John Eyre Page 5

  Gooseflesh rose on John’s arms. Steeling his nerves, he poked his head out of the side of his box bed. Where on earth was the hissing coming from? Was it outside his door? He didn’t think so. There was no tread on the floorboards. No shadow cast from someone passing in front of the keyhole.

  A piece of wood splintered and cracked in the fireplace, drawing John’s gaze. Was it the fire that hissed? He watched it for a long moment, as the laudanum infiltrated his bloodstream.

  But no.

  The remnants of wood sparked, but they didn’t hiss. And they certainly didn’t whisper.

  Settling back into his bed, he reminded himself that old houses made all sorts of odd sounds. Creaks, and shrieks, and groans.

  And then there were the muffled voices of those houses’ inmates. The sound of their footsteps, and of their intermittent laughter.

  Indeed, how many times in these past months had he heard the strange laugh of Mr. Poole? That same mirthless chuckle that had turned John’s blood cold when first he’d encountered it on the third floor? Since then, he’d sometimes seen Mr. Poole in the early morning hours, down in the kitchens with a basin or tray in his hands, or out by the stables working away at something on his forge. On each occasion, John had been singularly unimpressed by the man. He was no specter—no ghoul.

  The source of the whispering was likely just as unimpressive. The house settling, or the wind whistling down the chimney. Either that, or like so much late at night, it was only in John’s head. A product of drugs, and of conscience, made worse by his own imagination.

  Helen was hundreds of miles away, moldering in her grave. She was out of pain now. At rest. There was no reason for her to haunt him so. What harm had he ever done her except to be kind? To know her and to be her friend.

  To leave her behind.

  His eyes moistened. He squeezed them shut, willing himself to sleep. In the past, he’d have taken another dose of laudanum, but not tonight. He’d had enough of the stuff already. It was time to be quit of the drug. To save it for only the worst of his headache pain. He was done with relying on it. Done with using it to blot out his grief and anger.

  In time, his breath became regular, his chest rising and falling as he sank into sleep. The whispering resumed right before he drifted off. John’s final thought was one of sudden understanding.

  It’s coming through the wall.

  “They’re not mutes,” John said.

  Mr. Fairfax was seated at a wooden table in the butler’s pantry polishing the silver with a blackened cloth. Candlesticks, salt cellars, serving dishes, and flatware were all set out before him. “I beg your pardon, sir?” He cocked his ear toward John. “What was that you said?”

  “Stephen and Peter aren’t mutes.” John sank down onto the hard wooden chair beside Mr. Fairfax. “I heard them speaking last night. Whispering to each other.”

  “You heard them?”

  “Through the wall of my room.”

  Mr. Fairfax continued polishing. “What did they say?”

  “I couldn’t tell. The words were too faint. But I think…I very much suspect…that they weren’t conversing in English.”

  “A foreign language?”

  “None that I could discern. But I don’t believe it was French or Italian. I would have recognized the cadence of it.” John didn’t know why Mr. Fairfax wasn’t reacting with more interest. The butler just kept polishing, intent upon his task, as if spotless silver were the most important thing in his universe. “Did Mrs. Rochester never mention where it was they came from?”

  Mr. Fairfax’s brows beetled. He worked his cloth over the intricate relief decoration on the branches of a silver candelabra. “Europe?”

  John suppressed a flicker of irritation. “Is that a question?”

  “Only what I assumed, Mr. Eyre. Where else would they have come from?”

  Where else, indeed.

  “Did you ask Stephen and Peter directly?” Mr. Fairfax enquired.

  “Not yet.” John didn’t want to alert the boys to the fact that he’d heard their whisperings. With any luck, they’d whisper again—and next time he’d be able to make out exactly what language they were speaking in.

  They’d already come so far under his care. Both of them could now write their letters, and perform simple addition and subtraction. More importantly, they’d grown used to John himself. There was no more flinching—no more cringing away when he beckoned them forward. Once or twice, Stephen and Peter had even appeared to look to him for praise.

  Their health had improved as well. With no parents about to object to his edicts, John had been able to do as he thought best. He’d put an end to their doses of tonic—a patent liver medication that held a greater concentration of opiates than it did any ingredients of value.

  He’d also seen that fruits and sweets were added to their diet, and that Sophie ceased shearing their hair down to their scalps. Some still believed that, during illness, the hair deprived the body of vital nutrients, but John had never subscribed to that view. He preferred his pupils to have healthy food, and healthy occupation, without any remnants of the sickroom following them about.

  Overall, he was pleased with the progress he’d made. His pupils looked less like animated corpses and more like little boys. They behaved more naturally—moved more naturally. And yet…

  John knew enough to recognize that Stephen and Peter still didn’t entirely trust him. There were no smiles. No laughter or boyish hijinks. And there was no speech. No sounds.

  At least, not until last night.

  “I wonder if I should write to Mrs. Rochester?” he asked. “It would save me trying to discover the answers to my questions on my own.”

  “You could do so,” Mr. Fairfax replied. “But she moves about so frequently. It might be months before you receive an answer. Too much time to be of any use.” He gestured to an envelope on the table. “I’ve written to her myself, as you see, in care of a hotel in Paris.”

  “Paris?” John had imagined Mrs. Rochester to be in London for the winter, not on the Continent. “Is that where she is?”

  “She does abide there on occasion, or in Cairo, Athens, or Varna.”

  John’s mouth quirked. Surely the butler was joking. “I hope you haven’t any pressing concerns.”

  “No more than usual, sir. She answers my letters in her time. As long as I remember to post them.”

  “I’m walking to Hay after the boys’ afternoon lessons,” John said. “I can take your letter with me, if you like.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” John had walked to Hay several times in the past months. It was a mere two miles away. And though he didn’t bother to stop and scrape acquaintance with anyone in the village, the exercise never failed to do him good.

  “Very well. But be careful of the Millcote mists. They’re worse in the evening.”

  John had observed as much. The mists always grew heavier at night, making the roads a hazard. “I shall be back before sunset.”

  Hours later, with lessons at an end for the day, John finally set out across the meadow for Hay, bundled up in his overcoat, scarf, and gloves.

  It was a chill January evening. The earth was damp beneath his booted feet, and the air was still. There was no one else about on the narrow country road. None he could see moving through the mists that gathered over the ground and along the trees.

  As he walked, twilight approached, lending an air of magic to the bleak winter landscape. He was but a mile from Thornfield in a lonely lane, the chief pleasure of which lay in its utter solitude. It led all the way to Hay at a slow incline, flanked by leafless trees and empty fields.

  In the distance, the moon rose over the frost-covered hills—a sliver of luminous white.

  John realized, all at once, that he’d misjudged the time.

  He’d
left Thornfield too late to beat the darkness. Even now, the mists were thickening, beginning to obscure his view. Every footfall sank him deeper into the billows of swirling gray.

  He briefly contemplated turning back. But there was no point abandoning his task. Not now he was more than halfway there.

  Hastening his step, he continued on, only to be brought up short by an unsettling sound.

  It emanated from within the mists ahead of him, at once recognizable: the low growl of an animal.

  John’s heartbeat quickened in spite of himself. Foolish. It couldn’t be anything dangerous. Not hereabouts. A dog merely.

  It snarled again—an unmistakable threat.

  And then John saw it, moving through the mist like a shadow. His stomach clenched. Good God, it wasn’t a dog.

  It was a wolf.

  He took an instinctive step backward as the creature approached. It was black and rangy, its teeth bared in a snarl as it padded toward him.

  It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. There were no wolves in England.

  He recalled stories he’d learned in the nursery. Old folklore told to him by his equally old nurse. Stories of black dogs in the North of England. Animal-shaped spirits—shapeshifters and familiars—that roamed the moors. They were believed to haunt the lonely highways and byways of Britain, preying on solitary travelers.

  Travelers like him.

  “You’re not real,” he said to the wolf.

  In reply, the wolf bared its teeth. Saliva dripped from its jaws.

  John took another step backward, his breath burning in his lungs.

  In the very next moment, a rush of wind came down the lane, accompanied by the pounding of hooves. The wolf cringed at the thunderous sound, and with a whining cry, the great creature sprang away, disappearing into the mist a fraction of a second before a horse emerged: a great black steed with rolling eyes and a frothing mouth.

  Another apparition?

  But no.

  There was a rider atop the horse. A lady in a fitted black riding habit. Her presence at once broke the spell. She was all too real, and so was her horse. John leapt out of their way as soon as he realized it.

  It wasn’t soon enough.

  The horse spooked at the sight of him, rising up on its hind legs in a panicked rear. Lowering back to the ground, it surged past him in a dead bolt, its rider sawing on the reins. In the next instant, it skidded and fell with a clatter, taking its rider down with it.

  John ran to assist her. “Are you all right?”

  “The dratted beast has slipped on the ice.” The lady propped herself up on one elbow, watching her horse scramble to its feet. “He looks no worse for it, thank God.”

  “What about you? Are you injured?”

  Gathering up the voluminous skirts of her habit, she attempted to regain her feet, only to inhale sharply as she put her weight on her right leg. “Blast it.” She tested her foot again. Her face contorted with pain. “Your arm, if you please.”

  John strode to her side. “If you require a doctor, I can fetch the surgeon from Hay.”

  “Thank you, no. Your arm will suffice.” She took hold of it, gripping him tightly as she stood.

  John placed his hand at her waist to support her. It was a small waist, tightly corseted, though she wasn’t a small woman. When standing, she was nearly of a height with him. “Are you certain?” he asked.

  She briefly bent to feel her foot and leg. “I’ll live. Assist me to that stile, would you? I should like to sit down a moment and catch my breath.”

  He helped her across the lane and stood at her side as she sank down on the step of the stile. The fall had knocked her riding hat off, and her hair had come partially loose. In the waxing moonlight, he could see her face quite clearly.

  His heart gave a queer double thump.

  She was beautiful, but not in the usual style. Certainly not in any style that he’d ever encountered before. There was an exotic quality to her countenance—skin that was faintly olive, an aquiline nose, and dark flashing eyes that sparked with flecks of bronze and green. And her hair! It was wild, and curling black, with the most extraordinary streak of white through it—a two-inch bolt of lightning, beginning to the right of her brow and flashing all the way to the ends of her glossy tresses.

  Such an odd feature should have put him in mind of an older woman. But this lady wasn’t old. Indeed, he’d be astonished if she was very much older than he was himself.

  “You may go,” she said. “I’m quite all right now.”

  “I can’t leave you here like this. Not at this time of night.”

  “How chivalrous you are. One wonders why you’re not at home yourself. The mists aren’t safe after dark. Every fool knows that. You must be a stranger here.”

  “Not at all. I’ve resided here since the autumn.”

  “That long?” Her voice held a flicker of mockery. “Where do you live, then? Are you from Hay? Let me guess. You’re the new curate. You have the look of an ascetic about you.”

  John bent his head to conceal a smile. “No, ma’am. I’m not from Hay, and I’m not a curate. I don’t believe the vicar has one.”

  “No? More’s the pity.” She massaged her ankle. “Well? If not from Hay, then where is it you come from?”

  “Just there.” He gestured to the hills behind her. They were cloaked in a heavy mist. “Thornfield Hall. It’s the home of Mrs. Rochester.”

  She was quiet a moment, her dark brows knit in a frown. “I see. And do you know Mrs. Rochester?”

  “I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting her. She’s presently away from home.”

  The lady’s gaze dropped from his face to study his simply clad figure. “You’re not a servant.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m tutor to Mrs. Rochester’s wards.”

  “Ah. Of course you are.” She brought her eyes back to his. Her frown deepened. “Do you always stand right in the center of the road?”

  “No, I—” He broke off. “I thought I saw a wild animal in the mist. A…dog.”

  “A wild dog?”

  “Something like.” He was reluctant to say what he’d actually seen. A wolf? It defied belief. “Did you happen to see anything?”

  “Nothing but a man standing in my way. Has no one at Thornfield warned you not to be out after dark?”

  “I expected to be back before nightfall. The time got away from me.” He saw her wince again as she put weight on her foot. “I beg your pardon, but are you quite certain you don’t need me to fetch the surgeon? It would be no trouble.”

  “No, no. But you can do me another service, if you please. Catch my horse by the bridle, would you? And bring him here so I can mount.”

  The horse was nearby, idly cropping a tuft of weeds. Approaching slowly, John caught the hanging leather reins and used them to lead the horse to its mistress. The creature didn’t go quietly. It was a spirited beast, tossing its head and stamping its hooves.

  “Calm down, you great idiot,” the lady commanded. She looked at John. “I must impose on you again.”

  “I’m at your service.”

  “Can you manage to lift me up into the saddle? Or would such familiarity put you to the blush?”

  John refrained from pointing out that though he may look the part of an ascetic, he most certainly wasn’t one. “I believe I’m up to the task.”

  “Excellent.” She reached out to him with an imperious hand.

  He took it without hesitation. Gloved in fine black leather, it fit rather well in his own. He helped her to her feet. She released him almost at once in order to gather her horse’s reins.

  John came to stand behind her. “Forgive me,” he said as his hands closed about her waist. She was right up against him, soft tendrils of her hair brushing his cheek. So close he could smell the elusive fragrance of her perfume.
Some heady combination of sandalwood, vanilla, and spices.

  Heat rose up his neck. It had been a very long while since he’d taken a woman in his arms. And this lady was no Helen Burns. No clinging vine of femininity. She was vibrant and alive. A veritable force of charismatic energy. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, but be quick about it before he takes it into his head to bolt again.”

  John lifted her easily and tossed her up into her sidesaddle.

  She landed with practiced skill, at once taking charge of her mount, even as she found her stirrup and swiftly arranged the skirts of her fashionable black habit. “You’re very strong,” she said. “You will need to be.”

  With that enigmatic statement, the lady kicked her horse into a canter and was gone.

  John stood at the top of the lane, watching as she disappeared into the mist.

  Letters from Miss Bertha Mason to Miss Blanche Ingram.

  Hôtel d’Angleterre

  Athens, Greece

  Thursday, 11 August 1842

  My Dear Blanche, —

  Thank you for your sweet letter! I was delighted to hear about the arrival of a new vicar in Hay, and doubly glad to hear that he’s so very amiable. You must tell me more about this promising gentleman at your earliest convenience. Not that I have any right to press you to write more often. I daresay you’ve long since given up on receiving timely reports of my own adventures. But I have an excuse, dearest, for you see, I have spent the past weeks on a ship traveling to Athens.

  Yes, I’ve at last given up Egypt. The sweltering temperatures were simply too much to bear, and when Mrs. Wren and her brother invited me to accompany them to Greece, I fairly jumped at the chance. The three of us have become fast friends, and have been spending ever so much time in each other’s company.

  You will be pleased to hear that Mr. Rochester is every bit as charming and agreeable as his sister. Like her, his English is, for the most part, excellent (albeit with a strange intonation), and he has a command of many other languages as well. He’s never been to England as yet, but he often speaks of his desire to return to the “land of his father’s ancestors,” as he calls it.