John Eyre Read online

  “Mr. Eyre. Good morning.” Mr. Fairfax came in from outside where he’d been exchanging words with Jenkins. “Have you breakfasted?”

  “Not yet.” John consulted his pocket watch. He supposed there was still time. Enough, at least, for a cup of tea and some porridge. “Have you seen Mrs. Rochester?”

  “Here I am.” Her voice sounded from the landing. She came down the stairs to join them, the full skirts of her cream silk dress held in her hands. It wasn’t a wedding gown. Not of the sort worn by young ladies embarking on their first marriages. But the delicate embroidery on the bodice, and trim of finely wrought Brussels lace on the collar and cuffs, gave it the richness and radiance of a queen’s raiment.

  John’s gaze drifted over her. His soon-to-be bride. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

  Bertha greeted his perusal with a slight smile. “Come.” She extended her hand to him and he took it. “I shall give you five minutes to eat something, and then we must dash.”

  He followed along after her to the dining room, careful not to tread on her skirts. “Have you eaten?”

  “I had a tray in my room at dawn.” Releasing his hand, she took a seat at the table.

  He made himself a modest plate at the sideboard before sitting down in the chair beside her. “So early?”

  “I’m accustomed to rising with the sun.” Her mouth quirked. “Why? Did you think it was nerves? That I’ve been up all night, pacing my bedchamber with anticipation?”

  He laughed. “Having second thoughts, more like.”

  “Never.” She gave him an arch look. “And you? Have you—”

  “Been pacing? My God, yes.” He poured himself a cup of coffee. “But I haven’t had any second thoughts.”

  “Not a one?”

  He shook his head. “No regrets. No changes of mind.”

  “Regrets.” She paused. “Now those I have had.”

  His hand stilled, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth. “Not about me, I hope?”

  “Specifically about you.” Her faint smile turned rueful. “I regret that I never met you before.”

  “Before when?”

  “Before I married Mr. Rochester. Before I became the woman I am now.”

  He slowly lowered his cup back to the table. “I adore the woman you are now.”

  Her expression softened. “Ah. But you didn’t know me then. I often wonder what you would have made of me. And what I would have made of you.”

  “Were you so very different?”

  “I was innocent. Disposed to see the best in people—and blind to the worst of them.” A shadow crossed over her face, briefly dimming the light in her green-and-bronze-flecked eyes. “But I don’t mean to distract you with my melancholy reflections.” She motioned to his plate. “Eat, please. The carriage is waiting.”

  John made short work of his breakfast. Ten minutes later, they were settled into the cab of the carriage, rattling down the road toward Hay.

  Mr. Taylor had agreed to marry them at his church. A generous gesture considering that he and Bertha didn’t like each other very much. As far as John was aware, the two of them hadn’t seen each other since Miss Ingram’s death.

  Was that the cause of Bertha’s dark mood?

  She gazed out the window, tense and still, frowning at the gathering mist that clung to the trees and shrubs that lined the road.

  “Is something troubling you?” John asked.

  She turned her head to look at him. “Such as?”

  “I hope you aren’t apprehensive about seeing Mr. Taylor. I know the two of you have had your differences. And after the death of Miss Ingram—”

  “Mr. Taylor is the least of my concerns,” she said. “I’m merely impatient. Everything feels as if it’s taking hours longer.”

  His brow creased with concern. “Is that all? Truly?”

  “Don’t ask me that now.”

  “If not now, when?”

  “When we’ve been married a year and a day. Ask me again then, and I shall tell you about my troubles. Every cursed one of them. Until that time, you mustn’t press me, John.” She turned back to the window. “Oh, but I do wish Jenkins would drive faster!”

  He studied her profile, trying to suppress the creeping uncertainty that threatened his sense of well-being. It was his wedding day. He should be happy. They both should be. There was no time for doubts. Indeed, it was rather too late for them. “We’re nearly there.”

  As the carriage came to a halt in front of the church’s wrought-iron gate, John’s attention was drawn to the rolling graveyard, with its headstones of marble and granite—a reminder that death was ever present.

  The specter of it had been with him for as long as he could remember. A grim companion on his journey from childhood all the way to the night of his arrival in Millcote. Even then, Helen’s ghost had stood at the crossroads, her hand held up in warning.

  It seemed a distant memory now. A nightmare from which John had slowly awakened during his time at the Hall.

  And he was awake now. Fully conscious of what it was that mattered in life. Love mattered. Love for the lady sitting across from him, and for the two lads waiting back at the house. Stephen and Peter. The first martyrs, Bertha had called them. Sophie was to have them ready to depart the instant John and his new bride returned. And then they would leave Thornfield Hall, and their new life together could begin.

  Jenkins opened the door of the carriage and lowered the steps. John climbed out first to assist Bertha down. She gripped tight to his hand.

  He sank his voice. “Are you sure—”

  “Yes, yes. Let us go in,” she said. “Mr. Taylor will be waiting.”

  They passed through the iron gate and down the path through the graveyard. At the end of the path was the church, its front doors standing open. Garbed in his white surplice, Mr. Taylor was positioned in front of them. His posture wasn’t one of welcome. Quite the reverse. He appeared to be barring them entry.

  A black-suited gentleman was at his side—a sober-looking fellow of passing middle age. The two men wore twin expressions of gravity.

  Bertha’s grip tightened on John’s hand with a convulsive strength.

  “Mrs. Rochester. Mr. Eyre,” Mr. Taylor said. “Forgive me. This gentleman has only just informed me that there is an impediment to your marriage.”

  “An insuperable impediment.” The stranger was as somber as an undertaker. “This woman has a husband now living.”

  John’s breath stopped, right along with his heart. He absorbed the words like a blow.

  But it couldn’t be, could it? It must be a mistake. Some confusion over Mr. Rochester having died abroad.

  Turning to Bertha for reassurance, he found her countenance as hard as chiseled marble.

  “Who are you?” she demanded of the stranger.

  “My name is Briggs, madam. I’m a solicitor from London, hired to investigate the matter. I have certain documents in my possession proving the truth of what I say.”

  Bertha’s eyes kindled. “Hired by whom?”

  “What documents?” Mr. Taylor asked at the same time. “I’d like to see them.”

  Mr. Briggs withdrew a folded paper from his coat pocket and read it out to them:

  “‘I affirm that on the 11th of November 1843, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, of Thornfield Hall, in the county of Yorkshire, England, was married to my brother, Edward Rochester of Senniskali, Bulgaria, at the Villa Striges in Athens, Greece in a civil ceremony. I was witness to the union and have a copy of the marriage record in my possession. Signed, Mrs. F. Wren.’”

  Bertha scoffed. “That proves I’ve been married before—a fact of which I’ve made no secret. But it doesn’t prove that my first husband is still living.”

  “He was but two months ago,” Mr. Briggs replied. “I have a witness who can swear to hav
ing seen him.” He turned to the open door. “Mrs. Wren? Come and join us, if you please.”

  A lady in a voluminous gown and feathered bonnet emerged from the dark interior of the church. John recognized her at once. It was indeed Mrs. Wren.

  What little color Bertha had left drained from her face. “Good God, you dare to show your face here? And inside a church no less!”

  Mrs. Wren crept into the doorway, coming no closer. Her words issued in an unsteady undertone. “On my brother’s behalf—”

  “Speak up, worm!” Bertha commanded. “If you would accuse me, I’d have you do it with some conviction!”

  “Please, ma’am, I beg you,” Mr. Taylor said severely. “Remember where you are.”

  “Did you hear him?” Bertha asked Mrs. Wren. “Are you aware this is a house of God?”

  Mrs. Wren trembled but she did not back down. “I know my duty.”

  “Go on, madam,” Mr. Briggs encouraged her. “Tell the vicar what you have seen.”

  “Mr. Edward Rochester is now living at Thornfield Hall. I saw him there in April. I am his sister.”

  “You’re a liar,” Bertha said.

  “He’s there,” Mrs. Wren insisted. “He resides in a small room on the third floor, under constant guard. She has made him her prisoner.”

  John’s blood ran cold. He looked to Bertha. She didn’t deny it.

  A smoldering flame glinted in her gaze. She glared at Mrs. Wren in taut silence as if, at any moment, she would do the woman physical violence. And then: “Close the church, Mr. Taylor. There will be no wedding today.”

  John’s heart plummeted like a stone. And yet he’d known that something was bound to go wrong. A feeling of foreboding had troubled him ever since he’d fallen in love with her.

  He’d anticipated her growing bored with him. Of leaving Thornfield, or of marrying George Eshton. Never once had he thought that she was already married to a living husband. Never once had he contemplated the possibility of bigamy.

  “You’ve no doubt heard whispers about the strange goings-on at Thornfield,” Bertha said to Mr. Taylor. “About my man, Mr. Poole, and the lunatic he’s charged to look after. A distant relation of my late husband, or so I would have my servants believe.” Her hand held tight to John’s, for all that she wouldn’t look at him. “What this London solicitor and his invertebrate client say is true. Edward Rochester still lives. If you can call it living. He’s plagued by insanity. Consumed by delusions. And possessed with a silver tongue that would convince even the most rational person that he is the victim, and I the oppressor.”

  “It’s not true,” Mrs. Wren said. “He is not insane.”

  “He’s a man who believes himself something akin to a deity. An immortal. A vile parasite who would slaughter his own sister to restore his strength. Do you doubt it?” Bertha pulled John along with her as she strode down the aisle. “Come, Mr. Taylor, Mr. Briggs. Come and see this creature that I have made my prisoner.”

  It was a stony drive from the church, all of them bundled inside the carriage—Mr. Taylor, Mr. Briggs, Mrs. Wren, and Bertha. John held himself under tight control, unable to utter a single private word to the lady who should now be his wife. There was no opportunity to do more than clasp and unclasp her hand, his palm dampened with apprehension.

  The carriage rolled to a lurching stop in front of the entrance to Thornfield Hall. One by one, they disembarked. Mr. Fairfax stood at the open door. Sophie was next to him, Stephen and Peter arrayed at her side, waiting to welcome back the newlyweds.

  “Away with you all,” Bertha said as they entered.

  John forced her to slow her pace. He met Stephen’s eyes, and then Peter’s, giving the boys what he hoped was a bracing look. “It’s all right. Go along with Nurse back to your rooms. I’ll come and see you before the day is out.”

  Stephen looked past John to the figure of Mrs. Wren. At the sight of her, he visibly blanched, shrinking back from the door. Peter followed suit.

  John’s gaze cut sharply to Mrs. Wren. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Do as he says,” Bertha ordered Sophie. “Take the boys to the nursery and lock the door.” She tugged on John’s hand. “This way, everyone else. You too, Mr. Fairfax. We all of us have no secrets any longer.”

  As a group, they trudged up the stairs to the third floor and down the darkened corridor to the tapestried room John had visited on that fateful night in April. Rapping once at the door, Bertha entered.

  Mr. Poole was inside, seated in a high-backed chair by the fire. He got to his feet, eyes narrowing at the strangers who accompanied his mistress.

  “How is he today, Mr. Poole?” Bertha asked.

  “Restless, ma’am. Seemed to know something was afoot. Been muttering to himself all morning and pacing the room to the length of his chains.”

  “You keep him chained?” Mr. Taylor asked.

  “He’s violent,” Bertha said. “And strong. He’d as soon kill you as look at you. Chaining him is a mercy, and far gentler than the treatment he’d be served in an asylum.” She stiffened her spine. “Unlock the door, Mr. Poole.”

  John looked at her, and for the first time since they’d stood together in front of the vicar, she met his gaze. He saw determination in the depths of her eyes. Bone-deep resolve. And something else. Something that made goose-flesh rise on his arms.

  It was fear.

  The sort of fear one only felt in the face of extraordinary danger.

  “Stand back,” Mr. Poole warned as he drew back the tapestry and unbolted the hidden door. “You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but he can move fast as lightning when the spirit takes him.”

  The small crowd of interested onlookers withdrew a safe distance. Even Mrs. Wren—Mr. Rochester’s own sister—stepped back, taking refuge behind her solicitor.

  Only Bertha remained where she was, holding John fixed to her side. “Scared, are you?” she asked Mrs. Wren. “You should be. It was here your brother attacked and bit you.”

  “He bit you?” Mr. Taylor sounded appalled.

  “He wasn’t himself,” Mrs. Wren said. “He didn’t know me.”

  Mr. Poole drew open the door, revealing a small windowless room. There were no lamps. No candles to brighten the darkness. The only light provided came from the outer chamber, illuminating the front half of the cell, but leaving the back in darkness.

  In that darkness a figure lurked, his movement announced by the same rattle of chains John had often heard while lying in his box bed at night. A sound that had resonated from the floors above. He heard it now, unmuffled—a metallic scrape and clink that quickened his pulse.

  “Edward!” Mrs. Wren called out. “It is I!”

  The shadow moved, seeming to rise up on its hind legs. A deep baritone voice emanated from the cell. “Come closer.”

  Mr. Briggs laid a staying hand on Mrs. Wren’s arm.

  “You come to us,” Bertha said. “Step into the light. Show these fine people what you are.”

  “Bertha,” the voice said.

  “Are you Mr. Edward Rochester?” Mr. Taylor asked. “Can you affirm your name?”

  A long pause. And then: “I am Edward Rochester.”

  “And do you have a wife?”

  “A wife?” Familiar laughter rippled from the darkness. Cold and mirthless. The very laughter John had attributed to Mr. Poole. “Many.”

  “Many wives?” Mr. Briggs’s brows lowered. “Enough nonsense, sir. Can you tell us if you’re presently married? And, if so, to whom?”

  “She is there with you now. I can smell her.” The voice drew closer. “Bertha.”

  Bertha’s hand tightened on John’s. “Your sister wishes to take you away, Edward. This very moment, along with her solicitor. It’s midmorning. Can you tell the time of day anymore? Never mind it. You will soon feel the sun on your skin.”


  Mr. Rochester shrank back with a hiss, accompanied by a loud clang of chains and a stream of muttered words in a language John couldn’t understand.

  “What is he saying?” Mr. Taylor asked.

  “I believe,” Bertha replied evenly, “that he’s calling me a bitch or a whore. He often does.”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Mrs. Wren said. “She’s starved him.”

  Mr. Briggs gave Bertha a sharp look. “Is that true, madam?”

  “I’ve starved him of blood,” Bertha said. “Of anything else he’s welcome to eat his fill. Tell them, Mr. Poole.”

  Mr. Poole nodded. “Aye, sir. He’s got the bloodlust something fierce. I bring him up rare meat, and all manner of things, but he won’t partake of much. Would rather bite and drink from me if he could manage it—and he has done once or twice, the cunning fellow. Just as he bit this lady, here.”

  Mr. Taylor shuddered, and Mr. Briggs turned the color of parchment. “Human blood?” the latter echoed.

  Mrs. Wren shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. He didn’t know what he was doing. Leave him with me a day or two and you shall see how soon he recovers—”

  “Would you like to go with your sister?” Bertha called loudly into the cell. “She can take you now, straight out into the sunlight.”

  Another hiss.

  “No, no,” Mrs. Wren protested. “It isn’t how it seems. We must come back after dark. He’ll be stronger then and can tell you his side of things. If you’ll permit him to explain—”

  “After dark?” Bertha gave a scornful laugh. “Oh yes, by all means. Come again when all is in darkness and he can strike with efficiency.”

  “I think not, madam,” Mr. Briggs said. “Daylight will suffice. We’re safer in his presence when we can see.”

  “I’ve seen enough.” Mr. Taylor paused before calling into the darkness, “Unless you would say something more on your own behalf, sir?”

  “Come closer,” the voice beckoned. “I thirst.”

  Mr. Taylor’s lip curled with thinly veiled revulsion.

  “As you see, he is mad,” Bertha said. “He has been so for some time. If you doubt it, ask Mr. Carter, the village surgeon in Hay. He’s heard many of my husband’s insane ravings and accusations—though he wasn’t aware at the time that his patient was my husband. No one was. Least of all this good gentleman.”