John Eyre Page 3
“A few of them on the other side of Millcote. The Eshtons and the Ingrams. But I don’t expect you’ll meet them. The Eshtons have gone to London for the winter, and the Ingrams are lately in mourning. They receive no visitors.” Mr. Fairfax escorted John back into the house. “Mrs. Rochester is still in mourning herself. She prefers a quiet life now. It wouldn’t be suitable to be entertaining. She won’t even permit the vicar to call when she’s in residence.”
If the vicar was anything like the Reverend Mr. Brocklehurst, John didn’t blame her. The man had no idea of how to comfort a grieving individual. His God was an unforgiving one—a God of fire and brimstone, with no love or Christian charity about him.
“You’re not likely to meet him,” Mr. Fairfax said. “Not here at Thornfield. But there are services at the church in Hay should you care to attend.”
John didn’t care to, personally. He hadn’t been lying when he told Mr. Brocklehurst that he’d lost his faith. It was hard to nurture any sort of belief in the wake of Helen’s loss. At the same time, he knew his duty. “If Mrs. Rochester desires it, I will accompany the boys.”
“The boys?” Mr. Fairfax shut and bolted the front door. “Goodness me. The boys are in no fit state to attend church. Mrs. Rochester would never hear of it.”
John felt a flicker of unease. No fit state? Were the children ill?
As he was meditating on the question, a creak sounded on the oak staircase. John stopped where he stood in the hall and looked up. The hairs rose on the back of his neck.
Two little boys descended the steps hand in hand. They were small and startlingly thin, with heads that seemed large in proportion to their bodies, and dark, sunken eyes surrounded by deep shadows. Their black hair was shorn close to their scalps, and what skin was visible outside of their clothes had the appearance of wax—pale and bloodless.
“Here they are,” Mr. Fairfax said. “Boys! Come and meet the gentleman who is to be your tutor.”
John studied the boys as they came into the hall, schooling his features into what he hoped was an expression of benign greeting. He prayed his face didn’t betray his alarm, for the two children were alarming to look at. A pair of animated corpses with empty staring eyes. A young woman in a black stuff dress and white apron followed behind them, urging them forward. Their nurse, John presumed.
“This is Stephen,” Mr. Fairfax said. “And his brother, Peter.”
“Good morning, boys,” John said. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The children stopped in front of him, still holding hands, their sunken eyes cast downward. Their nurse whispered a reassurance to them in muted French.
A sudden thought occurred to John. He turned to Mr. Fairfax. “Are they foreigners?”
“Their nurse, Sophie, is French, and Stephen and Peter were born on the Continent, I believe, though heaven knows precisely where. Mrs. Rochester adopted them during her travels. It’s she who gave them their names, after Saint Stephen and Saint Peter. The poor mites. They’ve had a trial in getting here. Mrs. Rochester says they took ill on the voyage, but she’s confident they’ll regain their health once treated to good food and a little sunshine.”
A little sunshine?
The children looked as though they’d never been exposed to sun in their lives.
John turned his attention back to them, wondering how the devil he was meant to communicate. He had a smattering of French and Italian, but couldn’t converse in either language with any degree of fluency. “Do they speak any English?”
“Forgive me, Mr. Eyre,” Mr. Fairfax said, “I thought I’d mentioned it. Stephen and Peter do not speak at all.”
Letters from Miss Bertha Mason to Miss Blanche Ingram.
Hotel des Anglais
Cairo, Egypt
Monday, 13 June 1842
Dearest Blanche, —
Forgive my long delay in replying. I have only just this morning arrived in Cairo and found a whole stack of your letters awaiting me. You will think me a bad correspondent. I assure you I’m not. Only a very tired lady who has spent far too much time of late on crowded conveyances and not enough of it seated in front of a writing desk.
What a journey I have had! There is so much to tell you that I don’t know where to begin. First, the weather: do you remember those summers so long ago when we would strip down to our shifts and bathe in Mr. Eshton’s pond? The heat of those days is nothing to the blazing sun of Egypt. It’s so indescribably hot here, my dear, that it’s all I can do to breathe. But I love it for all that, which I suspect owes more to my current state than any tolerance for the temperature.
At last I’m free to travel as I will! You alone will not take such a proclamation as being indecorous. You know what I suffered living under Mama and Papa’s thumb, and then again when I was obliged to mourn them. Their loss will always be a great pain to me, but I can’t help but be thankful for it now I’m in full control of my fortune and my destiny.
I say full control—what I mean is, as much control as I can exercise given the constant meddling of our family attorney, Mr. Hughes. You would think that a year and a half on the Continent in the wake of losing my parents would have been enough to satisfy his ideas of propriety. All those months spent in mourning, and the tedious ones that followed after, visiting European museums and taking tea, as bored and restless as ever I was in England.
Mr. Hughes was opposed to my coming to Egypt. He subscribes to a traditional view of womanhood. Believes our place is in the home, and all of that. He’s even gone so far as to advise me to marry. And perhaps I shall do, eventually. But not right away. I’ve resisted the bonds of matrimony this long. I won’t tumble into them the very instant I’m taking my first steps of freedom.
You will say that there’s no danger of falling into matrimony at my age. At eight and twenty, I’m all but an old maid. But believe me, dear, my fortune will compensate for a great deal. With some men—I shan’t call them gentlemen—it will even compensate for my strident personality.
Thus, I am resolved to be on my guard. When I do marry, it will be for love, and not because I have been compromised by a fortune hunter. My maid, Agnes, remains with me wherever I go, as does my manservant, Mr. Poole. You were right about him. A man of few words, but brawny and capable. He never asks questions, simply does what I tell him to do.
Tomorrow we visit the pyramids and the Sphynx. I’ve been advised to hire a native translator, known as a dragoman, to accompany us. And I mean to do so directly after I’ve finished this letter.
What else can I tell you? I have seen the Mediterranean Sea at moonlight, the chaos of the bazaar at Alexandria, and have ridden down the streets of Cairo on the back of a temperamental donkey. I have begun to feel that my life before leaving England was a long and terrible dream. I don’t mean to imply that all of it was unhappy. There were many moments of joy, your friendship chief among them; however, the greater the distance I’ve traveled, the more alive I feel. Things are brighter, more fragrant, engaging all of my senses.
Which isn’t to say that I don’t still look the part of a dull English spinster. But I mean to remedy that. This evening, if there is time, I will purchase more suitable clothes at the bazaar. It’s too hot for silk and taffeta, and all of my blacks and lavenders make me look a full decade older.
With that, I must close, my dear. The bell is ringing for tea. Please write back when you can with all the news from home.
Your loving,
Bertha
Hotel des Anglais
Cairo, Egypt
Thursday, 14 July 1842
Dearest Blanche, —
The most extraordinary thing has happened. A gentleman doing excavations among the ruins at Thebes has discovered the entrance to an intact tomb. It was hidden beneath the debris of several other tombs, and no one had any notion of its existence until earlier this week. Tomorrow
evening they are finally going to open it, and speculation among the hotel guests is high as to what might be found there.
I am determined to be present for the opening, and wish you could be here to witness it as well. It seems only yesterday we were both marveling over reports of ancient Egyptian tombs in Papa’s archaeological journals, and dreaming we could view mummies and funereal artifacts in situ. But I won’t reproach you for refusing to accompany me on my travels, though I do believe you might have given it more consideration than you did. How much fun we could have had together in Paris and Rome!
All that aside, I must admit that a year and a half on the Continent has done little to prepare me for the experience of Egypt. This past month has gone by in a whirlwind. Along with Agnes and Mr. Poole, I have seen all of the sights and made friends with many of the residents of the hotel. But I yearn to expand my horizons beyond the other British guests, some of whom I’ve already encountered multiple times during my travels across France and during the voyage to Alexandria. Our dragoman, Farouk, has been a great help in that regard. He seems to know everyone in Cairo and has a passing acquaintance with the foreman at the dig, as well. He promises to introduce me to him when we arrive in Thebes.
We will be traveling up the Nile by steamer ship first thing in the morning. The heat has only increased since last I wrote. We’ve been obliged to keep indoors in the middle of the day, only emerging in the early dawn hours or later in the evening after the sun has set and it’s grown a little cooler. When they open the tomb, they will do so by lantern light. It’s all quite thrilling, my dear. I cannot think how I will manage to sleep tonight knowing the treat that lies before me tomorrow.
Until then, I remain, your loving friend,
Bertha
Hotel des Anglais
Cairo, Egypt
Tuesday, 19 July 1842
My Dear Blanche, —
You will find this a disappointing letter, I fear. As you can see from the direction, I have returned to Cairo. Thebes did not live up to expectations at all. I arrived there on Friday for the opening of the tomb, only to discover—along with the rest of our party—that the sarcophagus was empty. Farouk explained that it had been ransacked, probably many hundreds of years ago. There were broken jars and some pieces of statuary but no sign of the mummy who had been interred there. It was all quite deflating.
But I haven’t returned to Cairo empty-handed. While in Thebes, I met the most delightful lady. Mrs. Wren is a widow who is touring Egypt as I am. She’s been here since the spring, and knows ever so much about the place. She took me under her wing at the dig, and yesterday accompanied me back to Cairo. Indeed, she was already staying here, at a nearby hotel. I can’t think how it is we’ve never encountered each other until now.
You would like her very well, my dear. She’s older than we are—somewhere in her middle forties, if I was to hazard a guess. Yet still rather strikingly beautiful, with dark hair and eyes and a sun-bronzed complexion. The very picture of a lady traveler in her flowing robes and veiled hats.
Mrs. Wren is intelligent, as well. I’ve observed her speaking flawless Arabic to the servants, and equally flawless French to the maître d’hôtel. Her father’s people were English, but she was born on the Continent and has spent many years living in Eastern Europe along with her brother. I have not met him as yet, but Mrs. Wren promises to introduce me this evening at dinner. If Mr. Rochester is half as charismatic as his sister, I’m sure I will be smitten.
I must stop now to bathe and change. I shall write again tomorrow with a full report. God bless you, my dear.
Your loving,
Bertha
Thornfield Hall
Yorkshire, England
October 1843
John pulled back the faded velvet curtains, letting in the cold gray light of morning. The library at Thornfield Hall was a cavernous room lined with bookcases that stretched up to the ceiling, and scattered about with heavy chairs and tables on which books were stacked in no particular order. Mrs. Rochester had determined that it must be used as the schoolroom. And it wasn’t entirely unsuited to its role. A cabinet piano resided in the corner, and near the bank of windows a globe stood in a wooden frame, alongside an inlaid drum table covered in maps of the world.
Most of the books in the library were dusty tomes of history, philosophy, and archaeology. Relics of an age gone by. Among them a single shelf had been allocated for John’s use. It was stocked with a variety of elementary works, along with several volumes of light literature and poetry. He supposed that Mrs. Rochester believed these were all a tutor would require, and indeed, they might have been, had his students been capable of understanding English.
As to that capability, John had no notion. Seated at their makeshift desks, Stephen and Peter were as mute after a week of study as they’d been when John had first made their acquaintance. For the last seven days, he’d read to them and talked to them and made attempts at teaching them their letters. But how much was truly getting through?
There was only one activity the boys had exhibited any interest in.
John gestured to the cold hearth. “Shall you light the fire this morning, Peter? Or perhaps you, Stephen?”
The boys’ eyes remained wary, but John knew enough of children to recognize the slight change in their posture.
“Come,” he said. “Both of you, up.”
Pushing back their chairs, the two boys slowly came to join him in front of the fireplace, their every movement as halting and jerky as a pair of automatons. As if they were, in each instant, willing themselves to move forward against their own better judgment.
Initially, John had found their lack of coordination disturbing. And he still did, to some degree. He couldn’t discern whether their awkwardness was due to physical infirmity or if it was merely a symptom of profound mental reticence. They were uncertain of him, if not outright afraid. Knowing that, John was careful never to speak harshly or approach them with too abrupt a movement.
He knelt down and motioned for them to do the same. It was a ritual he’d unknowingly started on his first day of instruction when, on arriving in the library, he’d discovered that the servants had failed to light the fire.
Since then, John had come to look on the library as his own domain. One in which he would have to tend to drawing the curtains and lighting the fire each morning. He didn’t resent the fact. Indeed, it was an opportunity for the boys to learn practical skills. They eagerly helped him to kindle a fire in the hearth, and then to light the table lamps from little twists of paper.
“Mind you don’t burn yourself, Stephen,” John said as the lad thrust his remnant of paper into the fire. “Well done, both of you. Very good job, indeed.” He gestured to their desks. “Back in your seats, if you please.”
The boys complied without a word.
Time had passed when John had wished for a quiet classroom. Now, he found himself longing for words—any words. Were the boys truly mutes? Mr. Fairfax claimed not to know.
Stephen appeared to be the eldest, though not by much. It was he who always took his brother’s hand. A protective gesture, or so it seemed. As if Stephen wanted to keep his brother close for fear of losing him.
Even now, sitting side by side, the boys often looked to each other for reassurance. When taken along with their waxen skin and malnourished bodies, it made John fear that the pair of them had been through some harrowing ordeal. Were they the orphans of war? Of pestilence? Two waifs Mrs. Rochester had saved from a life in the street?
Or perhaps they were merely what Mr. Fairfax had said: two boys who had lately fallen gravely ill.
John was no stranger to illness himself. An epidemic of influenza had robbed him of both of his parents, leaving him an orphan at the age of five. An undersized boy who had been obliged to rely on a charity school for his board and keep—and for his education. Not all of the teache
rs there had been kind to him. Many had been short-tempered and cruel. It had made John all the more determined to show kindness to his own pupils. Especially those without benefit of a mother and father.
“This morning,” he said, “we will turn our attention to drawing.” Stephen and Peter sat still at their desks while John distributed paper and charcoal pencils. He pulled a chair up in front of them to demonstrate. “Pick up your pencils, thusly. Between your thumb and first two fingers. Not too tightly, Stephen.” John gently loosened the boy’s fingers. Stephen flinched at the contact. “It’s all right,” John said. “Do you see how I’m holding mine? Light but firm.”
When he was confident they understood, John drew the outline of a simple flower on the edge of his paper. He was gratified when the boys copied the figure on their own papers with unsteady hands.
“What about this?” John sketched the trunk and branches of a tree. “Can you draw the same?”
For the next hour, he engaged the boys in copying the various figures he sketched onto his pad. John was a competent draftsman and had filled many a pleasant afternoon sketching a landscape or a portrait of someone he’d met. But today’s work was nothing worth preserving in his portfolio. It was all basic outlines and shading.
Intermittently, he produced a letter next to a figure. An A for apple, or a C for cat. The boys dutifully copied, though whether they understood the meaning or not was another question entirely.
“Excellent, Stephen. Very well done, Peter.” John rose from his chair and returned to his place in front of the bookcases. “Now, I’d like you to draw something of your own devising. Anything you choose. The globe. The door. Or perhaps a book, or this candlestick? Or something you alone can see?”
He urged them on with words and gestures, and at length, Stephen picked up his pencil, and hesitantly, began to draw. Peter followed his brother’s example.