.

  Mrs. Rochester had said Mr. Poole was partially responsible for the fire. But in what way responsible? Had he unknowingly knocked over a candle? Failed to douse the flames in the hearth?

  John supposed it was possible. And yet…

  He could think of no good reason why Mr. Poole would have been in Mrs. Rochester’s bedchamber last night.

  Seeming to sense John’s scrutiny, Mr. Poole looked up from his work. “Morning, Mr. Eyre,” he said, inclining his head. The window behind him had been stripped of its curtains, exposing a paint-chipped white frame. Sunlight glinted through the cloudy glass.

  “Good morning.” John wondered how much, if anything, Mr. Poole would admit to of last night’s events. “What’s happened here?”

  Mr. Poole hammered a nail through the window frame and into the casing. The glass rattled. “Only that old fireplace. It will smoke on occasion. Mrs. Rochester was abed when it started to blow. Alfred’s giving it a good cleaning.”

  The kneeling footman grunted as he scrubbed inside the chimney.

  “Is that all? A smoking chimney?” John cast a pointed glance at the hammer poised in Mr. Poole’s hand.

  “A broken latch,” Mr. Poole said.

  “Why not simply mend it?”

  Mr. Poole continuing nailing the window shut. “The mistress says this’ll do for the rest of the winter.”

  John was quiet for a moment before remarking, “A strange series of events last night.”

  “Aye. The mistress had quite a time of it, though none of us learned of the trouble until this morning.”

  “You didn’t hear anything at the time?”

  Mr. Poole again lifted his gaze to John’s face. This time, John fancied he saw a certain alertness lurking at the back of the man’s eyes. “You can’t hear a smoking chimney.”

  “No, but if Mrs. Rochester was in distress, she might have called for help.”

  “The mistress isn’t distressed by much.” Carefully positioning the final nail, Mr. Poole hammered it home. The window frame shook with the force of his blow.

  John stood there a while longer, amazed by the man’s self-possession. He really seemed to have no consciousness of guilt. Perhaps he truly was innocent?

  Having finished hammering, Mr. Poole reached up to check the bolts at the top of the window. As he did so, his right sleeve slipped back several inches onto his outstretched arm, revealing a brief glimpse of a heavy bandage at his wrist.

  John gave him a sharp look. “Are you hurt?”

  Lowering his arms, Mr. Poole hastily tugged his sleeve back into place. “An accident at the forge. Nothing to speak of.”

  An accident at the forge?

  John’s breath stopped. Had Mr. Poole burned himself during the fire? “Does Mrs. Rochester know?”

  “Indeed, sir,” Mr. Poole said. “It was she who wrapped it up in this bandage.”

  A rush of outrage took John unaware.

  He no longer doubted Mr. Poole’s involvement in last night’s events. First, there had been the evil laugh in the hall outside John’s room. Then there had been the way that Mrs. Rochester had hastened to the third floor in the aftermath of the fire. And now this.

  Had Mrs. Rochester really bandaged the very wound that Mr. Poole had incurred in the fire? A fire that he was somehow responsible for? Doubtless she had her reasons, but at the moment John couldn’t imagine what those reasons could be.

  At length, he withdrew from Mrs. Rochester’s room and made his way to the nursery to fetch Stephen and Peter.

  The remainder of the morning progressed as on any other day, with nothing happening to interrupt the boys’ studies. John nevertheless anticipated a sudden appearance by Mrs. Rochester at the library door, or by Mr. Fairfax, come to tell John that the mistress had summoned him to the drawing room.

  A foolish expectation.

  Nobody came to the library door. Indeed, the morning passed into the afternoon and evening much as it always did. There was no sight nor sound of Mrs. Rochester. Thornfield stood quiet as the grave, its inhabitants giving no indication of the tumultuous events of the night before.

  At dinner John joined Mr. Fairfax in his small parlor where he was once again regaled with the story of the smoking fireplace and the broken window latch. John scarcely heard a word of it. He was too absorbed with puzzling over the character of Mr. Poole.

  How to explain the events of last night and this morning? That Mrs. Rochester had in her employ a man who was capable of such mayhem? There seemed no rhyme or reason to the matter. Unless…

  Good lord. Was it possible she cherished a fondness for the rough fellow? It would certainly explain why he’d been in her room last night. Why she tolerated his sinister freaks, and why, after the fire, she hadn’t dismissed him out of hand. Yet Mr. Poole wasn’t handsome by any stretch of the imagination. Nor did he seem to have any wit or intellect to recommend him. And Mrs. Rochester was a lady who appreciated lively conversation, as well as a comely countenance.

  You’re really quite handsome.

  John’s heart thumped hard as he recalled her words to him so many evenings ago. It had been an unexpected compliment. Especially as he knew himself to be rather plain. Not handsome at all, really. At the time, he’d thought it merely a provoking remark. A throwaway word to an inconsequential underling. But after last night…

  He was no longer certain she hadn’t meant it.

  How well he remembered the way she’d addressed him as they’d stood in his candlelit bedroom, her in her dressing gown and he in his shirtsleeves. The way her eyes had burned into his with such peculiar intensity. How her voice had trembled as her hand clasped his—passionate, intimate.

  Where was she today? Why had he not seen her?

  When the last of their meal was cleared away, Mr. Fairfax poured out their tea. “You must drink something. You ate so little dinner. I trust you aren’t becoming ill?”

  “I’m quite well.” John hadn’t much of an appetite, it was true. But it wasn’t illness that caused his discomposure. “I haven’t heard Mrs. Rochester’s voice in the house today. Nor have I seen her.”

  “You wouldn’t have. She left at dawn, as soon as she’d breakfasted. I pray she’ll have a safe journey.”

  John jerked to attention. “Journey? To where?”

  “She has first gone to London to see her solicitor, Mr. Hughes. And then,
on her return, I expect she’ll stop at the Leas. The Eshtons have gathered a large party there, and have invited her to stay.”

  A party? After what they’d just been through together?

  John forced himself to take a drink of his tea. It did nothing to calm the tumult of emotion in his breast. “When will she be back?”

  “Oh, not for another week or more, I shouldn’t think. She’s a great favorite of the Eshton boys, especially the eldest. He’ll endeavor to keep her there as long as possible.”

  John’s throat closed on an unexpected swell of jealousy. It was as bitter as it was surprising. He’d seen the eldest Eshton son once from the battlements, and he was no boy. He was a tall, elegantly clad man. “Do you know him well?”

  “George Eshton? I wouldn’t say that I know him. But I’ve had many occasions to observe him. He used to call on Mrs. Rochester when her parents were still living. He was often her partner at the balls and assemblies hereabouts. The pair of them went riding together as well. They share a love of fine horseflesh.”

  “What is he like?”

  “Handsome and wealthy, though not as wealthy as he would like to be. Indeed, as I understand it, the bulk of his fortune rests in his father’s estate. He won’t come into possession of it until the elder Mr. Eshton dies.”

  A grim thought entered John’s head. “Mrs. Rochester’s visit to her solicitor… It hasn’t anything to do with him, has it?”

  Mr. Fairfax’s brow creased. “It hadn’t occurred to me. But now you mention it…I suppose she could be speaking with Mr. Hughes about marriage settlements and the like. Then again, Mrs. Rochester isn’t likely to consult with him on a subject of such a personal nature.”

  “Why not? Who else would she consult with but her solicitor?”

  “In other circumstances, yes. But Mr. Hughes and Mrs. Rochester have long had a strained relationship. You see, he had partial control of her inheritance for the year following her parents’ death. She wished to go away to mourn—to some exotic locale. But Mr. Hughes insisted she restrict her travels to Europe. To Paris and Rome. She spent more than a year there, doing as he advised her. It conjured a great deal of animosity between them.”

  “A year spent in Paris and Rome doesn’t sound like much of a hardship.”

  “I don’t say that she was miserable, only that it wasn’t what she wanted. She wished for something more adventurous, away from the usual haunts of English travelers.”

  John hesitated to ask. It was none of his business, and he’d already indulged his curiosity enough for the evening. Nevertheless… “Is that where she met her husband?”

  “Oh no. That was later. Somewhere in Egypt. She stayed there for a time before venturing on. She always was keen on far-off places, even as a girl. And who can blame her for wanting to travel? She was shut up here at Thornfield for far too long.”

  “She had a sheltered childhood?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Her father was a bit of an eccentric. Taught her to hunt and shoot, just as he would have taught a son. She was certainly as willful as a boy might have been. Some would say she ran wild here. But one couldn’t blame her for her odd ways. She was kept at home for rather a long time, when other young ladies were having their seasons in London or attending the assemblies in York. Mrs. Rochester’s parents were set on her marrying a local fellow.”

  John returned his teacup to its saucer with an unsteady clink of porcelain. “George Eshton?”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Fairfax helped himself to a biscuit. “But they didn’t reckon for the strength of Mrs. Rochester’s will. She had no intention of tying herself to Yorkshire. No sooner had her parents died than she was off—first to Europe and then to Egypt.”

  John wondered if she’d found the adventure she sought there. She must have found something. A measure of happiness, perhaps. Why else would she have married?

  He finished his tea without tasting a single drop of it, and after bidding goodnight to Mr. Fairfax, retired to his bedroom.

  A fire awaited him in the grate, and on the chest near the door, a tray holding the bottle of herbal tonic that Mrs. Rochester had given to him. He measured out a spoonful and swallowed it down, just as he did every night before bed. He didn’t do it because he believed in the curative properties of the vile stuff. He did it for her. Because she’d asked him to.

  Somehow, during the course of the past months, he’d come to respect her. To care for her. And he’d imagined that she had begun to feel the same.

  More fool him.

  Mrs. Rochester held no special regard for him. She’d left him without a word. Gone away to London, and then to a raucous house party attended by fashionable members of the gentry. And here he was. Left behind at Thornfield. An afterthought. A nonentity. As if last night had never happened at all.

  Though his heart stung at the rejection, his head found it easy enough to understand. The truth was, despite their brief moment of intimacy, he was nothing but her paid subordinate. A humble tutor, with an equally humble salary of forty pounds per annum. He had no grand prospects. No expectation of wealth or property. He was, in short, no George Eshton.

  In future he would do well to remember it.

  Letters from Mrs. Bertha Rochester to Miss Blanche Ingram.

  Krepostta Nosht-Vŭlk

  Senniskali, Bulgaria

  Monday, 13 March 1843

  Darling Blanche, —

  It’s been too long since I’ve heard from you. Have you received any of my letters? Have you written back to me at all? Mr. Poole made the journey to the consulate again yesterday, and returned to inform me that none of your letters awaited me there. Indeed, there was no correspondence from anyone, which troubles me greatly, for I’ve lately written to my solicitor, Mr. Hughes, on a matter of grave import.

  Should I continue writing, though my letters may never reach your hands? For all I know they’ve been cast to the four winds or are gathering dust on the shelf of some far-off way station. But I must write, and I shall write, for I have no one else in whom I can confide. Despite my marriage, and the constant company of my husband’s sister, Mrs. Wren, I am very much alone here and missing you so very desperately.

  You will, perhaps, wonder how things stand between Mr. Rochester and myself. I’m pleased to report that his alarming behavior of last month was naught but an aberration. He’s long since apologized to me in the sincerest terms, and promised to never again let his temper get the better of him. We’ve been quite comfortable together ever since, though I confess there has been a certain distance between us. It’s most evident in his lack of husbandly attention. He rarely visits my room anymore. Certainly not as often as he was wont to do in the early days of our marriage.

  His own room lies adjacent to mine, and his headaches are such that he insists I not disturb him until after the sun has set. He’s even gone so far as to lock the connecting door to prevent my accidentally waking him. I’ve had no luck in discovering anything that might alleviate his pain. Between you and me, I’ve come to suspect his malady owes more to a deep-seated melancholy than to an actual medical condition.

  According to what I’ve read in the medical books available in my husband’s library, the best treatment for melancholy is plenty of sunlight and fresh air. I tried to explain this to Mr. Rochester, that by locking himself away during the day, he’s only exacerbating his problem. But he would have none of it. He’s too long believed sunlight his enemy and refuses to entertain any other thoughts on the subject.

  His unwillingness to heed sound advice isn’t the only cause of strain between us. There’s also the matter of my money and property. When he returned from his visit to his solicitor last month, he had legal papers he wished me to sign, all of them drafted in a foreign language. He says my signature on them will transfer ownership of Thornfield Hall into his hands. I told him that Thornfield was as good as his already by virtue
of marrying me. And so it is, according to English law. But he continues to insist I formalize the transaction.

  To own the truth, I may have become a trifle unreasonable on the matter. You know how I bridle at being forced into something. I refused to sign his wretched papers (how could I when I can’t even read them?) and have written to Mr. Hughes, demanding he explain the legalities of marital property to my husband. In the meanwhile, Mrs. Wren has been working at me constantly—employing all manner of arguments—to convince me to do as Mr. Rochester bids me. If she knew me better, she’d realize that such methods do little more than solidify my resolve. I am no weak, wilting female to be bullied thus—not by my husband, and certainly not by his sister.

  You will perhaps think me irrational. And if I am, it’s no doubt owing to this strange night existence of mine. My nerves are frayed, and my temper pushed to the limit. What in Cairo and Athens was an exciting thing—being up all hours with Mr. Rochester and Mrs. Wren, and then sleeping the day away—has finally burnt me to a socket. I’ve begun to long for those dull, dreary days at Thornfield, awakened at dawn with a cup of tea, and then up and dressed for an early morning ride over the moors to clear away the cobwebs.

  There is no riding in Senniskali. The region is plagued by wolves. One can hear them howling throughout the night. I’ve almost become used to their mournful songs. Yesterday, from a window high atop Nosht-Vŭlk, I even imagined that I saw a black wolf lurking. A giant creature, padding through the mist that swirls through the village. He stopped and raised his head, seeming to look at me from across the distance. And then he bared his teeth—razor-sharp canines glistening in the light of the waxing moon. The sight sent such a jolt of fear through me, I backed away from the window.

  These are the fancies that plague a woman when she’s far away from home, isolated in an unwelcoming land, and deprived of her sleep. Don’t mistake me. I still care for Mr. Rochester, and I haven’t yet come to regret my marriage. But I want to come home. To see you again, and to live at Thornfield, with all its familiarity and comfort. And I will return soon. That I promise you.