John Eyre Page 18

  Coffee was brought in almost immediately, courtesy of one of the footmen. Mrs. Rochester was pouring it out for her guests when the gentlemen entered the drawing room. A portly older man—Mr. Eshton, John presumed—and the two Eshton sons, George and Louis. The three of them looked thoroughly imposing in their evening black.

  At the sight of them, Stephen drew closer to John.

  “They’re only men,” John said, just loud enough for the boys to hear. “Do you see? They can’t hurt you.”

  George Eshton took a seat next to Mrs. Rochester on the sofa, moving the folds of her skirt out of the way so he wouldn’t crush them under his leg. It was a courteous impulse—and a presumptuous one. Who was he to make free with her person in such a way? As if he had the right to do so.

  And perhaps he had.

  He was a well-favored gentleman. Languidly elegant, with a pleasing countenance, thick golden hair, and a tall, athletic build. Looking at him now, John felt a sharp twinge of jealousy. He was no golden godlike man. He was an academic, plain of face and feature. Was it any wonder that Mrs. Rochester preferred the company of George Eshton to him?

  The elder Mr. Eshton sank into a chair near to both the fire and his wife, and Louis Eshton sat down in front of the drawing room piano. It was a grander affair than the cabinet piano in the library. An expensive instrument made for entertaining. He tinkled the keys in a soft accompaniment to the clinking of coffee cups and lively conversation.

  “Whatever induced you to take charge of two little waifs?” George Eshton asked Mrs. Rochester.

  “Why shouldn’t I have?” Mrs. Rochester asked. “I have room enough for them.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And they had need of me.” She sipped her coffee. “There’s no great mystery about it.”

  “Won’t you introduce them to us?” Miss Lynn asked.

  “On no account,” Mrs. Rochester replied. “They’re too shy of strangers at present. It’s enough that they can observe you.”

  “They observe us?” Miss Lynn laughed. “I’d thought it the other way around. Isn’t that right, aunt?”

  “I did want to have a look at them,” Mrs. Eshton admitted. “All of Millcote is anxious to see what sort of children you’ve brought back from the Continent. You can’t blame our curiosity.”

  Mrs. Rochester smiled slightly. “Are my affairs so fascinating? I wouldn’t have thought so. We lead a quiet life here.”

  “Too quiet,” George Eshton said. “It isn’t good for you, my dear.”

  My dear.

  The casual endearment struck John like a blow. Were the pair of them so familiar with each other? So intimate?

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Rochester said. “I’m content as I am. And if I grow restless, I shall take myself off again.”

  “And what of your wards?” he asked.

  “What about them?”

  Mrs. Eshton opened her fan and proceeded to wave it vigorously. “You should send them to school.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mrs. Rochester said. “Not in their current state. It would be a cruelty.”

  “You will have to send them away when you remarry,” the elder Mr. Eshton pronounced.

  Mrs. Rochester took another sip of her coffee. “Will I?”

  “If your husband wishes it.” Mr. Eshton turned to George. “What say you on the subject, my boy?”

  “I say nothing. I haven’t any right to.” George paused, smiling. “Though I have reason to hope that one day I shall.”

  “Oh, George!” Mrs. Eshton fluttered her fan in excitement. “You don’t mean to suggest that you—”

  “Enough,” Mrs. Rochester said crossly. “Have we nothing better to discuss than my domestic entanglements? Even the most uncivilized societies have music to entertain them.”

  George grinned, flashing a set of strong white teeth. “She’s right. We’ve teased her long enough.” He called out to his brother: “Play something cheerful for us, Louis.”

  “And sing, won’t you?” Miss Lynn asked Mrs. Rochester. “You have such a lovely voice.”

  “Pity Miss Ingram isn’t here to accompany you,” Mrs. Eshton said. “How well the pair of you sounded together.”

  George cast a measuring glance at Mrs. Rochester. “We won’t speak of Miss Ingram. The recollection is yet too painful, I think.”

  Mrs. Rochester’s face was void of expression as she finished her coffee.

  John studied her in the moments when he was unobserved. She seemed animated enough in the company of her friends. As if she was enjoying herself. But there was something wrong. Something…off. He couldn’t put his finger on it. It was merely an impression. A feeling derived from the unspoken energy generated by her and her guests.

  It didn’t help that the storm had worsened. Rain hammered against the drawing room windows and battered down on the roof in a relentless, and rather unnerving, assault. To hear it, one might fear they were about to fall victim to a return of Noah’s flood.

  “Dear Miss Ingram,” Mrs. Eshton said on a sigh. “Such a tragedy.”

  “Will you sing in her stead?” George asked Mrs. Rochester. “I’ve always found your voice to be superior, even to hers.”

  “Oh, yes.” Miss Lynn clapped her hands. “The pair of you must perform a duet.”

  “Will you?” George asked again, his deep voice gone silky and persuasive. “It would please me greatly.”

  “If you insist.” Setting aside her coffee cup, Mrs. Rochester stood. “But I’ll have no tepid love songs. If we sing it must be con spirito.”

  “As you command.” George followed her to the piano, and taking his brother’s place at the keys, commenced pounding out a boisterous tune.

  Mrs. Rochester stood beside him, one hand resting on the piano. Her black silk skirts swelled out in a wide bell shape from her slim waist, the candlelight shimmering on her bare shoulders and throat.

  The attention of the entire company was fixed upon her and George Eshton.

  Now was the time for John to quietly slip away with the boys. They’d had enough. He’d had enough. And surely no one would notice if they withdrew. But just as he made to stand, Mrs. Rochester began to sing.

  John found himself fixed to his place. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. She had a fine voice. Stirring and powerful. A rich contralto that seeped into his veins, and thereby, to his heart. With every beat he felt it resonating within him. Not the music or the song, but her.

  It was a pleasure that swiftly turned to pain.

  Taking Stephen and Peter by the hand, John exited the drawing room through a side door, the final notes of the duet sounding at his heels. A short passageway led into the hall and thence to the stairs.

  Sophie was sitting on the bottom step, waiting. When she saw them, she jumped up.

  “You see?” John said to the boys as he handed them off to her. “Nothing at all to be afraid of. Only people. They can’t hurt you.”

  Stephen gave him a long look. If John didn’t know better, he’d think the boy could read his thoughts. Children could be alarmingly intuitive.

  “Go with Nurse,” John said, urging them up the stairs. “I’ll stop in to see you both before bedtime.” He remained on the landing as Stephen and Peter ascended to the nursery, Sophie following close behind them.

  A throbbing tension threatened at his temples and behind his eyes. The beginnings of a megrim. It had been nearly two months since his last one. He supposed the long reprieve was owing to the herbal tonic. Either that or a consequence of the happiness he felt in his new position. Thornfield was becoming a home to him; the boys his family. And Mrs. Rochester…

  His throat tightened.

  Behind him, the door to the drawing room opened and closed. Light footsteps sounded in the hall, accompanied by the rustle of silken skirts. A lady approached.

&nbs
p; Steeling himself, John turned to face her.

  It was Mrs. Rochester.

  “Good evening, John,” she said.

  He caught the subtle fragrance of her perfume. Dizzyingly exotic. It did nothing to calm the erratic rhythm of his pulse. “Good evening, ma’am.”

  “I trust you’ve been well during my absence?”

  “Quite well.”

  “And how have you been occupying yourself?”

  “In doing my job. In teaching Stephen and Peter.” How formal he sounded. How unfailingly respectful and remote. When all the while, he ached to tell her about the boys’ singing. About his visit to Hay, and what he’d learned from the vicar. So many things had occurred since last he’d seen her. And he wanted, needed…

  But it wasn’t the time.

  And he was in no fit state for conversation.

  She took a step closer to him. “You’ve sent them to bed?”

  “I have. They’d had enough.”

  “And you? What’s your excuse?”

  He was quiet a moment. “I wasn’t aware I needed one. With the boys gone back to the nursery—”

  “Return with me to the drawing room,” she said. “You’re leaving too early.”

  “I’m tired.” It wasn’t a lie.

  Her eyes searched his. “What is it?” she asked softly. “Has something happened?”

  He swallowed hard. “Nothing, ma’am.”

  “You don’t like that I have guests staying, do you? Nor do I. But it’s easier with you in the room. Knowing you’re there… I find it soothing, somehow.”

  “I wasn’t aware you noticed me at all.”

  Her mouth curved up at one corner in that wry way he’d come to recognize. “Don’t be absurd. Of course, I noticed you.”

  “You were much engaged with your guests.”

  Her smile turned brittle before disappearing altogether. “My guests,” she repeated. “Would that I could drive them all back to the Leas myself.”

  John was surprised by the edge of bitterness that sharpened her words. “In this weather? It’s not fit for anyone. Least of all a lady.”

  “Don’t let it fool you.” She cast a dark look at the window above the stairs. “It’s nothing but sound and fury. An illusion meant to frighten us.”

  “It felt real enough to me when I was fetching the firewood.”

  “You?” She looked vaguely appalled. “Don’t tell me Mr. Fairfax ordered you—”

  “I volunteered. I was glad to be of use.” John wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

  “Well,” Mrs. Rochester said bleakly, “I daresay that’s what it’s come to. Thornfield hasn’t the staff to entertain. We must muddle through somehow.” She drew back from him. “Retire if you must, but if my guests remain through tomorrow, I’ll expect you in the drawing room again, and every night until we’re free of them.”

  “Mrs. Rochester, it’s hardly my place—”

  “I see what you’re about. You mean to play the dutiful subordinate. Play it, then. Do as you’re told, without argument.”

  “I’m not playing at anything.”

  “Nonsense. We both of us are. What is this if not a farce? We shall perform our roles as written, and then, when my guests have gone—”

  John held his breath for what she might say next. But her words never materialized. Her speech was arrested by the sudden arrival of Mr. Fairfax.

  He appeared at the top of the stairs, half panting from the exertion. “Mrs. Rochester! Thank heaven I’ve found you. Another guest has arrived.”

  She turned to him, brows snapping together in irritation. “What are you mumbling about?”

  “A hired coach from Millcote. It came not five minutes ago. Though how she persuaded the driver to bring her this far, I can’t imagine. I daresay she must have paid extra for the privilege. She looks well-to-do enough for it.”

  Mrs. Rochester gave the elderly butler an arrested look. “She? What she?”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Mr. Fairfax withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead. “What with all the comings and goings, I’m a trifle overtaxed. But I’ve put her in the small parlor. She awaits you there. A lady by the name of Mrs. Wren.”

  Mrs. Bertha Rochester’s Journal.

  6 April. Senniskali. — There is no point in writing any more letters. I have lost all faith in any of them being posted. Instead, I have resolved to write a true and thorough account here, in my journal, with hopes that one day, when I’ve at last returned home to Thornfield, I can share it with Blanche, or with my solicitor.

  I have every expectation that I will see England again. My husband has, only last week, procured our passage. We leave for Varna, and thence to Athens, at the end of the month. Until then, we’re obliged to remain in each other’s company. Thus far, it has been an exercise in self-restraint.

  On returning from his solicitor’s last week, he apologized for his actions. He’s sorry to have hurt me, and to have frightened me, and swears upon his honor that he won’t do so again. What choice do I have but to accept his apologies and to forgive him? I’m in no position to do otherwise. Worse than that, I must pretend he’s the same man I married and that my feelings for him are unaltered, for I sense with every ounce of my feminine intuition that—were I to confront him about his aggressive behavior—he might do me some greater violence.

  As a result of this fear, Edward and I have commenced a silently agreed upon fiction. It enables us to interact as we did during the early days of our marriage. He is exceedingly civil to me. While I, in turn, do him the courtesy of pretending that he’s never before laid his hands upon me in anger. That he’s never threatened me or forced me to sign away my fortune.

  It’s this unspoken agreement that allows us to coexist in a house that is now absent its servants. Where have they gone? The way of Mr. Poole, I fear. Sent away so they can’t bear witness to the mistreatment I may yet suffer at my husband’s hands.

  Only during the daylight do I receive any relief from his menacing presence. Tormented by his headaches, he inevitably retires at sunrise, emerging again only after dark. It is during those brief hours that I’m free to roam about the house. On the first day after his return, I went straightaway to the front door, only to find it bolted and chained against me.

  I am a prisoner here, totally reliant on the goodwill of my husband. And of that goodwill, I can no longer be certain.

  Does he love me? Did he ever love me? Or was it only my money and property he desired?

  It’s true I never loved him in return, but I own to mistaking his physical affections for something of a deeper nature. Not a communion of souls—I dared not hope for that—but a sympathy that transcended more mercenary concerns. I’m not the first woman to make such an error. Many before me have done so—a fact which makes the reality of my mistake no easier to accept.

  I’ve been tempted to wallow in it. To excoriate myself for having fallen victim to the wiles of an unscrupulous predator. But I can think of no more unproductive way to spend my time. I’m an unwilling captive in a marriage—and in a house. The daylight hours can better be expended in formulating a way to extricate myself from this predicament.

  And so I shall.

  8 April. — The sun has risen and Edward has withdrawn to his room. I waited an hour before trying his door. It was locked, as it always is. On rattling the handle, I received no response, which assured me that he was asleep, and that Nosht-Vŭlk would be mine until sunset.

  As yet, I’ve never fully explored the place. It’s an intimidating structure, and Edward was adamant that I not stray to the darkest reaches of its upper and lower rooms. For my own safety, he said. But now…I wonder. Is there a means of escape through one of the doors? A way to call for assistance through one of the windows? There must be, surely.

  Lighting a lantern, I
ascended the drafty stone staircase to the floor above. There, at the end of a long, dark corridor, a door stood open. It led to a small room, which contained no furnishings, only a cold slab floor and a high stone-framed window barred with rusted iron.

  The view from the window was breathtaking. It looked down from the very edge of the cliffs to the roiling Black Sea below. But I was in no mood to appreciate its beauty. I was interested only in escape. Leaving the room, I continued my exploration of the hall. It was lined with other doors, all of them locked. I rattled the handles, one after the other, with increasing urgency. All to no avail.

  A wild sort of panic rose within me. I ran back down the stairs, trying every door that I passed. Locked. All of them locked. And where were the keys? My husband must have possession of them. But how to get them from him? I could see no way to do so. Not when he and I were on such precarious terms.

  When at last I returned to my room, I imposed a forcible calmness on my body, commanding my pulse to slow and my breaths to come regular and even. I cannot descend into despair. I will not. An animal may gnaw off a foot to escape a steel trap, but I am not an animal. I am a woman.

  11 April. — Edward knows I am his prisoner. And he knows that I know. Our interactions have taken on the air of a pantomime. When he rises at sundown, he asks me how I’ve slept, and presses a kiss to my cheek. I’m beginning to suspect that our situation amuses him in some perverse way. As if he’s waiting to see me flinch—or to weep.

  He spends his waking hours engaged in matters of business. Sometimes he leaves the house entirely, for where I do not know. When he returns, he generally brings back something to eat, and while I dine, he regales me with stories of his ancestors, and of the long-ago battles in the region. It is a land steeped in blood and conquest. A place that has rarely known peace for any length of time.

  When Edward isn’t engaged in a lengthy monologue, he’s peppering me with questions about England. He wants to know everything about Thornfield Hall. How far is it from the nearest church? How close is it to the sea? He’s particularly keen on the notion that the railway may soon come to Millcote. The idea of easy access to London appeals to him, though—as I pointed out—if he desires proximity to the city, it would be far more efficient for him to simply buy a house in town than to count on a railway line being laid all the way to Yorkshire.