John Eyre Page 31

  “It isn’t your fault,” John said. “And perhaps he didn’t take the tonic as often as he was meant to.”

  “Perhaps, not. But it is my fault, for all that. I hadn’t the courage to put an end to my husband, and now poor Stephen must bear the burden of having done it.” She gave John a bleak look. “There will be an inquiry. I won’t be able to prevent it. After what happened with Mrs. Wren at the church, people will suspect the worst. And if the district coroner should want to see the body…”

  “I wouldn’t worry on that score,” John said.

  A cool night breeze drifted over the landscape, carrying away some of the flakes atop the growing pile of ash. At this rate, there would be nothing of Mr. Rochester’s body left for the coroner to examine. Nothing to hint at his having been anything other than a dangerous lunatic, charred to cinders in a fire.

  “Do you suppose Stephen knew how to destroy him?” Bertha asked. “That the boys have always known?”

  John smoothed a curl of silvery-white hair back from her face. “I wouldn’t mark it down to any particular knowledge. Stephen has always had an interest in kindling fires.”

  “Well, he’s certainly kindled one now.” She glanced up at the Hall. “He’s destroyed Thornfield. It won’t survive the morning, not even if the engines do manage to arrive before dawn.”

  “He was terrified,” John said. “Don’t be angry with him.”

  “I’m not angry. I’m relieved.” Her mouth twisted. “My nightmare is finally over.”

  Curling his arm around her waist, John drew her away from Mr. Rochester’s rapidly disintegrating body. The boys were looking at them intently, waiting for them to return.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “You can rebuild,” he said.

  “Thornfield?”

  “Your whole life.”

  “A daunting prospect. I’m not entirely sure I can face it alone.”

  John bent his head to hers. “You won’t be alone.”

  She turned to look up at him, forcing him to stop walking and meet her gaze. “Do you mean that, John? You’re not just talking about the boys or—”

  Leaning down, he captured her mouth with his. He kissed her fiercely, with all of the emotion roiling in his soul. She softened against him, arms sliding to circle his neck. For an instant, her lips yielded to his, and then she stretched up, returning his kiss with as much passion as he gave it.

  She wasn’t a passive participant in anything. She was his equal. His second self.

  “I trust that answers your question,” he said against her cheek.

  She gave a soft, breathless laugh. “Yes. It does.”

  Arm in arm, they crossed the lawn to rejoin the others. The fire brightened the night sky, illuminating the landscape around the Hall.

  Something was different. A feature John had come to accept as being part of Thornfield and its vicinity was gone. Gone as though it had never been. “Look,” he said. “Do you see that?”

  Her gaze drifted over the grass and trees. “The mist. It’s disappeared.” A sheen of tears sparkled in her eyes, reflecting the flickering flames. “He truly is dead.”

  “He is,” John said. “Whatever he was—whatever power he had—it’s all over now.”

  She looked at the heap of ash on the pavement. “Consumed by fire.”

  He held her firmly against his side as they rejoined the boys. Stephen and Peter ran to him, clinging at his shirt. John felt a profound depth of responsibility for the three of them. It eclipsed all other concerns.

  “We don’t have to stay here,” he said.

  “I must,” she replied.

  “Leave it with Mr. Fairfax. Trust him to manage. He always does in your absence.”

  “But Edward was my husband,” she said, a quaver in her voice. “I have a duty—”

  “Not anymore.” John’s arm tightened around her. “Let me take you away from this place.”

  She turned her face into the curve of his neck. Her uneven breath was warm on the bare skin exposed by the open collar of his shirt. “To where?”

  “Somewhere safe.” He brushed a kiss to her temple. “Let me take care of you.”

  She made a choked noise against his shoulder. It might have been a sob.

  “It’s all right.” His words were a husky murmur at her ear, meant for her and her alone. “You don’t always have to be strong, my love. You can lean on me awhile.”

  She swallowed and nodded her head.

  John exchanged a few brief words with Mr. Fairfax. The butler was more than capable of meeting the engines and seeing to the servants’ welfare. They would be in no danger. The fire was confined to the stone walls of the Hall.

  Bertha cast it a final look as John drew her away. He urged the boys along with them toward the stables. The riding horses had already been evacuated. Two half-dressed footmen struggled to control them at the edge of the drive.

  The carriages had been evacuated, too; rolled out into the stable yard, both the larger coach, and the old one-horse gig that had brought John to Thornfield so many months before.

  Jenkins was hitching the coach to a team of bays.

  John addressed him quietly. “I need to get Mrs. Rochester and the boys to an inn for the night. Somewhere in Hay.”

  “We’re taking the horses to the Three Bells,” Jenkins said.

  John was familiar with the place. It was a clean, respectable establishment, with plenty of room to house the displaced residents of Thornfield. “That will suffice,” he said. “Once you’ve delivered us there, you can return for the others.”

  “Right-o, sir.” Jenkins opened the carriage door and set down the steps.

  John assisted Bertha up into the cab and lifted the boys in with her. He climbed in after them. Jenkins shut the carriage door.

  Inside the darkened interior, neither Bertha nor the boys wished to be apart from John, not even by so much as an inch. They all huddled together on the same upholstered seat, Stephen and Peter at John’s left, and Bertha at his right, her head resting on his shoulder, and her arm circling his midsection.

  Jenkins hopped onto the box and gathered the ribbons. The coach gave a shudder as the horses sprang into motion. And then they were rolling away down the drive, the flames that consumed Thornfield Hall dancing in the carriage window at their back, and ahead of them, an endless expanse of perfect night—free of mist, free of evil.

  John gathered his family close. Soon, he had no doubt that the shock would set in for all of them. But for now, they were together, and they were alive. It was a blessing. A miracle. And he was resolved to view it as such.

  Mrs. Bertha Eyre’s Journal.

  7 May 1845. Val d’Arno, Italy. — It’s been a month to the day since we settled into our new home in Florence’s river valley. The Villa della Agnello is nothing very grand—merely an old farmhouse, formerly owned by a wool merchant. For us, however, after a year spent wandering the length and breadth of Italy, the quiet comfort of the rambling property is something very near to heaven.

  There are no villagers nearby to disturb our peace. No busybodies to ply us with questions. Our closest neighbors are the monks at the local monastery. Good and pious men. I can sense their eyes on me when we pass on the road. I wonder if evil leaves a mark? A stain, readily observable to those of true and honest faith? If so, that stain is daily fading.

  The boys have already begun to heal. They spend their days out of doors, basking as much in the sun as they do in John’s company. Their skin, no longer pale as death, has been burnished to a deep bronze. One might easily mistake them for native Florentines. They can even speak creditable Italian, finding more confidence in the rounded vowels and melodic rising-and-falling syllables than in the languages of their past—a past we are all of us trying to forget.

  In that, John is our lodestar. He draws us
out of ourselves, out of the villa and into the sunlight, no matter how low our spirits. If his own spirits suffer, he doesn’t show it. It’s only on rare occasions that I’ve observed him looking solemn and pensive, his pencil stilled over his sketchpad, as if a stray memory has caught him unaware.

  When that happens, it’s up to me to take him by the hand and bring him back to the present. To the love and laughter of our little family, safe here in the Italian sunshine, far away from the horror and uncertainty of the past. It’s a choice we make daily, for ourselves and for each other—to choose light rather than darkness.

  We all of us bear deep scars from what we’ve suffered. From the loss, betrayal, and physical pain. From the guilt in believing we might have behaved differently—might have tried harder, done more. But such thoughts serve no purpose anymore except to rob us of our precious peace. And we deserve peace after what we’ve been through.

  “We need never go back,” John said to me this morning when I was in his arms. “We can stay here forever.”

  The idea greatly appealed to me. If only it could be so! But I refused to be selfish. “You’d give up your country?” I asked. “Your home?”

  “You’re my home now,” he told me.

  I had no reply. Too moved for words, I could only kiss and embrace him. My friend, my husband. This decent and honorable man who has helped me to rebuild the shattered pieces of my life. I love him so very dearly.

  Perhaps that’s the true secret of our happiness? This deep love we hold for each other, and for the boys. We have been through fire together and come out the other side, not unharmed but stronger for the experience. And we are stronger. I know that much for certain. If evil should ever come again into our lives, we will face it together.

  And we will defeat it.

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  North Devon, England

  September, 1859

  Helena Reynolds crossed the floor of the crowded taproom, her carpetbag clutched in her trembling hands. The King’s Arms was only a small coaching inn on the North Devon coast road, but it seemed to her as if every man in Christendom had gathered there to have a pint. She could feel their eyes on her as she navigated carefully through their midst. Some stares were merely curious. Others were openly assessing.

  She suppressed a shiver. She was hardly dressed for seduction in her gray striped-silk traveling gown, though she’d certainly made an effort to look presentable. After all, it was not every day that one met one’s future husband.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” the innkeeper called to her from behind the crowded bar.

  “Yes. If you please, sir.” Tightening her hands on her carpetbag, she approached the high counter. A very tall man was leaning against the end of it, nursing his drink. His lean, muscular frame was shrouded in a dark wool greatcoat, his face partially hidden by his upturned collar and a tall beaver hat tipped low over his brow. She squeezed into the empty space beside him, her heavy petticoats and crinoline rustling loudly as they pressed against his leg.

  She lowered her voice to address the innkeeper directly. “I’m here to see—”

  “Blevins!” a man across the room shouted. “Give us another round!”

  Before Helena could object, the innkeeper darted off to oblige his customers. She stared after him in helpless frustration. She’d been expected at one o’clock precisely. And now, after the mix-up at the railway station and the delay with the accommodation coach—she cast an anxious glance at the small watch she wore pinned to the front of her bodice—it was already a quarter past two.

  “Sir!” she called to the innkeeper. She stood up on the toes of her half boots, trying to catch his eye. “Sir!”

  He did not acknowledge her. He was exchanging words with the coachman at the other end of the counter as he filled five tankards with ale. The two of them were laughing together with the ease of old friends.

  Helena gave a soft huff of annoyance. She was accustomed to being ignored, but this was the outside of enough. Her whole life hinged on the next few moments.

  She looked around for someone who might assist her. Her eyes fell at once on the gentleman at her side. He didn’t appear to be a particularly friendly sort of fellow, but his height was truly commanding and surely he must have a voice to match his size.

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” She touched him lightly on the arm with one gloved hand. His muscles tensed beneath her fingers. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but would you mind very much to summon—”

  He raised his head from drinking and, very slowly, turned to look at her.

  The words died on Helena’s lips.

  He was burned. Badly burned.

  “Do you require something of me, ma’am?” he asked in an excruciatingly civil undertone.

  She stared up at him, her first impression of his appearance revising itself by the second. The burns, though severe, were limited to the bottom right side of his face, tracing a path from his cheek down to the edge of his collar and beyond it, she was sure. The rest of his face—a stern face with a strongly chiseled jaw and hawklike aquiline nose—was relatively unmarked. Not only unmarked, but with his black hair and smoke-gray eyes, actually quite devastatingly handsome.

  “Do you require something of me?” he asked again, more sharply this time.

  She blinked. “Yes. Do forgive me. Would you mind very much summoning the innkeeper? I cannot seem to—”

  “Blevins!” the gentleman bellowed.

  The innkeeper broke off his loud conversation and scurried back to their end of the counter. “What’s that, guv?”

  “The lady wishes to speak with you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Helena said. But the gentleman had already turned his attention back to his drink, dismissing her without a word.

  “Yes, ma’am?” the innkeeper prompted.

  Abandoning all thoughts of the handsome—and rather rude—stranger at her side, Helena once again addressed herself to the innkeeper. “I was supposed to meet someone here at one o’clock. A Mr. Boothroyd?” She felt the gentleman next to her stiffen, but she did not regard it. “Is he still here?”

  “Another one for Boothroyd, are you?” The innkeeper looked her up and down. “Don’t look much like the others.”

  Helena’s face fell. “Oh?” she asked faintly. “Have there been others?”

  “Aye. Boothroyd’s with the last one now.”

  “The last one?” She couldn’t believe it. Mr. Boothroyd had given her the impression that she was the only woman with whom Mr. Thornhill was corresponding. And even if she wasn’t, what sort of man interviewed potential wives for his employer in the same manner one might interview applicants for a position as a maidservant or a cook? It struck her as being in extraordinarily bad taste.

  Was Mr. Thornhill aware of what his steward was doing?

  She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. It was far too late for doubts. “As that may be, sir, I’ve come a very long way and I’m certain Mr. Boothroyd will wish to see me.”

  In fact, she was not at all certain. She had only ever met Mr. Finchley, the sympathetic young attorney in London. It was he who had encouraged her to come to Devon. While the sole interaction she’d had with Mr. Boothroyd and Mr. Thornhill thus far were letters—letters which she currently had safely folded within the contents of her carpetbag.

  “Reckon he might at that,” the innkeeper mused.

  “Precisely. Now, if you’ll inform Mr. Boothroyd I’ve arrived, I would be very much obliged to you.”

  The man beside her finished his ale in one swallow and then slammed the tankard down on the counter. “I’ll take her to Boothroyd.”

  Helena watched, wide-eyed, as he stood to his full, towering height. When
he glared down at her, she offered him a tentative smile. “I must thank you again, sir. You’ve been very kind.”

  He glowered. “This way.” And then, without a backward glance, he strode toward the hall.

  Clutching her carpetbag tightly, she trotted after him. Her heart was skittering, her pulse pounding in her ears. She prayed she wouldn’t faint before she’d even submitted to her interview.

  The gentleman rapped once on the door to the private parlor. It was opened by a little gray-haired man in spectacles. He peered up at the gentleman, frowned, and then, with furrowed brow, looked past him to stare at Helena herself.

  “Mr. Boothroyd?” she queried.

  “I am Boothroyd,” he said. “And you, I presume, are Miss Reynolds?”

  “Yes, sir. I know I’m dreadfully late for my appointment…” She saw a woman rising from a chair within the private parlor. A woman who regarded Helena with an upraised chin, her face conveying what words could not. “Oh,” Helena whispered. And just like that it seemed the tiny, flickering flame of hope she’d nurtured these last months blinked out. “You’ve already found someone else.”

  “As to that, Miss Reynolds—” Mr. Boothroyd broke off with an expression of dismay as the tall gentleman brushed past him to enter the private parlor. He removed his hat and coat and proceeded to take a seat by the raging fire in the hearth.

  The woman gaped at him in dismay. “Mr. Boothroyd!” she hissed, hurrying to the older gentleman’s side. “I thought this was a private parlor.”

  “So it is, Mrs. Standish.” Mr. Boothroyd consulted his pocket watch. “Or was, until half an hour ago. Never mind it. Our interview is finished in any case. Now, if you would be so good as to…”

  Helena didn’t hear the rest of their conversation. All she could hear was the sound of her own beating heart. She didn’t know why she remained. She’d have to board the coach and continue to Cornwall. And then what? Fling herself from the cliffs, she supposed. There was no other way. Oh, what a fool she’d been to think this would work in the first place! If only Jenny had never seen that advertisement in the paper. Then she would have known months ago that there was but one means of escape from this wretched tangle. She would never have had reason to hope!