John Eyre Page 24

John watched them go, half smiling.

  Mrs. Rochester’s return from London had been followed by three weeks of relative peace. He’d initially expected her to set out again after a few days’ time. Thornfield wasn’t a place in which she seemed capable of finding peace.

  But she hadn’t gone.

  She’d remained in residence. Even better, she’d taken to summoning him to tea each evening in the drawing room. There they engaged in long conversations punctuated by sharpness and humor. She took delight in sparring with him, and he’d come to enjoy it, too, almost as much as she did. It was becoming his greatest pleasure to laugh with her, and to make her smile.

  The more he knew her, the more he found in her to esteem. She was a fascinating woman, regal and capricious. But it was her strength that defined her. He admired her for it. More than admired her. He respected her.

  And that wasn’t all.

  He’d already known he was physically attracted to her. What he hadn’t anticipated was feeling such tenderness. Such warm regard. Indeed, his affection for her grew by the day. But he dared not reveal the extent of his devotion. He was resolved to guard his heart—and his position in her household.

  His insistence on clinging to a degree of formality between them seemed to needle her. So, she needled him in return, making veiled references to her impending marriage.

  Yet there was no sign of George Eshton. He never came to call. And Mrs. Rochester hadn’t journeyed to visit him at the Leas. The only evidence John could glean of their fast-approaching nuptials was in the constant correspondence with which Mrs. Rochester was engaged.

  Letters arrived at Thornfield with regularity, and replies were sent out again, often the same day. Letters from London, Cairo, and—earlier this morning—even one from a town called Argeș in Wallachia. John had never heard of the place.

  Still standing at the globe, he spun it back to Bulgaria. Wallachia was a vast region on its northern border, and one with which he wasn’t very familiar. He skimmed the names of the cities and countries. Bucharest. Argeș. Transylvania.

  Mrs. Rochester had once accused him of being a neophyte. A man who had never left the safety of the British Isles. It wasn’t for lack of interest. He only regretted he hadn’t made a greater effort to see more of the world. His lack of fortune and family weighed against him in that regard, but his profession was a mobile one. Many teachers removed to more exotic locales, usually in the guise of missionaries.

  Collecting his sketchbook, John left the library. It was another fine day—odd at Thornfield. He was determined to take advantage of it. Climbing the stairs, he made his way to the third floor. Once there, he couldn’t help staring at the closed door at the end of the darkened corridor.

  The door to Mr. Poole’s room.

  A faint chill shivered down John’s spine as he passed it. A memory of Mrs. Wren’s ashen face and ravaged neck. Of her words, spoken in such desperate tones: “He said he would drain my heart.”

  When coupled with the book of German folklore that John had lately been reading, it was enough to sicken his stomach. He supposed he could blame Mr. Taylor for that. What did the vicar mean by lending out such disturbing fiction? Tales of bloodsucking creatures feeding on people while they slept. Of sharp-fanged sprites, sullen dwarves, and sinister changelings.

  Did the people of Hay really believe such superstitious nonsense? John wondered.

  He climbed the narrow flight of stairs that led to the attics. There, he found the trapdoor already open. Was Mr. Fairfax up on the battlements? Or someone else?

  Pray God it wasn’t Mr. Poole.

  John hesitated at the ladder before steeling his nerves and quietly climbing up the rungs. Emerging onto the roof of the Hall, he saw someone seated in the distance, back propped against one of the chimney stacks. It wasn’t Mr. Fairfax. Nor was it Mr. Poole.

  It was Mrs. Rochester. She was weeping silently.

  At the sight of him, she hastily wiped her cheeks with her hands. “What are you doing here?”

  He lifted his sketchbook in silent explanation.

  “Oh.” There was a letter on her lap, the sheets of paper spread out over the folds of her black silk mourning dress. Gathering them up, she folded them back together and moved to rise. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  His interest in drawing had disappeared the moment he saw her. He went to her and helped her to her feet. “What’s wrong?”

  She released his hand to brush off her skirts. “Everything.”

  “You’ve had bad news?”

  “Nothing I didn’t expect.” She thrust the letter into the pocket of her gown. “You’d think I’d have been prepared for it, but I—” She broke off, eyes glistening.

  His voice deepened with concern. “What is it?”

  She walked to the battlements, turning her face to dash away another stray tear. “Only that I’ve reached an impasse. This problem I’ve been trying to solve. I thought I could conquer it. That I could win. Indeed, at times, I thought I was winning. But not losing isn’t the same as winning. It’s only a stalemate. And now I understand that I can’t win. The best I can hope for is to maintain things as they are.”

  He stood beside her, his back against the battlements, facing her as she leaned over them. “Is that so terrible?”

  “Yes. But…perhaps, if I went away. If I managed things so that I was no longer needed here save once or twice a year…”

  A leaden weight settled in his midsection. “You want to leave again?”

  “I do.”

  “For where?”

  “Somewhere bright and happy. Paris or Rome or—” She broke off again. “Which would you recommend?”

  A mild breeze whispered over them, bringing the sweet fragrance of newly cut hay and early spring flowers. It was strikingly at odds with the remnants of mist that still lingered about the grounds.

  “You know I’ve never been anywhere,” he said.

  “But you’ve dreamed, haven’t you? Where would you go if you were at your leisure?”

  “Italy, I suppose. To tour the monuments and museums.” He smiled at the impossibility of it. “It would be nice to see the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

  “Nice,” she repeated. “You think it would be nice.”

  “Glorious, then. Wasn’t that your word for Egypt?”

  She gave him a look—such a look. “Do you like me, John?”

  His pulse briefly lost its rhythm. “Of course I do.”

  “Why?”

  He studied her face, wishing he could read her as easily as he did the books in the library. That he could understand what it was that tormented her so. If he did, he might be able to help her. “Because you’re strong. Intelligent and capable.”

  Her face crumpled. She looked out at the view again, visibly struggling to suppress another fall of tears.

  “And because you’re a good person,” he said.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. I’ve seen it in how you care for the boys. In how you look after those you employ here at Thornfield.” He brushed her silk-clad arm with the back of his fingers. The smallest stroke of comfort. “Please don’t cry.”

  She turned away from him.

  He withdrew his handkerchief and offered it to her. She took it without a word. “Miss Ingram’s death wasn’t your fault,” he said.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know about guilt. The way it can weigh upon you. Eat you up from the inside. I know what I felt when Lady Helen took her own life. Afterward…I didn’t believe I could ever find peace again. But I have found it, here at Thornfield. And I want the same for you. I want you to be happy.” He set aside his feelings. His love for her. And it was love, he recognized that now. But he wouldn’t lay it upon her as another burden. “If Eshton makes you so, then I think you had bette
r marry him.”

  “How magnanimous of you.” She blotted her eyes. “He’ll be relieved to know we have your blessing.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “Yes.” Her gaze cut to his, damp eyes brilliant in the sunlight. “I wonder what will become of you when I marry?”

  He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. The truth was, he’d rather been wondering that himself. Indeed, during the past month, the thought of what he’d do when she wed George Eshton had kept him up at night far more than he’d once been kept awake by guilt over the death of Helen Burns.

  “The boys are young yet,” he said, a little hoarsely. “I’d hoped you would allow me to remain as their tutor until they’re older.”

  It would be enough to be here with them at Thornfield. To see her, even if it was only once a year. He could make it enough if he had to.

  At least, that was what he’d been telling himself. That her marriage didn’t have to change anything. That a part of her, however small, could still be his.

  “I mean to take the boys with me when I leave here,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  He stilled. Whatever fragile hope he’d cherished in his breast fractured and cracked like so much glass. It was a feeling very close to physical pain. “No. You didn’t.”

  “Well. Now you know.” She crumpled his handkerchief. “What do you mean to do about it?”

  He stared at her. “What can I do?”

  She looked steadily back at him. “Am I not worth fighting for?”

  “Is that what you what me to do? Fight for you?” He was incredulous. “To what end?”

  “Do you only fight for things that are easy? Things that require no fight at all? I know you didn’t exert yourself for Lady Helen, but—”

  “That was different. She was different.”

  “How well I know it. Sainted Helen. Too good for this world.”

  He shook his head, troubled by her tone. “Don’t.”

  “Helen, up there on her pedestal. But you’re here with me now, John. Here in the dirt, among the living.” She turned to him, tears still clinging to her lashes. “You told me once that you were my subordinate in fact, but not in spirit. Do you remember?”

  How could he forget? It had been that morning in the arbor, words he’d spoken in the taut seconds before she’d kissed him.

  “It’s my spirit that now addresses your spirit,” she said, “as honestly as if we’d crossed through the veil. Do you hear me, John? I don’t want a lord and master. And I certainly don’t want a long-suffering admirer. I need a man who will pass through this life at my side. A man who will be my equal—my second self, and best earthly companion.”

  His heart beat hard. He had the strangest sense that he was dreaming. That, at any moment, he’d wake up, alone in the darkness. “What about Eshton?”

  “I’m not marrying George Eshton. I never was. I don’t love him.” Her mouth trembled. “The closest thing I’ve ever felt to love is what I feel for you.”

  A swell of emotion tightened John’s throat. He knew what the declaration must have cost her. She wasn’t a woman who often made herself vulnerable. He took her in his arms. She came willingly, setting her hands flat against his waistcoat. “Do you mean that?” he asked, his voice gone gruff.

  “Yes,” she said. And then again, more emphatically, “Yes. When I leave Thornfield, I must have you with me.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “Whatever you choose. Tutor. Friend.” She smoothed her palms over his chest. “Husband.”

  He bent his head to hers. “I don’t want your money or property. I want only you, Bertha.” He was conscious of using her given name for the first time. A heady feeling. “I do love you.”

  She pressed her cheek to his, her breath a soft, ragged whisper against his ear. “Then say you’ll come with me. That we can leave this place together, along with the boys.”

  “Would that I could travel with you as your friend—or as their tutor—without damaging your good name.” His hand moved gently on the corseted curve of her back. “But people will talk. You know what they’re like. Your reputation would suffer for it.”

  “I don’t care about my reputation.”

  “I care. I won’t be the cause of your ruination.”

  She gave a strange laugh. “My darling. One day you shall marvel that you said such a thing.” She pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. “Husband it is, then.”

  He drew back sharply, his eyes searching hers. “Take care. I have nothing to offer you but myself.”

  “You’re all I require,” she said.

  “Are you certain?”

  “As certain as the grave.”

  He looked at her, deeply, every cell and sinew of his being yearning, yearning. Wanting her so very badly. A mighty surge of masculine emotion deafening him to the persistent flicker of warning that sounded deep within his brain. “Then marry me,” he said. “Say you’ll be my wife.”

  A look of almost savage determination crossed over her face. “I will,” she said. “May God pardon me.”

  John straightened Stephen’s and Peter’s portfolios before stacking them on one of the library shelves. He’d already dismissed the boys for an early luncheon and was about to seek out his own midday meal when Bertha entered the library.

  “Good morning.” She was dressed in a black silk carriage dress, a black crepe-trimmed bonnet in her hand.

  The sight of her never failed to make John’s heart turn over. “Good morning.” He crossed the room to meet her.

  A week had passed since she’d accepted his proposal. During that time, he’d carried on much as he always had at Thornfield—teaching the boys and sharing dinners with Mr. Fairfax in the small parlor. The wedding was set for four weeks hence. In the meanwhile, John was taking no liberties.

  But fair weather was upon them, and a fair mood along with it. In addition to summoning him for tea each evening, Bertha had begun visiting him in the schoolroom, often drawing him away for walks and picnics on the grounds. The boys always came along, providing a fig leaf of chaperonage.

  As far as John was aware, no one at Thornfield yet knew that he and Bertha were to be married. And he had no intention of telling them. It was up to her to choose the time and manner of the announcement.

  Apparently, today was that day.

  “I’ve just informed Mr. Fairfax of our engagement,” she said.

  John failed to suppress a wince. He’d come to respect Mr. Fairfax. To look on him as something like a friend. The elderly butler’s good opinion shouldn’t matter—not in terms of whether or not John ultimately wed Bertha. Yet somehow it did. “How did he take the news?”

  “He was surprised, naturally. But he soon came around.” She smoothed John’s waistcoat. “Don’t look so worried. We’ll need his help with the plans for the wedding. We’ll never manage it so quickly on our own. Not if we mean to leave for Italy directly afterward.”

  “No. You’re right. We can’t keep it secret forever, can we?”

  She gazed up at him, frowning. “You’re afraid people will think you’re marrying me for my fortune.”

  “Among other things.”

  “Let them. Who cares what anyone says? All that matters is our own happiness. Yours and mine, and that of the boys.” Her hand lifted to cradle his cheek. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Not about you.” He bent his head to hers. “Never about you.”

  “Good. Because we haven’t time for doubts. If you have a free moment, spend it as I am, on preparing to leave this place.”

  His gaze dropped briefly to her carriage dress. She was devoid of ornament, save for the ever-present silver locket at her throat. He knew now that it contained two small portraits of her parents. A dour couple who bore little resemblance to their daughter. It also functione
d as a timepiece. There was a delicate clock set inside, which she often consulted. “Where are you off to today?”

  “To Millcote to buy my wedding clothes. I’ve done with all of this black. It’s time to shed my widow’s weeds.”

  After glancing at the door to make sure no one observed them, John gathered her in an embrace. How well she fit in his arms. He could almost imagine that she’d been fashioned just for him. “How will I recognize you without them?”

  “Foolish.” She encircled his neck. “Wait until you see how smart I look in pastel-printed muslin. You’ll fall in love with me all the more.”

  He kissed her fiercely. “Impossible.”

  After she’d gone, he made his way to the parlor where he often shared a midday meal with Mr. Fairfax. His footsteps slowed as he entered. The elderly butler was there, seated silently in his chair. A tray of tea and sandwiches stood untouched on the table beside him. He looked pale and grave, staring blankly ahead of him. Almost as if he was in shock.

  A floorboard creaked under John’s boot, announcing his presence.

  Mr. Fairfax roused himself. “Mr. Eyre. Do come in. It seems that congratulations are in order. Though one can hardly believe it. Is it true, then? Do you really mean to marry the mistress?”

  John took a seat in the velvet-upholstered armchair on the opposite side of the tea table. “I’ve asked her and she has accepted me.”

  “And you believe her?”

  John frowned. “Shouldn’t I?”

  Mr. Fairfax regarded John with a troubled expression. “I couldn’t say. That is, I expect you can believe it since she’s told you so. But how will it answer? Mrs. Rochester is a proud and independent woman. Her marrying Mr. Eshton would have been surprise enough. But to marry you?” He surveyed the whole of John’s person. “I can’t understand it.”

  John supposed he should be offended. “Am I such a sad specimen?”

  “No, indeed, sir. And Mrs. Rochester is fond of you, I daresay. I’ve noticed it myself. Many a time I’ve wanted to warn you to remain on your guard. Not everything at Thornfield is quite what it seems.”

  “I know that much,” John said grimly, thinking of Mr. Poole.