John Eyre Read online

  Her posture was impeccable, her spine straight as a ramrod. She wore no bonnet. Her head was bare, her dark tresses caught up in a large roll at her nape. The cold morning sunlight shone on the white streak at her temple.

  His stomach clenched on an inexplicable pang of…something. Desire, he feared. It was as bewildering as it was unwelcome. Good lord, he wasn’t attracted to the woman, was he? She may be beautiful—strangely so—but she was, in every other way, unconventional to an unsettling degree.

  She was also about to dismiss him without a reference.

  He had no reason to feel anything for her other than animosity.

  “Sit down,” she said in the same imperious tone in which she’d addressed him yesterday.

  John was reluctant to obey. Then again, it was better than standing in front of her like some errant schoolboy waiting for his dressing down. After a moment’s hesitation, he sank onto the stone bench at her side. Her heavy skirts bunched against his leg, as he angled himself to face her.

  She turned to him, so close that he could see the extraordinary length of her eyelashes, black as soot, framing her bronze-flecked eyes. “Mr. Eyre—”

  “Mrs. Rochester—” He broke off. “I’m sorry. Please go on.”

  She needed no encouragement. “I know I was harsh with you last evening. Too harsh, I suspect. And for that I must beg your pardon.”

  His heart beat hard. An apology was the last thing he’d anticipated.

  “You must understand,” she said. “I’ve been traveling for a long while. And when I come home, it’s never for any length of time. I’m unaccustomed to staying overlong in one place. I can’t abide it. Which is why I require people here at Thornfield whom I can trust to do my bidding, even when I’m halfway around the world. It’s vital that my orders are obeyed.”

  “But the children—”

  “Do let me finish.”

  His jaw tightened. “Of course. Forgive me.”

  “What I’m trying to say is that the servants here know better than to question me. They haven’t any need to, nor any right. Thornfield is my house, and the children are my responsibility—solely my responsibility. Mr. Fairfax should have made that clearer, but I expect he was dazzled by all of your earnest reforms. Indeed, they’re not all objectionable.”

  “Not all?” he repeated. “I don’t feel that any of them are objectionable. Every step I’ve taken since I arrived has been for the benefit of Stephen and Peter. You can see that for yourself. They’ve flourished under my care.”

  Her frown deepened.

  “And it hasn’t been easy,” he added. “Mr. Fairfax could provide me with no information about where it is they came from or what their mother tongue might be. Nothing save the fact that they’d taken ill on the journey here.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “That’s all well and good, but what about the rest of it? I arrived expecting to tutor two lads who could speak and understand English. Not two sickly boys, effectively mute, who cringed away from me every time I moved in their direction.”

  Her lips compressed. “You find yourself not up to the task? Well, then, perhaps it’s best if you—”

  “I didn’t say that. I only meant that I’ve been working at a disadvantage since I got here. Fumbling around in the dark. Trying to learn things on my own that could have more easily been conveyed to me in a letter or a—”

  “Were there so many replies to your advertisement?” she asked. “Another post you could have taken that would have been more agreeable to you?”

  John’s temper sputtered out, her question extinguishing it as effectively as water on a coal fire. He couldn’t bring himself to lie to her. “No. There wasn’t.”

  “Then I can’t see what difference it makes.”

  “It makes all the difference in the world if you’re going to dismiss me.”

  “You want full credit for what you’ve accomplished, is that it? All that you’ve achieved at the expense of my rules? You have it, sir. But in future—if you’re to have a future here—you must abide by those rules. Do you feel yourself capable of doing so? Or must you and I part ways?”

  “That depends. Do your rules include forcing that patent medicine down the boys’ throats?”

  Her face hardened. She didn’t reply.

  It was answer enough.

  John stood abruptly. There was no more reason to remain. If he must go, then go he would—and without subjecting himself to any more of her barbed remarks. “In that case,” he said gravely, “I will bid you good day, ma’am.”

  With a stiff nod, he turned to leave. In that same instant, the winter sun blinked through the clouds, its rays shining into his eyes.

  Mrs. Rochester was on her feet in a flash. “Stop,” she commanded. “Don’t move.”

  He was startled enough by her tone to obey her.

  She came to stand in front of him, her skirts pressed against his legs. Reaching up, she brought her hand to cup his cheek.

  And John may as well have been turned to stone.

  His breath stopped in his chest, even as his pulse throbbed at her touch. Her hand was warm and soft, the feminine curve of her palm an intimate brand on his skin. But this was no caress. This was physical restraint. She held him still, forcing him to look at her as her eyes bored into his.

  “Are you an opium taker?” she demanded.

  His heart slammed against his ribs. “What?”

  “I believe you heard the question.” Her fingers tightened on his cheek. “Are you an opium taker?”

  His mouth went dry. “Mrs. Rochester—”

  “Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your eyes. The way your pupils react to the sunlight. Damn me that I didn’t notice it before.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  All at once, she let him go. He staggered back a step, his heart racing. She scarcely seemed to notice him. Turning away, she paced to the stone bench and back again, hands clenched at her sides. He thought he heard her say something to herself—muffled words whispered under her breath.

  “I have a legitimate use for it,” he said lamely. “The drug—the laudanum—it was given to me by a doctor. A remedy for headaches. It’s had no effect on the performance of my duties.”

  She didn’t reply, merely continued pacing, a deep line of worry etching itself across her brow. “How long?” she asked at last.

  How long had he been using it? John cast his mind back to his first appointment with the village doctor in Lowton. His headaches had commenced not long after arriving to teach at the school. Not long after meeting Helen. “Just over a year.”

  She folded her arms. “Then you were taking it before you came here. Before you ever knew of this place.”

  “Only when needed to combat my headaches. I’ve never abused the drug.” It wasn’t entirely true. His laudanum usage had increased fivefold after Helen’s death. It was only lately that he’d been able to successfully reduce his dosage. And even now, there were nights when he struggled to restrict himself to one teaspoon.

  “But you’re still taking it?” She searched his face. “How often?”

  John’s pulse pounded in his ears.

  “How often?”

  “Daily,” he admitted.

  She exhaled a harsh breath. And then she turned her back on him again and walked to the bench.

  His muscles trembled with the effort it took to remain calm. For God’s sake, he had no substantial savings. Nowhere he could possibly go. And if word got out that he was an opium taker, as Mrs. Rochester had so damningly put it, he’d be ruined. No one would ever hire him again. And then what? The workhouse? Death from exposure? Starvation?

  He swallowed hard. “You’ll wish me gone today, of course. Understandably so. But I would beg an hour or two to pack my things, and permission to say goodbye to the boys. I sh
ouldn’t like them to think that I abandoned them.”

  “What’s that?” Her gaze jerked briefly to his. “No. No, indeed, Mr. Eyre. You’re not going anywhere today. And as for tomorrow… Well.” She bent her head. “An opium taker. This changes the complexion of things.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was talking to him or to herself. Her words made no sense at all. “Do you mean that you wish me to stay?”

  She shot him another distracted glance. “For the time being, yes.”

  “But what about our disagreements? The boys’ tonic, and the—”

  “I can give you no definitive answers. Not now. I need time to think.” She waved him away. “Trust that we’ll revisit the subject later. Until then, you may resume your duties.”

  He stood there a moment longer, watching her restless perambulations. And then, like a prisoner with a last-minute reprieve from the hangman’s noose, he swiftly quit her presence.

  For the next several days, John saw nothing of Mrs. Rochester. Mr. Fairfax claimed she was busy tending to estate business, but John never once encountered her as he walked over the grounds. Even those clear afternoons when he ventured up to the battlements with his sketchpad provided no view of Thornfield’s elusive mistress. It was as if she’d simply disappeared.

  At the end of the fourth day, John withdrew to his bedroom in a miserable state. Mrs. Rochester’s absence was anything but reassuring. He’d begun to anticipate her reappearance—and his inevitable dismissal—with a greater and greater sense of foreboding.

  It was affecting his nights as well as his days.

  In such cases, he would have typically found peace in a phial of laudanum, but his ill-fated encounter with Mrs. Rochester had alarmed him. He hadn’t understood her at all. Didn’t know why it was she’d consented to keep him on, even if only for a little while. All he knew was that her words had shaken the very foundations of his self-respect.

  Are you an opium taker?

  The harsh question had replayed itself over and over again in his mind as he tutored Stephen and Peter, and in the evenings as he dined with Mr. Fairfax. It had followed him on all of his walks and rambles, haunting his footsteps like an accusing specter.

  Are you an opium taker?

  John had begun to wonder if anyone else in the household had ever suspected him of using laudanum. If they’d ever, like Mrs. Rochester, espied the signs of drug use in his eyes or on his face.

  The very idea was enough to make him sick to his stomach—and to spur him into action.

  Retiring to bed on that first evening, he’d foregone his usual dose of laudanum. And then again, each evening thereafter.

  But tonight…

  Tonight, his head was throbbing. Worse than that, he’d been in a cold sweat for most of the day, droplets of perspiration clinging to his brow as he’d helped the boys with their watercolors, and as he’d shared an after-dinner cup of tea with Mr. Fairfax.

  Stripping off his coat and cravat, John went to the wash basin in the corner of his bedroom and filled it from the pitcher. He shrugged out of his waistcoat and tugged his linen shirt off over his head. Bare to the waist, he plunged his head into the ice-cold water.

  Before the village doctor had prescribed laudanum for John’s headaches, cold water baths and compresses had been his only line of defense against the pain.

  Lifting his head from the basin, he dried his face and hair with a scrap of rough toweling. The cold water wasn’t as effective as it once had been, but it provided a little relief. It would have to be enough.

  By the time he finished readying for bed, the fire had died in the grate. Two half-melted tallow candles standing on a low chest near the door were the only source of light. John extinguished one of them and retrieved the other to guide his way across the room.

  Shadows danced on the walls of the box bed as he approached. Time had passed when the claustrophobic contraption had caused him apprehension. But as the winter progressed, he’d begun to feel a measure of gratitude for the bed. It kept him snug and warm when the wind was whistling down the chimney.

  Crawling under the covers, he blew out his candle, leaving it to sit on the bedside table. When a fire was blazing, he liked to sleep with the door of the bed cracked open, but there was no reason to do so tonight. He reached up and slid the door closed. It clicked shut, engulfing him in darkness.

  Pain throbbed behind his eyes, making slumber elusive. For the next several hours, he drifted in and out of a fitful sleep. At length, he could do nothing but stare straight up at the ceiling of his box bed. There was no way to discern the pattern of the wood in the darkness. Indeed, the construction of the bed was so faultless that not a single sliver of light managed to infiltrate the closely fitted seams.

  What time was it? Twelve o’clock? One?

  He closed his eyes again.

  No sooner had he done so, than a whisper of sound struck his ears. His eyes snapped open. Was it the boys again? The two of them murmuring together on the other side of the wall?

  But no. This was different. Softer.

  And closer.

  An icy shiver traced its way down John’s spine. He held his breath, listening. Perhaps he’d imagined it. Perhaps he’d—

  It came again. A low slithering hiss. This time unmistakable.

  Good God. Someone was trailing their fingertips over the oak panel of his box bed.

  He sat bolt upright, his pulse leaping. “Who’s there?”

  They provided no answer. Not in words. Instead, their fingernails scraped along the wood. The sound sent a jolt of fear through John’s vitals. Fear, and sudden anger.

  “Enough of these pranks.” He reached to slide open the door to his bed.

  But the door wouldn’t budge.

  What the devil? He tried to force it open. “Who’s out there?” he demanded again, shaking the panel with all of his strength. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Bloody blasted hell. It was immoveable. As if someone had locked it from the outside.

  “Impossible,” he muttered. The box bed didn’t have a lock on the outside of its sliding door. There was no reason for one. And yet, try as he might, he couldn’t move the damned thing.

  He shook it again in a burst of panic. But it was no good. He hadn’t the strength to move it.

  At last he lay back against his pillows, his breath coming in harsh pants.

  “I’m not afraid,” he said. “And I’m not amused either. This is a puerile joke by any standard. Haven’t you anything better with which to torment me?”

  His bold words were met with silence.

  Total silence, for John could no longer discern the hiss of fingertips tracing along the bed. There were no footsteps, either. No indication that anyone had left the room.

  He lay there, fists clenched, listening for a hint of his tormenter’s movement, or even of his breath.

  But John heard neither.

  As the minutes ticked by, his muscles began to relax.

  And he began to wonder.

  What if it hadn’t been a person at all? What if it had been a mouse or a rat? Rodents scrabbling in the dark? It was a distinct possibility. And in his present state of mind, one that would have instantly caused him to jump to conclusions. When coupled with the locked panel, was it any wonder he’d reacted as he had? That he’d believed it was a person responsible?

  Sitting up, he tried sliding open the panel one final time. It held fast. “Blast it,” he said under his breath. He was well and truly stuck.

  Not that it mattered. He’d have been closed up inside the bed until morning in any case. He may as well try to sleep. No one would be awake to help him for several hours at least. Until then, he’d just have to make the best of it.

  He lay back again into the softness of his feather pillows.

  And suddenly, he felt quite tempted to laug
h—or possibly, to weep. Was it madness, what was happening to him? His sanity slowly slipping away in the wake of Helen’s death? The laudanum had brought her ghost. A grim occurrence. But the lack of laudanum had brought something darker—a cold, seeping fear that made him imagine all manner of sinister things

  As he slipped into a fitful sleep, he couldn’t decide which was worse.

  John woke in the morning, sitting up in his bed and stretching as he always did. His eyes bleary from sleep, he reached reflexively to open the wood panel of his box bed. It slid back easily on its track.

  All at once, the events of the previous night came back to him.

  His pulse quickened. Climbing out of bed, he tested the panel again, sliding it back and forth several times. It never once became stuck. And certainly not in the way he remembered it being stuck last night—fixed so fast into the frame that no degree of force could move it.

  It was a puzzle, and one he didn’t care to keep to himself. At breakfast, he shared the whole of his disturbing experience with Mr. Fairfax.

  “The wood swelled, no doubt,” the butler said as he buttered a slice of toast. “Not surprising in this weather.”

  The two of them were seated in the dining room at one end of the long mahogany table. Cook had provided them with a breakfast of hardboiled eggs, sausages, kippers, porridge, and toast. A swirl of steam rose from the spout of the teapot, drifting up toward the coffered ceiling.

  “I’m sure you’re right.” John sipped his tea. “But it was disconcerting.”

  “If you’ll forgive my saying so, it sounds much like a nightmare.”

  John lowered his cup. “I didn’t dream it.” He couldn’t have done. The events had been too real. His fear too vivid.

  “No, indeed. But I know from experience the tricks an old house can play on one’s senses. Many a night I’ve heard footsteps, or a phantom hand brushing the wall.” Mr. Fairfax took a bite of his toast, chewing it slowly. “It’s the wind, most of it. The odd sounds. That and creaking floorboards. Houses settle, you know. I won’t claim one becomes used to it. There are times that even I find myself shuddering when a cold draft passes my door. One can almost envision it being a person. A sentient shadow.”