John Eyre

by Mimi Matthews

  “You begin to sound like my old nurse.”

  Mr. Fairfax’s rheumy eyes met John’s. “A superstitious woman?”

  “What I remember of her. She enjoyed telling me bedtime stories populated with black dogs and vengeful witches. I can’t say it was very soothing for a boy of five.”

  “We’ve a black dog myth ourselves in this part of Yorkshire. The Barghest, it’s called. A frightening creature with outsized fangs and claws. We still get sightings on occasion.” Mr. Fairfax freshened his tea from the pot. “A farmer in Hay claimed to have seen it only last summer.”

  “Did he? And lived to tell about it?”

  “Oh, the Barghest isn’t dangerous in and of itself. It’s simply an omen.”

  “Of what?”

  “The coming of death.”

  The hairs lifted on the back of John’s neck. His mind conjured an image of the great black beast he’d seen on the road to Hay. “I hesitate to ask… Did anyone die after the sighting?”

  Mr. Fairfax’s expression sobered. “There are always deaths hereabouts. Fevers. Sickness. Accidents. One can’t attribute them all to a sighting of the Barghest.”

  “What’s this about the Barghest?” Mrs. Rochester entered the room. She was in riding dress, a crop held in one gloved hand.

  Disposing of his napkin, John at once rose from his chair. “Mrs. Rochester.”

  “Mr. Eyre.” She inclined her head. “Mr. Fairfax, you’re not frightening our new tutor, I trust.”

  Mr. Fairfax’s chair scraped on the floor as he stood. “I hope I’m not, ma’am.”

  “You aren’t,” John said. “Old folk tales from the nursery don’t scare me. Far from it.”

  “No? And here I thought you a sensible fellow.” She swung her crop. “Do you ride, sir?”

  “I… Er, a little.” He faltered. “That is, not very well.”

  She had a wide mouth, soft and full and disconcertingly sensual. It tugged down into a frown. “Never mind. You can accompany me to the stables. We’ll see if I’ve anything to suit you. If not, we shall walk instead.”

  “Stephen and Peter will expect me in the library shortly.”

  “Stephen and Peter can wait. You may have ten minutes to change into something more appropriate. Meet me in the hall.” With that, she turned on her heel and exited the room.

  John remained, still standing awkwardly at his place at the table. What was left of his sausage and eggs grew cold on his plate. “She’s very changeable.”

  “I expect she may appear so to a stranger,” Mr. Fairfax said. “I myself never notice it.”

  “Don’t you? I would think it plain.”

  Mr. Fairfax resumed his seat. “One must make allowances.”

  John’s gaze cut to his. “Why so?”

  “The mistress has many painful thoughts to harass her.”

  “About what?”

  “She has no family, for one,” Mr. Fairfax said. “They’ve all died within the last five years.”

  “Five years is a tolerable time.”

  “You forget, sir,” Mr. Fairfax said. “She’s also lost her husband. A more recent tragedy.”

  “Yes, of course.” John paused, adding, “Her manner is such that one forgets.”

  Mr. Fairfax’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “I trust her mourning clothes serve as a reminder.”

  John inclined his head in silent acknowledgment. Mourning dress, indeed. She was garbed to the teeth in it, but it had no effect on her bearing. And it certainly didn’t inhibit her from enjoying herself. A morning gallop? A grieving widow would refrain from such activities, surely.

  Excusing himself, John retreated to his bedroom to change. He hadn’t any smart riding clothes. The best he could manage was an ancient pair of Bedford-cord breeches and a coat of worn woolen broadcloth. Humble raiment for a humble schoolmaster. The last time he’d worn the ensemble was to accompany Helen into the village to call on a sick child.

  Helen had supplied him with a gelding for the journey. “I’d as soon we’d taken the gig,” he’d said.

  Helen’s face had been radiant in the summer sunlight. “No chance of that. William would have insisted I bring a maid. And I want you all to myself today.”

  At the time, John had been growing weary with her infatuation. But now…

  The memory made his heart ache—and worse. Guilt accompanied every recollection of Helen. A heavy stone in his stomach, reminding him of all of the things he might have done differently if only he’d been bolder. Braver. Willing to sacrifice himself for her happiness.

  Meeting Mrs. Rochester in the hall, his face must have shown his preoccupation. She gave him a narrow look. “We’ve established that you can only ride a little. It isn’t because you’re afraid of horses, is it?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s merely lack of practice.”

  “That’s easily remedied.” She pointed toward the door with her crop. “Shall we?”

  He accompanied her outside, walking next to her as they made their way down the drive. The mist was thick as smoke. John had never seen it so heavy this early. “Is a storm coming, I wonder? Mr. Fairfax is forever threatening one.”

  “Have you seen many storms since you arrived here?”

  “There’s been rain and wind on occasion. And this infernal mist. It never fully dissipates. I can’t fathom why.”

  “Thornfield is settled in a valley,” Mrs. Rochester said. “It’s a cradle of fog, and fog-bred pestilence. Both of my parents died in this place.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Don’t be. Their death freed me. It also left me a great deal of money.” Her tone betrayed no excess of emotion. It was matter-of-fact. Almost offhand.

  John looked straight ahead as he walked, uncertain how to respond. Plain speaking was always appreciated, but to be so frank about the death of one’s parents? It didn’t seem right.

  She cast him a wry look. “I understand you haven’t yet gone to church.”

  “No,” he admitted. “Mr. Fairfax said you preferred the children be kept away from services for the time being.”

  “A rare case of your abiding by my wishes.” She swung her crop. “But I don’t ask about the children. I ask about yourself. Why do you not attend?”

  John returned her glance. There seemed no reason to dissemble. She already knew of his laudanum use. He doubted whether her opinion of him could get any worse. “I’ve lately lost my faith.”

  “In God?”

  “In most everything.” He bent his head, regretting the words as soon as he uttered them. “Forgive me. That’s not entirely true. I still have faith in my teaching. In the good that can be done with the boys.”

  “You value your skill as a tutor very highly.”

  “I hope I have good cause.”

  “Oh, Stephen and Peter are much improved, I’ll grant you. They look almost human now.”

  He inwardly flinched. It was no more than what he’d thought himself, but to hear her give voice to the sentiment made his heart hurt on the boys’ behalf. “I’m pleased you recognize it.”

  “I’m not blind, Mr. Eyre. Indeed, I see more than a man like you could ever comprehend. Besides, it isn’t their improved appearance I object to, only the means by which you went about achieving that improvement.”

  “My methods were nothing very extreme. Healthy food, intelligent occupation, and outdoor exercise when the weather permitted.”

  “And a cessation of their tonic.”

  “Yes. That too.”

  “I expect you’ve been on tenterhooks this week, waiting for me to dismiss you. Or has our last conversation quite slipped your mind?”

  John had the suspicion that she’d delayed their conversation to achieve that precise effect. To keep him in a perpetual state of anxiety—dreading the moment h
e’d lose his position. Was such a fear likely to slip his mind? It bloody well wasn’t. “It could hardly do that. The vice I admitted to you then isn’t one I’m particularly proud of.”

  “A vice, you call it.”

  “As well as a necessity. I had legitimate cause to use the laudanum prescribed to me, but I’m the first to confess that I’d come to rely on it a bit too heavily. You were right to be upset about it.”

  She shot him an alert glance. “You speak of it in the past tense. Why? You haven’t stopped using the drug, have you?”

  “I have, actually.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t take you for a fool, Mr. Eyre.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “To stop taking it altogether? Even I know that such a course would cause a person to become ill.”

  “Not ill. Only, a little…” He exhaled heavily. “I don’t know. Fanciful, I guess. Imagining things that aren’t there.”

  Something passed over her face. An emotion he couldn’t identify. It might have been concern. Possibly even alarm. “Such as?”

  “Last night, the panel of my box bed became stuck. I was briefly trapped inside, and for a moment I…” He ran a hand through his hair, giving a short laugh. “I fancied someone was in my room. Stupid, I know. The panel opened easily enough in the morning. Mr. Fairfax thinks it was likely due to the wood swelling.”

  “Does he.”

  “As for the rest of it…” John shrugged. “One hears things in old houses.”

  Mrs. Rochester’s pace quickened. She stared straight ahead, her jaw set. John had to lengthen his stride to keep up with her.

  Up ahead, the stable emerged through the mist—a formidable structure of gray stone with strong, wood-fenced paddocks running out at either side.

  “You shouldn’t have stopped taking the laudanum,” she said.

  He looked at her sharply. “Why not?”

  “For your own safety.”

  His brow creased. “For my safety? What does that—”

  “Your health, I meant.” She slowed her step as they approached the stable yard. A large man was there, bent over a forge. He was hammering a length of heavy silver chain, the clang of metal-on-metal ringing in the silence.

  John recognized the fellow at once. It was Mr. Poole.

  “How are you getting on?” Mrs. Rochester asked him. “Any progress?”

  Mr. Poole briefly stopped hammering. His brow was beaded with sweat. “Almost done, ma’am.”

  “And we won’t be having any more difficulties, I trust.”

  “None so far as I can see.”

  “Excellent.” She looked at John. “Come along, Mr. Eyre. I’ve changed my mind about riding this morning. Let us walk down to the orchard instead.”

  Some of the tension left John’s muscles. It was difficult enough to parry with Mrs. Rochester while strolling at her side. On horseback it would have been well-nigh impossible. “If you like.”

  She cast aside her crop in the stable yard, folding her arms as they trudged past the paddocks and down a dirt path toward the small orchard at the back of the Hall.

  John had the sense that she was coming to a decision—and one he wasn’t going to like very much. “May I ask you a question?”

  She flicked him a distracted glance. “That depends. What is it you wish to know?”

  “Only this: what was it that originally ailed Stephen and Peter? The illness they had when first they came here? Mr. Fairfax insists it was nothing but seasickness.”

  “You have reason to doubt him?”

  “Mr. Fairfax has no firsthand knowledge of the boys. He knows nothing except what you’ve told him.”

  Her mouth quirked. “You have reason to doubt me?”

  John flushed. Of course he had reason. Her every word—every gesture—served to put him more on his guard. She was the embodiment of a mystery to him.

  Even so, he had no reason to think her a liar.

  “No, ma’am. But judging from the boys’ condition, I find it hard to believe their illness wasn’t something of a more serious nature.”

  “You’re right. It wasn’t seasickness. Or rather, it wasn’t only that.” She readjusted the heavy skirt of her riding habit over her left arm, arranging the folds of fabric with deliberate care. “Stephen and Peter contracted a minor blood disease while living abroad. It weakened them substantially. I’ve been struggling with proper methods for restoring their health ever since.”

  “What kind of blood disease?”

  “A sort of anemia. Not entirely uncommon in the region they hail from.”

  “What region is that?”

  “A remote part of the countryside outside of Varna. You won’t have heard of it.”

  Varna? Good lord. He’d thought Mr. Fairfax had been exaggerating when he said Mrs. Rochester traveled to such exotic places. It was all John could do not to gape at her. “Do you mean to say…the boys are Bulgarian?”

  “Romani, I believe.” She frowned. “It’s difficult to be certain.”

  Her tone was discouraging, but John felt anything but discouraged. Quite the reverse. The information opened up a world of possibilities. “But that’s wonderful news. There must be some Romani person living hereabouts. We could invite them to speak to the boys. To translate. It would be helpful to—”

  “Quite out of the question.”

  He broke off. “Why?”

  “The boys have no need to be reminded of the past. They have a new life here. And if I can manage their health, and see that they have a proper education, they’ll soon forget what happened before.”

  “What happened?” he asked. “I would dearly like to know.”

  She didn’t answer him. Not directly. She squinted into the distance. At what, John couldn’t tell. It was impossible to make out the orchard. Impossible to see much of anything in these conditions. He wasn’t even certain they were going in the right direction.

  “I’d assumed they were orphans,” he said. “Mr. Fairfax told me that you’d adopted them during your travels. That you’d named them yourself.”

  “I did. Stephen and Peter. The first martyrs.”

  A shiver went through him. It was cold as the devil outside. “What happened to their parents?”

  “They’re dead, I expect. Likely from the same blood disease that the boys contracted. It took the lives of a great many people in the region. You might think of it in terms of a plague.”

  “You don’t mean to say it’s fatal? Surely anemia isn’t—”

  “A sort of anemia, I said. Something more insidious. It leaches a person of all of their strength—of all of their will. If left untreated, they wither away to nothing.” Mrs. Rochester glanced briefly in his direction. “Don’t look so alarmed, Mr. Eyre. The disease hasn’t consumed the children yet.”

  “No indeed, but it sounds dreadful.”

  “It is dreadful. But not to worry. I’ve had luck in combating its encroachment. And I shall continue to do so, provided no one countermands my instructions.” Her expression sobered. “You realize, of course, that I shall have to replace their tonic.”

  His spirits slowly sank. Naturally, she would. She was one of those ladies who had a belief in patent medicines. If one didn’t work, another would be tried, and then another—each of them with nothing more to recommend them than the last. “I see.”

  “I mean to replace yours, as well.”

  “You…what?” He came to an abrupt halt. “Do you mean…my laudanum? But I’m no longer taking it. I have no need—”

  “Headaches, you said. Isn’t that right?” She stopped to face him. The mist rose at her back, swirling around the pair of them. “You were speaking the truth, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see how—”

  “It’s quite simple.” She took a step closer to him
. The faint fragrance of her perfume drifted to his nose. “I have a solution for your pain, Mr. Eyre. The same solution I mean to employ for the children.”

  His pulse skipped. He cleared his throat. “Another patent medicine? Really Mrs. Rochester, I—”

  “No. It’s something altogether more wholesome. A decoction of herbs, vegetables, and minerals, from an old recipe that’s recently come into my possession. It contains no opiates, and will cause you no harm. But I believe it will answer.”

  He stared at her. “Answer to what?”

  “The impasse we find ourselves at.” She looked steadily back at him. “Will you promise to take it? And to not interfere when Sophie gives it to the boys?”

  “An herbal tonic.” He huffed. Was this the cost of securing his position? To saving himself from being cast out onto the streets in the dead of winter? If so, surely it was a small price to pay. “You’re confident it will serve its purpose?”

  “As to that, only time will tell. But…yes.” Her eyes glittered with a strange resolve. “When administered correctly, I have great hope it will do precisely what it’s meant to do.”

  Letters from Mrs. Bertha Rochester to Miss Blanche Ingram

  Hotel d’ Orient

  Varna, Bulgaria

  Saturday, 19 November 1842

  My Dear Blanche, —

  Forgive the delay in writing. We’ve been traveling, and I’m only now at liberty to respond to your (rather severe) letter. You’re perfectly right to scold me for being so changeable. My only excuse is that I knew so little of the world before now. It was easy to vow that I’d never marry when the sole contenders for my hand were a trio of Yorkshire mill owners and farmers, none of whom had anything more than their bank balances to recommend them.

  You ask if I love Mr. Rochester. In truth, I don’t know. I feel a great physical affection for him, certainly. An attraction unlike any I’ve ever known. But what is love, really? Nothing but a lofty ideal, to my mind. Such ideals are easy to adhere to when no temptation exists to challenge them.

  Which isn’t to say that Mr. Rochester is a mere temptation. He’s a worthy man, I promise you, and a fascinating one, with such a way about him. Whenever we’re out together in the evenings, he draws people to him like a magnet. No one can resist his subtle charm. He could have dozens of ladies at the snap of his fingers if he wanted them, and has no reason to have “set his sights on me” as you so unflatteringly put it. No reason other than that he finds me equally worthy of attention—equally fascinating in my own way.