John Eyre Page 20

  “What is it?” he asked. “Tell me so I can help you.”

  “I fear I am beyond help.”

  “No one is beyond help.”

  “I am. And you’d realize it if you knew the half of what my life has been. What I’ve done. You’d run far and fast to escape me.”

  “Never,” he vowed.

  “You would.”

  “I’m not so fainthearted as that.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. It was a reckless impulse. A rank presumption. But he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. Not when she so desperately needed his reassurance. “There’s nothing you could do that would drive me away.”

  She huffed an unsteady breath. It sounded vaguely like a sob. “I do believe you mean that.”

  “Of course I mean it. I told you that I would stand beside you. Don’t you remember?”

  “I remember everything,” she said. “Everything.”

  “There you are, then. All that’s left is for you to tell me what’s wrong. What I can do to make this better.”

  She was quiet for a long moment as she visibly brought herself under control. “You can fetch me a glass of wine,” she said at last.

  “Done.” When she released his hand, he rose and went at once to the dining room. It was empty, the table and sideboard still partially cluttered with the leavings from dinner. As he poured out a glass of wine from the decanter, Alfred entered to finish clearing. On seeing John with the wine, he frowned but made no remark. No doubt he thought John was taking it for himself.

  Much that John cared for his opinion at the moment.

  He returned to Mrs. Rochester. She was still seated in the hall, just as he’d left her. He offered her the glass of wine and she took it and drained it in one swallow. The ashen whiteness of her pallor slowly dissipated.

  “I told you once that in matters of good and evil, I stand firmly on the side of good,” she said. “Did you believe me?”

  “I had no reason not to.”

  Her expression was grim. Remote. As if meditating on an unsolvable dilemma. “And what if someone were to tell you different? To say that it was, in fact, the opposite?”

  He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  She leveled her gaze at him. “What would you do, John, if all of those fine people in the drawing room scorned me? If they accused me of some great evil?”

  Under other circumstances, he might have been alarmed by the question. But not now. Now, she was plainly distraught and in need of comforting. “What evil?” he asked.

  “Of being a cold, unfeeling creature, undeserving of the name of woman. Would you tender your resignation and abandon this house right along with them?”

  “I care nothing for this house. But you…” His voice sank to a gruff undertone. “I wouldn’t abandon you or the boys. No matter what the denizens of Yorkshire society had to say about it. What care I for their good opinion?”

  She smiled slightly. “That loyal, are you?”

  “To those who deserve it.”

  “Well then, I am on my mettle.” Handing him the empty wineglass, she stood and straightened her skirts. “Enough dramatics. I’m fortified now. Another moment, and I shall venture into the dragon’s lair.”

  John’s brows lowered. “Is this Mrs. Wren a dangerous person?”

  “Perhaps.” Mrs. Rochester’s mouth curved into another smile. This time it didn’t quite meet her eyes. “But don’t worry for me, sir. I can be quite dangerous myself when the occasion calls for it.”

  Later that night, John retired to his bed, unable to sleep. His thoughts were in disarray, his emotions confused. He worried over what might have happened with Mrs. Rochester and her mysterious guest. And he wondered if, when she’d concluded her meeting, she’d returned to the drawing room—and thereby to George Eshton.

  The moon was full, a luminous silver disc shining through the slim cracks in his chintz window curtains. He stared at it, mulling over the way he’d kissed Mrs. Rochester’s hand, and the way he’d vowed to stand by her, whatever the consequences. It had been all but a declaration. One he’d never made to any other lady before.

  One he’d never made to Helen.

  Why not? Had it only been because Helen was married? She’d been appealing in every other respect. Beautiful, sweet, and gentle. The epitome of feminine delicacy and grace. He’d admired her, certainly. Had been ready to stand her friend. But he hadn’t been willing to brave public scorn to remain at her side. Hadn’t been prepared to risk his heart—or endanger his soul.

  How was Mrs. Rochester any different?

  He may as well have attempted to enumerate the differences between sun and shadow. Between a tigress and a house cat.

  Which was more puzzling still, come to think of it. Mrs. Rochester didn’t need him to fight her battles. She was capable enough on her own. Why, then, did he feel a greater sense of protectiveness toward her than he’d ever felt toward Helen?

  John couldn’t fathom the why of it. All he knew was that he felt it. That it was real. It was no infatuation. No airy thread of romantic poetry. It was as earthy and fundamental as the blood coursing through his veins.

  As the clock struck midnight, the guests at last made their way to their rooms. Voices sounded in the hall, doors clicked open and shut, and then all was once again in silence.

  John slept briefly, awakening as the clock chimed three. It was the dratted moonlight shining in his eyes. He’d either have to rise and draw the window curtains more firmly or he’d have to shut the panel of his box bed. Given his previous experience, the latter option was distinctly unappealing.

  He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed, and then—

  The night’s silence was broken by a terrible, desperate scream.

  It rang throughout the whole of Thornfield. A blood-chilling sound, enough to make John’s pulse stop.

  Who was it? And where was it coming from? It appeared to be emanating from somewhere on the third story. Was it Mr. Poole?

  But no.

  This was a woman’s scream.

  He leapt from his bed only to stand there, motionless, as the scream died. There was no repetition of it. How could there be? Such an outcry must have exhausted the lungs of the woman who uttered it.

  Footsteps pounded along the floor above him, followed by several heavy thuds against the walls and the floor. And then—

  John couldn’t be certain, but he thought he heard the rattle of chains.

  Foolish thought! There was no ghost lurking on the third floor, rattling its chains like a specter in a penny novel. There was only Mr. Poole.

  And whatever poor woman had screamed.

  “Mrs. Rochester!” a man cried out from above. “Mrs. Rochester, help!”

  At that, John sprang into action. Lighting a candle, he tugged on yesterday’s shirt and trousers, still draped on the clothespress. All the while, the noise outside continued. Doors opened and someone ran down the corridor, their light footfalls passing John’s room.

  “What’s going on?” a gentleman demanded. “Where is Mrs. Rochester?”

  “Was that her screaming?” an older lady asked.

  “Heaven help us!” a younger lady cried.

  John emerged from his room to stand at his door. The guests were milling around the hall in their nightcaps and dressing gowns. Sophie was among them. She hovered nearby, her eyes as large as saucers. “Go back to the nursery,” John said. “Stay with the boys.”

  She nodded mutely before retreating back inside. John heard her lock the door.

  “Check Mrs. Rochester’s room, Mother,” George Eshton was saying. “She might still be abed.”

  “You reckon she slept through that god-awful shrieking?” the elder Mr. Eshton retorted. “No one could!”

  “She might have taken a s
leeping draught,” Miss Lynn said. “I often do.”

  Mrs. Eshton entered Mrs. Rochester’s room only to come out seconds later, her face contorted in distress. “Her bed is empty!”

  “Here I am!” Mrs. Rochester’s voice rang down the hall. “I shall be with you directly.” She strode past John without a glance, hurrying to join her guests. Like them, she wore a dressing gown over her nightclothes. Her black hair was disposed in a plait over her shoulder. Several strands had come loose to curl about her face.

  “What in blazes has happened?” George Eshton asked. “Has someone been hurt?”

  “No, indeed. A servant has merely had a nightmare.” Mrs. Rochester took Mr. Eshton’s arm, guiding him back to his door. “And here you’ve all disturbed yourselves for nothing. Come, back to bed with you. You too, Mrs. Eshton.”

  “But really, my dear,” the elder lady began. “I—”

  “I’ll hear no more on the subject.” Mrs. Rochester urged the older lady to her room. “I have the matter well in hand. Your interference will only embarrass the poor girl further.”

  John remained where he was until everyone else in the hall had been dispersed.

  When the final door closed, Mrs. Rochester’s gaze found his. There was nothing of calmness in her eyes. Only a glowing urgency. “Finish getting dressed.”

  He didn’t linger to interrogate her. Withdrawing to his room, he put on his boots, slipped on a vest, and thrust his arms into the sleeves of his coat. He hadn’t any idea what she might require of him, but he intended to be prepared for anything.

  That scream had been no serving girl having a nightmare.

  For one thing, they didn’t have a serving girl at Thornfield, only the scullery maid. And she didn’t sleep on the third floor. Add to that the tenor of the scream—the pure horror of it—as if it came from the throat of a woman damned to torment in the deepest pit of hell.

  John shuddered to recall it.

  When dressed, he returned to the door and cracked it open. Minutes passed. The house was quiet, save for the sound of rain pelting the roof and windows as the storm raged outside. It was well past three. The moon had begun to wane, casting his bedroom in darkness. He was grateful for the light of his candle.

  A moment later, Mrs. Rochester’s soft footsteps sounded on the carpet. She approached his door, fully dressed now in her black riding habit, gloves, and cloak. Her hair had been twisted into a hasty chignon at her nape. “Come with me,” she said, holding aloft a small oil lamp. “Quietly, please.”

  John obeyed without question, accompanying her down the hall to the stairs that led up to the third floor. He was conscious of every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the steps under his booted feet. They stopped outside the same door through which he’d once seen Mr. Poole disappear. It was the man’s lair, John presumed.

  Mrs. Rochester produced a key from her pocket, and fitting it to the lock, opened the door.

  John didn’t know what he’d been expecting. An animal’s den, perhaps. Something filthy and rank. This room was neither of those things. It was clean and spare, housing only a large curtained bed, a wooden chest, and a washstand.

  On the opposite wall hung an enormous tapestry. A corner of it had been looped back, revealing a small hidden door. What lay behind it, John didn’t need to guess. He heard, quite clearly, the faint rattle of chains and the muffled, preternatural laughter of Mr. Poole.

  “Never mind that.” Mrs. Rochester went to the bed and drew back the curtain. “Here, John. This is where I need you.”

  He came to stand beside her. As she lifted her lamp, he saw—to his astonishment—that a woman lay atop the bed. Her eyes were closed, her skin as white as a corpse. The bodice of her gown had been opened to the waist, revealing not only her corset and chemise but the blood-soaked bandage at her throat.

  “Hold the lamp,” Mrs. Rochester said.

  John took it from her and raised it high, illuminating the poor woman’s face. She was a stranger to him. A female of passing middle age. Her hair was sleek and dark, her eyes and mouth bracketed by faint lines. On the third finger of her lifeless left hand a sizeable ruby glinted, set in a band of gold.

  Was this the mysterious Mrs. Wren?

  Mrs. Rochester crossed the room to the washstand. Water splashed in the bowl, and there was a sound of tearing linen. When she returned, she blotted the woman’s face with a thickly folded pad of wet cloth before using the same cloth to wipe away the fresh blood that trickled from the bandage.

  The woman’s eyes fluttered opened. “Am I out of danger?” Her words were strangely accented. John wondered if she was Bulgarian.

  “Danger?” Mrs. Rochester gave a huff of impatience. “What do you know of danger? This is only a scratch. Don’t be so fainthearted.” She swabbed away more blood from the woman’s throat. “Bear up awhile longer till the surgeon comes.” Her eyes found his. “John?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I must fetch Mr. Carter from Hay.”

  “In this weather?” He couldn’t imagine any of the servants being willing to go out on such an errand. Not at this time of night.

  “I’ve little choice. But it won’t take me long. No more than an hour or two. I intend to ride like the very devil.”

  Understanding sank in. “You?” He stared at her. “But…you can’t. It isn’t safe.”

  “Safer for me than anyone else. Don’t argue. We haven’t the time. I must go at once. In the meanwhile, I shall have to leave you here with this lady. You may continue cleaning the blood away as I have done. If she appears to be failing, bathe her face or offer her a glass of water.”

  The woman moaned softly. “Bertha…”

  Mrs. Rochester stood over her, something vaguely threatening in her manner. “You’re not to say a word to him. Do you understand me? Not a single syllable. If you dare defy me, I won’t be responsible for what becomes of you.”

  A weak groan emerged from the woman’s lips. Her eyes closed once more.

  Mrs. Rochester put the pad of cloth into his hand. “Mind what I’ve told you. Remain here, within the four corners of this chamber, and venture no farther. Open no windows and no doors. And remember—not a word of conversation!”

  With that, she exited the room, locking the door behind her.

  John’s stomach sank at the sound of the key turning in the lock. He wasn’t afraid. But he didn’t much fancy Mr. Poole leaping out at him from inside whatever room was hidden behind the tapestry. Then again, John supposed that Mrs. Rochester must have locked that door as well.

  He wiped another trickle of blood from the wound on Mrs. Wren’s neck. Her eyes were closed, her mouth clamped so hard that her lips had gone blue. Was it loss of blood that made her hold herself so still? Was it pain?

  Or was it fear?

  He examined her more closely. Good lord, she hadn’t fainted, had she? But no. Her hands were clenched at her sides, half-trembling with the effort. She breathed in shallow, shaking gasps, every exhalation prompting another pulse of blood from her wound.

  What had Mr. Poole done to her? Had he attacked her with a knife? And why?

  As if there could be a reason!

  John cast a brief look at the small door in the wall. It was made of thick, light-colored wood, studded with large silver nails. A new door—newer, at least, than others he’d seen in the house. Its frame and hardware appeared new as well, as if the whole of it had been quite recently reinforced.

  Was this where Mr. Poole was confined during one of his episodes? For what else could they be termed but episodes of madness? The man certainly wasn’t out of his head the entirety of the time. Whenever John saw him in the kitchen or down at the stables, he appeared as unremarkable as any other servant.

  And yet he’d attacked a woman who was easily half his size. Attacked and nearly killed her.

  Mrs. Wren mo
aned as John swabbed her neck. The pad of cloth in his hand was hardly useful anymore. It had grown soaked with her blood. Rising, he went to the basin and rinsed it out.

  When he returned, her eyes were open. Brown eyes, glazed with horror. They wandered around the room—to the small door and to the window—and then to John’s face, searching, searching.

  He wiped her brow again before cleansing the blood from her wound, all the while listening for sounds of stirring within the room behind the wall. He heard nothing now. Nothing save the steady downpour of rain, and the occasional rumble of thunder.

  How would Mrs. Rochester manage in such conditions? Heavy fog and heavier rain would surely hinder her progress. She’d said she would ride like the very devil, but how swiftly could one travel on horseback when one was incapable of seeing more than a few feet in front of them at any given moment?

  And what if her horse should slip in the lane as it had the day they’d met? What if she should be injured?

  Or worse.

  What if she were to fall and break her neck just as Blanche Ingram had? Her body left to lie until the following day, doomed to fall victim to ravening animals?

  John was tormented by the imagery. As the minutes ticked by, it was all he could do to focus on Mrs. Wren. To swab her wound, and to rinse his cloth again, and then again, in water that was now clouded with her blood.

  He passed an hour in this manner, all the while worrying for the safety of Mrs. Rochester—and for his own safety, near as he was to the menace lurking behind the door.

  And he wondered how it was that Mrs. Wren had fallen victim to that menace. She was a stranger here, wasn’t she? An unannounced visitor who had, only hours ago, been waiting in the small parlor to speak with the mistress of Thornfield Hall.

  News of her arrival had struck Mrs. Rochester a blow. Indeed, on hearing of it from Mr. Fairfax, she’d seemed almost to be afraid. But in this room—the two ladies face to face—John had observed that it was Mrs. Wren who was stricken with fear. She looked on Mrs. Rochester with an expression of dread. But no. Not dread. It was more even than that. She looked on her with something approaching awe.