John Eyre Read online

  I stood from my desk as he entered my room. Without a word, he approached, and sliding his arm around my waist in a lover’s embrace, he bent his head into the crook of my neck and inhaled deeply.

  “You’ve been wandering, my dear,” he said.

  My heart raced so I couldn’t tell where one beat ended and the other began.

  “Haven’t I warned you that wandering is dangerous here?” As he spoke, his lips brushed my throat. They’d barely touched my skin before he recoiled back with a hiss. His fingers flew to his mouth, as if I’d done him an injury. “That necklace!” His eyes kindled with accusation. “I told you not to wear it.”

  I lifted a protective hand to my locket. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Remove it at once.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  He took a step toward me, menacing me with his glare. “You will do as you’re told. If you disobey me, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Strike me? Throttle me? It will be no worse than what you’ve already done.” To my shame, I felt tears burning in my eyes. I couldn’t help but ask, “Why did you ever marry me?”

  He continued to regard my locket with impotent fury. I was beginning to think he wouldn’t answer when, at last, he said, rather sullenly, “You had something of what I required.”

  “Money?”

  “That,” he admitted, “and a certain vulnerability.”

  I took immediate exception to this. “I wasn’t vulnerable.”

  “All women are. Only some are too stupid to realize it.”

  “But why me?” I pressed him. “There must have been others. Women of wealth and property. I can’t have been the only one worth marrying.”

  He lowered his hand from his mouth with a wince. In the dim light, his lips appeared red as blood. Seared as if by a burning brand. “There were others. Of course there were. Women of a trivial nature, possessing neither souls nor hearts. And then I saw you in Cairo. A woman with an affect of strength. With a clear eye and a soul made of fire. A woman without protection.”

  I swallowed hard. “You were attracted to me.”

  He had the temerity to shrug. “It was, as much is in life, a matter of timing. Your English laws have harmed my investments. War has damaged my homeland. And the tomb in Thebes—empty. A perfect storm, isn’t that what you call it in your language? And there you were, alone and so deeply, pathetically needy. Fancying yourself different from other women, but in every way the same. You made it quite easy, my love.”

  His words skewered my heart with ruthless precision. I thought of how assiduously he’d courted me, when all the while he’d been so cold. So calculating. And I, his willing victim. “And now?” I asked. “You’ll abandon all this—your home, your people—for England?”

  “This is not my home,” he said. “The war with Russia has seen to that. And these are not my people. They’re the creatures who arrived when my own people fled. A nomadic race, always eager to attach themselves to a powerful nobleman. They fear me enough to serve me, but they aren’t of my blood. I have no connection to this place any longer. I shall be glad to start again in your country.”

  “With another woman?” I asked.

  He seemed amused by the question. “What need have I of another woman? I am wed to you, Bertha.” At that, he came closer—close enough to see me shrink back against the wall. His eyes flicked from my face to my locket and back again. “No, my dear. Your country has something superior to women. It holds the British Museum, and therein lies the book that I seek.”

  “I thought you said it was owned by another collector? That you were going to make an offer for it?”

  “So I did,” he said. “But the fool has refused it. It seems he’d rather the book end its days in a museum. I’ve had word of it from my man in Wallachia. And now my course is set.”

  “The British Museum will never sell it to you. They’re not in the habit of giving up their treasures.”

  “I don’t mean to buy it from them,” he said. “I need only to read it. To learn its secrets.”

  It had been some time since my husband spoke to me in such a frank manner. No doubt he was only doing so because he’d already decided my fate. There was, after all, no danger in confiding in a dead woman. “What secrets do you believe it contains?” I asked.

  “A cure for my illness,” he said. “A recipe of old, the consumption of which will enable me to do what I have not done in an age.”

  “Which is?”

  His mouth curled into a fiendish smile. “To walk in the sunlight, my dear.”

  25 April, later that day. — God help me, my hand is shaking so horribly I can hardly write down what I have seen. I’m back in my room again after having once more ventured through the wardrobe. But I must record every detail in order, as fantastic as it is.

  After a night spent doing who knows what outside the walls of Nosht-Vŭlk, Edward returned at sunrise and retreated to his room. I waited an hour before I followed after him, with my satchel, lantern, and pistol. This time, I let neither the debris, nor the smell deter me. I descended into the darkness down the stone steps, through the wooden door, and into the underground chamber, navigating my way past the rotted clothing and stinking soil.

  Beyond lay great piles of earth, heaped next to shallow holes in the ground. The sort that appeared as though made by a digging animal. But these weren’t gopher holes dug in an English garden. These were as wide and long as graves. My teeth chattered with fear as I passed them, shining my light into each one, and anticipating the absolute worst.

  Anticipation did nothing to dull the horror of what I found. It was the body of a young woman. Or what had once been a young woman. Agnes, in fact. Tears stung at my eyes, bile rising in my throat, as I held the light over what was left of her. I paused to be sick.

  But there was nothing I could do for Agnes. Not anymore. I continued on, suppressing the panic that built in my chest, as I found another body, and then another. They appeared to have been there for a long while, their remains consisting of little more than scraps of women’s clothing clinging to desiccated bones. However, as I pressed forward, the ceiling slanting lower and lower, obliging me to bend at the waist, I saw a sight that I will remember until my dying day.

  It was my husband—Edward Rochester—lying comfortably in a shallow grave. He hadn’t the pallor of death. His face was in full color. Almost rosy with blood. His eyes were closed, his left arm resting across his waist, as if he were sleeping. Kneeling down next to him, I touched him lightly on the shoulder. He didn’t move.

  Was he dead? He must be so, for why else was he here? I pressed my fingers to his throat, seeking his pulse. And there was movement beneath my fingertips. A rushing feeling, like a mighty river. Such did I imagine his blood flowing through his veins. Not dead, then. But what of his heart? Why was it not beating?

  I didn’t linger to discover the answer. My brief moment of compassion was blotted out by the urgency of reality. Dead or no, he was unmoving, and I’d have been a fool to forego the opportunity to make a thorough search of his person. I slid my hands over his body, inside of his frock coat and his waistcoat. My efforts were rewarded, for there, in an interior pocket, I discovered a single key.

  It wasn’t what I’d been looking for. Not the house keys on their heavy ring. But it was something. My fingers curled around it.

  In that same instant, Edward’s eyelids slid open. He stared at me, unseeing in the lamplight. He was awake, and not awake—his eyes as lifeless as those among whom he made his bed. I didn’t understand it. And I didn’t remain long enough to investigate further. Snatching the key from his pocket, I leapt up in a tangle of skirts, and ran back the way I’d come as if the devil was at my heels.

  Writing it all down now, I’d like to believe that I imagined it. Such horrors lie outside the realm of comprehension. But what I’ve s
een cannot be denied. I’ve known for some time that Edward Rochester is no gentleman. Now, I must recognize that he is something worse. A murderer. A parasite who enriches himself on the wealth—on the very lives—of his victims.

  Had he seen me? Was he even now rising to give chase? The thought provoked me to flee straight out of the secret panel in the wardrobe and up the stairs to the chamber with its window overlooking the courtyard. I suppose I had some hysterical notion to squeeze through the bars and fling myself out. Surely being crushed on the paving stones would be preferable to spending my final hours in that fetid graveyard beneath Nosht-Vŭlk.

  But when I attempted to fit my body through the bars, I couldn’t manage it. My shoulders were too broad. I was stuck there, head hanging out in the bright sunlight, choking back sobs of desperation. “Help me!” I cried. “Won’t anyone help me!”

  And God answered. For when the tears cleared enough that I could see, I beheld a familiar figure creeping into the courtyard, gazing up at me in abject astonishment.

  It was Mr. Poole.

  Thornfield Hall

  Yorkshire, England

  April 1844

  John sat back against the broad trunk of the thorn tree, his sketchbook and pencil in his hand. His gaze intermittently lifted from the page to watch Stephen and Peter frolicking about the meadow. The pair of them were engaged in a haphazard game of battledore and shuttlecock.

  It was a fine spring day. Warm and sweet-smelling. The mist had dissipated to the veriest vapor, clinging weakly at the edges of the Hall but coming no farther. John scarcely noticed it from his position.

  He was in his shirtsleeves, his frock coat discarded at his side. It was hard to believe that only weeks ago a storm had raged at Thornfield. A strange storm, for it had ended within a day of Mr. Poole’s attack on Mrs. Wren. A mere twenty-four hours later, the rain and thunder had ceased, and the light of the sun had broken through the clouds.

  The Eshtons had left the following day, and Mrs. Rochester the day after that. She hadn’t said goodbye to John. It wasn’t her habit to inform him of her comings and goings. He’d had to hear it from Mr. Fairfax.

  “She’s gone to London again,” he’d said. “To see her solicitor, I suspect.”

  John feared she was making preparations for her marriage. Not that it was any of his concern—kisses and confidences notwithstanding. But she’d been gone a fortnight, and he was conscious of every passing day.

  His pencil moved over the page, shading in the landscape he’d sketched with rapid strokes. He was thus occupied when the echo of clattering hooves sounded in the drive.

  It was Mrs. Rochester.

  She cantered up on her great black horse, the drape of her heavy skirts floating behind her. A high-crowned hat was perched upon her raven tresses, a net veil shielding her eyes.

  The coachman, Jenkins, came out to meet her. He held her horse as she dismounted. Having done so, she turned and looked out toward the thorn trees. After issuing a few words to Jenkins, she crossed the meadow.

  John rose to greet her.

  “John!” she called out. “Enjoying the fine weather, I see.”

  “I am, ma’am.” He closed his sketchbook, and tucked his pencil away. “Did you have a good journey?”

  “Good enough, but ultimately unsuccessful. How are the boys?”

  “Very well.” He paused. “That is, they were a bit distressed after the events of last month. I expect they heard the screaming. But I explained things to them, and they appear to be fine now.”

  Her mouth curved in a dry smile. “I hesitate to enquire what explanation you provided.”

  “Only that there was an accident, and that a guest had been injured.”

  “True enough.” Her gaze drifted over his face before dropping lower.

  He reached for his coat, but she forestalled him.

  “You needn’t stand on ceremony with me. Certainly not on an afternoon like this.” With that, she removed her hat and wound the veil about the brim. “Suffocating thing.”

  “You might need it. The sun can be oppressive at this time of day.”

  “Nonsense. It’s cool enough here. Come beneath the trees with me. Walk awhile.”

  He draped his coat over his arm. Despite his best intentions—all of his resolve to remain aloof and to remember his place—he found himself settling into her company as easily as breathing. “I understand you went to London.”

  “Much good it did me.”

  “Your solicitor was unhelpful?

  “My solicitor?” She cast him a glance. “What has he to do with it?”

  “Nothing, except that Mr. Fairfax told me you were visiting the man.”

  “I did visit Mr. Hughes. He’s seeing to some tedious financial matters for me, settlements and so forth.”

  Settlements and so forth?

  John’s chest constricted. He’d been right, then. She was planning to marry. “I see.”

  “You don’t. Mr. Hughes wasn’t the reason I went to London.” She squinted her eyes at the boys playing in the distance. “I went there to call on a particular gentleman. The same gentleman I call on every time I go into town. His name is Mr. Samuel Birch. He works at the British Museum.”

  Jealousy was temporarily replaced by curiosity. John gave her an interested look. “What do you want with him?”

  “Many things. For one, he knows more about ancient Egypt that anyone else employed there. For another, he can read Egyptian hieroglyphs. He’s working on several translations of ancient texts at the moment—though not quickly enough, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Is that what you require? A translation?”

  “Something like.” Her arm brushed his as they walked. The briefest caress, however unintentional.

  “I wasn’t aware you had an interest in ancient Egypt.”

  “You must know I traveled there.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “My father was an enthusiast. The kind who admires other men’s adventures from afar. He subscribed to all the popular journals. As a girl, I often read them—the parts I could understand. The pictures caught my imagination. It seemed the grandest thing to travel there. To see the pyramids for myself. To observe a tomb being excavated.”

  “Did you? When you visited?”

  “Oh yes. I did all of those things. It was glorious.” A frown tugged at her mouth. “I met my husband in Egypt.”

  “I know.”

  “Mr. Fairfax again? He does rattle on about me, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s very loyal.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose. Loyalty.” She sighed. It was a weary sound. As if the burdens of her life had finally got the better of her. “Tell me truthfully, John. How have you fared while I’ve been away?”

  “I’ve kept busy with teaching the boys.”

  “And with drawing and painting?”

  “That, too.” He strolled a few steps in silence before adding, “I’ve rarely seen Mr. Poole about since that night. Only once at the stable, busy at his forge. He addressed me as if nothing untoward had happened.”

  A scowl briefly marred her brow. “I told you not to worry about him. He has his duties, just as you have yours. Best to leave him alone.”

  “I certainly don’t seek the man out.”

  “Good.” Her arm grazed his again, warm and feminine. “Did you miss me at all?”

  John looked straight ahead as they walked. He was painfully aware of her. Her womanly scent and shape, so endlessly alluring. The touch of her sleeve, and the soft rustle of her skirts, brushing against his legs. It was intimate. Unconsciously seductive. “I haven’t any right to miss you.”

  “If you believe that, then your memory must have failed you.”

  “My memory is in perfectly good order,” he replied. And then: “The boys missed
you.”

  “Bah. The boys are as resilient as I am. They’ll muddle through with or without me. It’s you they’ve come to rely on. See how they look to you?”

  “They’re good lads. I hope I’ve been able to help them a little.”

  She laughed suddenly. “Is this John Eyre speaking? This humble creature?”

  He bent his head, failing to suppress a short laugh of his own. “Yes, yes. I know. But I do try to be humble about my teaching.”

  “You’re an excellent tutor, as we both know.” The smile remained on her lips, but the one in her eyes faded. “I daresay you’re an excellent man.”

  “Mrs. Rochester…”

  “But that will keep, I trust.” She turned abruptly back to the house. “I must go and change out of this dusty habit. Good afternoon.”

  He stood, still as a statue, as she walked away. It took a moment for him to remember to reply. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  “Bulgaria,” John said. The library curtains were open, the midday sun illuminating the globe in its heavy wooden frame. “Can you find it for me?”

  Stephen spun the globe one quarter turn, his finger tracing over the European continent. He pointed to his homeland. It wasn’t the first time John had asked him to locate it on a map.

  “Excellent,” John said. “And you, Peter? Can you show me England?”

  Peter used both hands to turn the globe in its frame, seeming to enjoy the spinning of it more than the actual lesson.

  John stopped the motion with his hand as Britain came into view. “It’s here. Do you see?”

  The clock on the mantel chimed the hour, just as a shuffling noise at the door announced the arrival of Sophie. She was nothing if not punctual.

  Stephen and Peter looked to her with anticipation. By this time of day, their stomachs were all but growling.

  “Very well,” John said. “Tidy your books, and then you may break for luncheon.”

  The two boys hurriedly organized their desks before racing off with Sophie to eat their small repast of toasted bread and cheese.