John Eyre Read online

  How often since the man’s attack on Mrs. Wren had John heard that blood-chilling chuckle of his? The rattling of chains and the scraping of wood coming from the third floor?

  Bertha had said she was confident that Mr. Poole wouldn’t hurt anyone again. John suspected that that confidence owed to some advanced level of confinement in the small room behind the tapestry. A place Mr. Poole was consigned during his moments of madness. Was he chained up now? Cuffed and collared like an animal, in addition to being locked in?

  This was the same man John saw working diligently at his forge, or carrying a pint of porter and plate of cold pork pie up from the kitchen. A stolid, steady fellow, with no glimmer of insanity in his gaze.

  It beggared belief.

  “We shall be glad to leave for Italy next month,” John said. “The climate will be better for the boys.”

  “Yes, the boys. You are to be commended, sir. They’ve improved a great deal under your care, and will improve even more if taken away from here. I’ve always thought as much.” Mr. Fairfax’s brows knit into a bushy white line. “Could you not travel with the mistress as their tutor? Must you marry her?”

  “I want to marry her,” John said. “I love her.”

  “What’s that?” Mr. Fairfax cocked his ear toward John.

  “I said that I love her.”

  Mr. Fairfax’s frown deepened. “Oh dear. That is unfortunate, for you see, I do fear there will be things that come to light that are far different from what you expect.”

  John was hurt by the insinuation. Hurt, and a little irritated. Did Mr. Fairfax truly think John had an expectation of wealth and property? That he’d forsake Bertha if her estate turned out to be worth less than it appeared? “I have no expectations,” he said. “I want only to look after her.”

  “Well. I suppose your mind is made up. I pray that you won’t be disappointed.” Mr. Fairfax at last poured out their tea. He handed John a cup with an unsteady hand.

  Some of the tea sloshed over into the saucer as John took it. He didn’t drink. And when Mr. Fairfax offered him a sandwich, John declined it. He found that he’d quite lost his appetite.

  Bertha remained in residence at Thornfield another fortnight—a blissful period of picnics, candlelit conversation, and stolen kisses—at the end of which she was called to London. Her solicitor required her to sign a few remaining documents relating to the administration of the estate in her absence.

  John accompanied her out to the waiting carriage. “I still think he might have come to you.”

  “Mr. Hughes is pushing eighty. I daren’t leave the final details of our departure to his feeble constitution. If left to his own devices, he’d make us wait another week, only to write and say he was too ill to embark on the journey.” She held tight to John’s arm as they descended the front steps. “No. I shall go to him in Fleet Street myself and see that all is in readiness for our departure. I’ll be back the day before the wedding, no later. And then, the moment we’re wed, we must fly. I won’t tolerate a second’s delay.”

  John gave her a look of concern. She was wearing a carriage dress of dark green silk trimmed in darker velvet—one of the many gowns she’d ordered on her visit to Millcote. The color set off her complexion to magnificent effect, and the wide flounced skirts and delicate velvet belt at her waist showcased her figure. He admired her in it, though it was still a trifle strange to see her out of her blacks. “You’re anxious.”

  “With good cause. I’ve too often had the cup of happiness snatched from my lips not to be wary of divine intervention.”

  He gave her a reassuring smile. “If God intervenes, I trust it will be on the side of our union.”

  She didn’t answer him. Instead, she turned into his arms, embracing him and pressing a hard kiss to his mouth—right there in front of Jenkins, Mr. Fairfax, and the boys. She broke away just as abruptly, permitting Jenkins to hand her into the cab of the carriage. He shut the door behind her, and leaping up on the box, set the horses in motion.

  As the carriage rolled away, Bertha’s solemn profile was briefly visible through the window. John watched her go, troubled.

  Perhaps it was only bridal nerves. A common enough condition among soon-to-be-married ladies—or so he understood.

  But Bertha was no virgin bride.

  Nevertheless, in the past few days, as the calendar had advanced toward the date of their wedding, she’d seemed to become increasingly restless and distracted.

  John’s own state of mind was generally more optimistic. There were difficulties in marrying a wealthy widow, it was true. People would talk. They were bound to do so. And he didn’t much relish being labeled a fortune-hunter. But the compensation of having Bertha Rochester as his wife would be worth it. Not her money or her property, but her.

  He was in love with her. And though she hadn’t yet declared her love for him—not in specific terms—he knew that what she felt for him was no passing fancy. He may not be dashing or daring. May not have wealth or breeding. But he was confident he could give her something of what she needed. Acceptance. Understanding. A shoulder to lean on when the next storm came.

  It was impossible to solve her problems for her. He wouldn’t presume to try. But he could stand by her side. He could be there for her as an equal. A second self, as she’d said.

  As for all the rest of it, John was resolved to be patient. There would be time enough for her to confide in him after they were married.

  He retired to his room that night wearier than usual. In Jenkins’s absence, John had been tasked with supervising Stephen and Peter at their afternoon riding lessons.

  Fortunately the boys required little instruction. Indeed it was clear that they’d ridden before. Once in the saddle, their confidence rose. John supposed it derived from the ease with which they could kick their mounts into a gallop and swiftly escape any perceived danger.

  But there was no danger here. Not for them. They never went about unescorted, and they never ventured onto the third floor. It was surely only the memory of danger that plagued them.

  Standing in front of the washstand in his bedroom, John bathed his face and dried it with a clean towel. A single flickering candle illuminated his reflection in the mirror that hung over the basin.

  Sometimes he hardly recognized himself anymore. He looked older. Graver. Good lord, there were even a few faint lines at the corners of his eyes. He leaned over the basin, drawing closer to the mirror in order to see them.

  And suddenly another face appeared in the glass, shrouding John’s own face like a caul.

  He jerked back in alarm. His heart jerked, too, leaping hard against his ribs.

  What the devil?

  Spinning around, he searched the darkness, all the while knowing what he would find.

  There was no one else there, of course. It had been a trick of the candlelight. But such a trick! The face had been fearful. Ghastly. Possessed of a countenance that could never have belonged to a human being.

  Was it some sort of premonition?

  Or was it merely a side effect of his tired eyes and equally tired brain? It must have been, for when he looked into the mirror again, the face was gone.

  It didn’t stop his pulse from racing. And later, when he finally climbed into his box bed, it did nothing to ease him to sleep. Instead he lay awake for hours, attuned to the slightest movement, the faintest noise.

  When Bertha returned at the end of the week, John met her carriage at the gates. It was approaching twilight, the very hour when the mist was at its utmost. Seeing him, Jenkins stopped the horses. Bertha alighted, waving the coachman on without her.

  “You needn’t have done that,” John said as the two of them met in the road. “I know you must be tired.”

  “Not at all. I’m glad for the opportunity to get some fresh air. It’s been a long, stuffy journey.” She stretched up
to kiss him, raising one hand to curl around his neck. Her lips shaped softly to his, their breath mingling sweetly.

  John held her fast. “I’ve missed you.”

  “And I you.” After another deep kiss, she drew back to look at him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, but—”

  “Something’s happened. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said again. “Only my imagination getting away from me.”

  “Ah. Is that all?” She linked her arm through his as they turned to walk up the road back to Thornfield. “It’s the eve of our wedding, John. You had better confess all to me.”

  He heaved a sigh. “It’s ludicrous. I’d blame the laudanum if I could. I often had strange visions while taking it. But since I’ve stopped, the visions have ceased. That is, they had done, until the night you left.”

  “What happened? What did you see?”

  “I was standing at the washstand, looking into the glass. And…a man’s face appeared.”

  “A man’s face?”

  He nodded. “It wasn’t a reflection. It simply materialized like vapor, floating there over my own face, nearly transparent—but not so transparent that I couldn’t see the horror of his countenance.”

  “Describe it.”

  “It was all over in a blink, mind you, but he seemed a fashionable gentleman. Handsome, even, with elegant features and waving ebony hair combed back from his forehead. But there the semblance of humanity ended. The image he cast was malevolent. The face of some poor creature damned to the pit.”

  Her gaze jerked to his. “Why do you say that?” she asked sharply. “Why do you call him a poor creature?”

  “He was white as death, with blood flowing from his eyes and ears to stain his face. And such eyes he had. Red as hellfire.” John grimaced. “Do you know, he rather reminded me of one of the foul specters in that book Mr. Taylor lent to me. One in particular: the German vampyre.”

  Bertha’s footsteps faltered.

  John caught her swiftly round the waist to steady her. “I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have gone into such gruesome detail.” He looked down at her. “Have I frightened you?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m only a little tired, that’s all.” She stepped back from him. Her face was pale in the waning light of day. “What happened next?”

  “Nothing. The vision disappeared. Gone as quickly as it had come. Though I confess it left quite an impression. I didn’t fall asleep until dawn.”

  “Understandably so.” She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. Her gloved hand was trembling.

  “Bertha—”

  “Don’t fuss. I’m perfectly all right.”

  “Have you dined?”

  She shook her head.

  “Take my arm, then, if you please. I’ll get you home and fed.” He waited for her to slip her hand back into the crook of his arm. When she’d done so, he continued back toward the house, albeit at a slower pace. “You see why I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “Yes. It’s all quite fanciful.” Her bell-shaped skirts swayed against his leg. “Are you sure you haven’t taken any laudanum?”

  “Not a drop. Nothing but that herbal tonic of yours since February.”

  “Strange. It should have put an end to bad dreams.”

  “In addition to headaches?” He smiled slightly. “You have a lot of confidence in the mixture.”

  “A guarded confidence. It’s a new recipe. I only discovered it earlier this year. An obliging chemist made it up for me in London.”

  “You’ve never mentioned what it contains.”

  She hesitated for an instant. “Various things. Wild rose. Garlic. Tincture of silver nitrate. An imprecise concoction. So much of this is trial and error.”

  He looked at her with a start. “Silver nitrate?”

  “Trace amounts. Not enough to harm anyone. Perhaps therein lies the difficulty.” She rubbed her temple, as if to stave off an impending headache. “Oh, why do we have to linger? Why can we not leave this place immediately?”

  “For Italy?”

  “Yes. For Rome or London. Anywhere but here. I don’t want to wait another night. But we must, mustn’t we? We can’t leave until we’re married.” She stared ahead, her gaze fixed on the house looming in the distance, swathed in its veil of mist. “Will you do something for me?”

  “Anything.”

  “Will you spend tonight in the nursery with the boys? Sophie won’t mind it.” She paused before adding, “You’ll never sleep properly in your own room. Not after such a nightmare as you’ve described. And I want you to be well rested for our wedding.”

  He frowned. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is,” she said. “And John? Be sure to bolt the door.”

  Mrs. Bertha Rochester’s Journal.

  26 April, morning. — After a fraught night, I am again alone in my chamber. Mr. Poole has gone, with promises to return to the courtyard today at noon. In the meanwhile, I’ve entreated him to hide himself as best he can. I believe he comprehends the danger. Indeed, when he saw me leaning out the barred window, he confessed that he’d thought me already dead.

  Apparently, he was set upon when he was returning from accompanying Mrs. Wren to Varna. He routed his assailants and walked the rest of the way back to Senniskali. I don’t flatter myself that he’s loyal. He’s not even passing clever. But Mr. Poole is strong as an ox, and he knows who it is who pays his wages. I’ve promised to triple his salary if he assists me in escaping this place.

  “Avoid the mist,” I called down to him as he departed yesterday. “Hide yourself at night as best you can. And on no account let my husband see you.”

  The small key I’d found in Edward’s waistcoat pocket was still in the pocket of my skirt. I hadn’t the time to investigate what lock it might fit into. The sun was rapidly slipping beyond the horizon. Soon my husband would wake, and I dared not risk him catching me with my pilfered prize.

  He rose at sunset, and much to my relief, seemed to have no idea that I’d spied him in his unnatural sleep. Neither did he seem to realize that his key was missing. He disappeared for the evening, returning at dawn with more foreign papers for me to sign. I did so without objection, even as my heart threatened to sink into despair. But what was the point in arguing with him? I was still his captive.

  Only when the sun rose and he once again retired to his lair did I venture from my room to test the key I’d stolen. It was a daunting task. Most of the doors in Nosht-Vŭlk were locked. It would mean trying every one of them.

  I first went to the front and side exterior doors—the doors that, if opened, would grant my freedom. There was little hope of success. The front door was barred with a heavy bolt, and the door from the kitchen was equally secured. Neither the key, nor persistent poking with my hairpins, produced any effect.

  Discouraged but not defeated, I tried various doors off of the main hall before extending my search to the opposite side of the fortress. It was there I found the key’s natural home: my husband’s vault. When inserted, the key opened the lock with a decisive click.

  Suddenly I understood why my husband had kept this key separately on his person. He valued the items in his vault more than anything else he possessed. I hadn’t much time before he realized his key was missing. After that, it wouldn’t take long for him to determine the likely culprit of the theft.

  Swinging the door of the vault open, I cautiously entered, my footsteps silent on the rich Turkish carpet that covered the floor as I lit the two lanterns which gave light to the small room. I’d never before been inside on my own. Never had the leisure to thoroughly inspect the treasures within—what was left of them. It appeared he’d sold off even more since my last visit. All that remained were bits of pottery carved with odd words and symbols; figures of gods and godde
sses; and a few delicately bound books and scrolls protected behind glass.

  I slid the interior bolt in place, if only as a precaution, and using the key, I opened one of the glass cases to take out a scroll. It was Egyptian, that much I recognized. But I hadn’t any notion what the writing said. As for the images, they seemed to depict a kind of funeral rite.

  Examining the other scrolls and books, I saw that they were much in the same vein. Texts from ancient civilizations—each with depictions of burial and rebirth. It’s a common enough belief in mythology, the idea of rising from the dead. But given Edward’s recent revelation about a book which would enable him to walk in the sunlight, I felt a distinct sense of unease.

  Was this the belief that currently possessed my husband? That he was some manner of deity who would soon rise again? I couldn’t help but make the comparison. The way he slept in the dirt, among his many victims—like a pharaoh entombed with slaves for the afterlife. It was a sort of delusion, I supposed. A mania, such as one read about in the sensation papers. With no doctors to take him in hand, his delusion had been permitted to advance to a gruesome conclusion. To murder and mayhem.

  But what of the way he’d interacted with the mist that I’d seen from the window? What of his eyes that night in my room, as red as the devil himself?

  I was puzzling over these very things when a faint—and quite persistent—scratching sound commenced. It set my nerves a jangle. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from and didn’t remain to find out. Returning to my room, I dined on the last of my store of spoiled bread and cheese, and while I waited for the clock to strike twelve, I began to formulate my escape.

  26 April, later that day. — I’ve sent Mr. Poole on an errand, equipped with enough coin (tossed down from the barred window) to see it through. I pray he’ll have success. It’s a foolhardy thing to have asked him to do. A reasonable woman might have simply commanded him to go to the authorities. However, Mr. Poole has informed me that Senniskali is all but empty. And even if there were a local policeman or magistrate hereabouts, what could they possibly do to help me?