Straightening his coat, he crossed the hall to the stairs, only to stop short at the sight of Mr. Fairfax.
The elderly butler was descending the steps, one trembling hand clutching the banister. “Mr. Eyre. Back already?”
“Only just. Is everything well with the boys?”
“They had an agreeable afternoon with Sophie. She has them in the nursery at present, helping them to wash and change for dinner.”
“I think I’ll dine with them this evening,” John said. “If you don’t mind it? It might help to make up for my absence.”
“As you wish.” Mr. Fairfax came to a halt on the step above John. “Did you enjoy your tea with the vicar?”
“I did. He’s very amiable.”
“I expect he asked after the mistress?”
He had eventually. “He enquired about her health, and the health of Stephen and Peter.” John paused before adding, “He regrets it isn’t possible to call on them.”
“I have every confidence that Mrs. Rochester will permit him to visit when the boys are well enough to receive him.”
“She’s unwilling to receive him herself?”
“Is that what he said?”
“He mentioned that he called here last summer. That he was turned away.”
Mr. Fairfax’s lips pursed. “Mr. Taylor is an amiable enough man, as you say, but like all vicars, he’s prone to meddling. Mrs. Rochester had enough to contend with at the time. She was in no mood to indulge him.” He resumed his descent, passing John with a nod. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my duties.”
“Of course.” Inclining his head, John continued up the stairs.
It was none of his business if Mrs. Rochester preferred not to see the vicar. None of his business if she never attended Sunday services, or never spoke of the death of her friend, Miss Ingram. She owed him no explanations, no confidences.
Nevertheless, he chafed at the mystery of it all. And he wished—stupidly, he wished—that she’d want to share her burdens with him. She had seemed to do so that night in his room.
But perhaps he’d imagined that brief moment of intimacy, just as he’d imagined so many other things of late.
Dining with the boys that evening in the nursery, it took an effort to redirect his thoughts to more productive subjects. By the time they finished their soup, he’d somehow managed to reignite some of the excitement he’d felt earlier when the boys had vocalized along with the piano. It had been, on the whole, a successful day, and John was determined to view it as such.
They were in the midst of eating their pudding when Stephen laid down his spoon with a clatter, and rising from his chair, went to the window. He drew back the curtain and peered out through the rain-streaked glass.
“What is it, Stephen?” John came to join him, with Peter close behind. “Did you hear something?”
John needn’t have asked. Within seconds, he heard it himself. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves in the distance, and the rattle of carriage wheels on gravel. It drew closer by the moment.
The nursery window looked out over the drive. It was lit by two lanterns, their glowing flame managing to push back the heavy mist that enshrouded it. Visibility was generally poor in the evenings, especially when it was raining, but John was able to make out the arrival of an elegant black-lacquered carriage. Pulled by a set of matched bays, it rolled up the drive, coming to a halt in front of the door. Another carriage arrived soon after, this one pulled by a set of four gray horses.
A footman leapt down from the box of the first vehicle, and setting down the steps, opened the door of the carriage. A gentleman emerged—tall and impeccably tailored. He turned to hand down a lady. An achingly familiar figure, garbed in a black traveling dress. As she stepped down onto the drive, she lifted her face to the house. Her features were briefly illuminated in the lamplight.
John’s heart gave a heavy thump at the sight of her.
Mrs. Rochester was home at last.
But she hadn’t returned alone.
The man—who now tucked her arm so masterfully into his in preparation for escorting her to the house—must be George Eshton.
John withdrew from the window before he was seen, and urged the boys to do the same. “Back to the table. Finish your pudding.”
Joining them there, he made short work of his own portion.
It may as well have been sawdust.
He told himself that it didn’t matter. Her arrival, whether on the arm of George Eshton or not, had no bearing on John’s duties. Soon, he’d bid the boys goodnight and retire to his room to read his borrowed book. Perhaps later Mr. Fairfax would invite him for tea in the parlor?
Or perhaps…
But John dared not hope for it.
Who knew how long into the night Mrs. Rochester’s guests would remain? In the past it hadn’t been terribly long. And afterward, when they’d gone, she’d invited him to come to the drawing room with the boys. She’d encouraged him to talk to her.
But there was no guarantee he would see her tonight, nor even tomorrow.
Leaving the boys’ room later that evening, he walked next door to his own. He was just preparing to enter when a floorboard creaked down the hall. It was Mr. Fairfax.
The elderly butler lowered his voice, addressing John quietly as he approached. “Such a to-do. The Eshtons have accompanied Mrs. Rochester back from the Leas.”
John frowned. “Have they? Why?”
“On account of the rain, and the mist being high. They didn’t like her to ride home alone, and insisted on escorting her. She says there was no way to dissuade them. And now here they are, all of them in the drawing room, as merry as if it were a party. I’ve had to rouse Cook to prepare something, for it looks as though they won’t be leaving anytime soon.”
“Can I be of help?”
“You wouldn’t object?”
“Not at all.” A tutor wasn’t meant to be doing menial work, but John wasn’t so full of his own self-importance that he couldn’t roll up his sleeves on occasion and lend a helping hand.
Mr. Fairfax exhaled a heavy breath. “Thank you, Mr. Eyre. I knew I could count on your assistance. If you’ll go down to the kitchens and see what you can do to smooth Cook’s feathers, it will be much appreciated.”
“Of course.” John doubted he’d have much success. Up to this point, his interaction with Cook had been confined to perfunctory greetings at mealtime. The few servants employed at Thornfield weren’t accustomed to treating him as a comrade. His position was considered far above theirs—though not far enough to merit any particular respect.
“And Mr. Eyre?” Mr. Fairfax added before he departed. “Use the servants’ stairs. It will be quicker.”
John responded with a stiff inclination of his head. The servants’ stairs indeed. He supposed that put him on notice. A not-so-subtle reminder of his place in the household.
As if he needed reminding.
It shouldn’t bother him. As a tutor, he’d long grown accustomed to being put in his place. And yet…
For the past months he’d had the run of Thornfield and had become used to exercising his authority. Even Mrs. Rochester had addressed him not as a servant but as a man who was worth knowing better. Someone of value.
Or so John had believed.
He used the back stairs to make his way down to the kitchens. There, he found the cook and her scullery maid busy preparing a tray. Alfred, the footman, stood waiting for it.
“See that Mr. Poole gets his pot of porter,” Cook said. “And a double portion of that rare beef. He’ll have a long night ahead of him what with all the commotion in the house.”
“Bless him.” The scullery maid added the items to the tray. “He gets good wages for it, I expect.”
“The best,” Cook replied. “And he has enough of it put by at the bank, he could
retire if he wished.”
“Why would he? He’s a dab hand at his job, and strong enough for anything.”
“He knows his business, I’ll give him that much,” Cook said. “’Tis not everyone could do what he does, not for any amount of money.”
“Does the mistress not worry—”
The scullery maid might have said more, but at that moment, Cook’s gaze lit on John. She silenced the maid with a nudge of her elbow.
John regarded the pair of them with wary interest. It seemed there was a further dimension to the mystery surrounding Mr. Poole. Not only did Mrs. Rochester keep him on, despite his tendency for malicious mischief, she also rewarded his dubious services with an exorbitant wage.
Were the man’s skills at metalwork and furniture mending so valuable?
“Do you require something, sir?” Cook asked.
John came the rest of the way into the kitchen. “Mr. Fairfax thought I might be of use to you.”
Cook’s brows shot up. “You?”
Alfred took hold of the tray. “Is this ready?”
“Go on and take it up then,” Cook said. “And don’t dally.” And then to John: “I don’t know what Mr. Fairfax expects you can do, Mr. Eyre. You’re no footman, and you know naught about trussing game or boiling a pudding.” She squinted her eyes. “Do you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. But I can tote and carry if you need.”
“Well…I suppose, if you want to make yourself useful, you can bring in more wood for the stove. It’ll be burning all night at this rate.”
John was glad to have something to do. A back door from the kitchen led out into the yard where the wood was kept. He raised the collar of his coat up over his neck as he ventured forth. The rain was coming in sheets now, a downpour unlike any he’d seen since his arrival in Yorkshire.
As he gathered an armful of firewood, a flash of lightning streaked across the sky, briefly illuminating the darkness. He scarcely needed the light. The small kitchen yard was easy enough to navigate. It housed only the woodshed, water pump, and privy. At the moment they were shrouded in mist.
But not mist.
It had become heavier at some point. Almost impenetrable. A proper fog.
Bending his head against the driving rain, John carried the firewood into the kitchen, and then turned to make another trip to the woodshed, and then another. The weather seemed to worsen with every passing minute. By the time he finished, he was wet through.
“That’ll be enough,” Cook said, shutting the door after him. “You sit down, Mr. Eyre. Take off your coat before you catch your death. I’ll get you a cup of tea.”
John stripped off his rain-sodden coat and hung it by the door before taking a seat at the old plank table. He ran a hand over his wet hair. It was hard to believe that only this afternoon the conditions had been mild enough to walk to Hay and back.
Where had the bad weather come from? There’d been mist, as always, and a light patter of rain upon his return, but nothing to compare with this maelstrom.
The scullery maid put a steaming mug of tea in front of him. “Listen to that wind howling, sir.”
“I reckon the Eshtons won’t like to drive back to Millcote in such a downpour,” Cook remarked, stirring a pot on the stove.
“You reckon right.” Mr. Fairfax entered the kitchen holding a tray on which stood an empty decanter of madeira and a plate of biscuit crumbs. He set it down on the counter. “Mr. Eyre? I’m afraid I must press you into service once more.”
“Only tell me what you require,” John said.
Mr. Fairfax half-leaned against the counter. He’d never looked wearier. “We haven’t time to properly air the spare bedrooms, but there’s fires to be lit and the beds will need fresh linens. It will take every set of hands in the house to make things ready.”
John slowly stood, unable to conceal his dismay. “Mrs. Rochester has invited the Eshtons to stay?”
“She had little choice in the matter, given the conditions on the road.” Mr. Fairfax straightened. His bones creaked at the joints. “Would that we’d had proper notice. We might have hired extra help for the occasion. But we must make do as best we can.”
John wondered that any degree of poor weather could be enough to force Mrs. Rochester to submit to having overnight guests. After all, there were the boys to consider. She valued their privacy, didn’t she? And what about Mr. Poole’s erratic behavior? Surely it wasn’t ideal to have people to stay with him creeping about?
“The poor weather might clear, given another hour or two,” John said.
“Poor weather?” Mr. Fairfax stared at him as if he’d lost his wits. “Have you looked outside?” A clap of thunder shook the windows, bringing forth another torrent of rain. “It’s the storm, Mr. Eyre. It’s finally come.”
The following day, the storm showed no sign of relenting. John was obliged to remain in the nursery with the boys. It was impossible to continue their lessons in the library. The house was too busy. Too merry, in spite of the foul weather. Around every corner, he heard voices raised in laughter and conversation.
Stephen and Peter heard them, too.
It was enough to bring back a shadow of the reticence they’d shown when John had first arrived at Thornfield. Worse than that, when a deep male voice echoed through the hall, John was certain he saw Stephen flinch.
“Guests can be disruptive,” Mr. Fairfax said, passing John in the hall later that afternoon. “Trust that they’ll be leaving as soon as the weather allows.”
“Yes, quite,” John replied with a touch of impatience. “But in the meanwhile, it might help if the boys were introduced to the Eshtons. It would show them that they have nothing to fear.”
Mr. Fairfax appeared doubtful. “I don’t think it wise myself, but I’ll mention your suggestion to Mrs. Rochester.”
John had no expectation that Mrs. Rochester would heed his advice. As the evening approached, he nevertheless made certain the boys were neatly clad, and that their hair was combed into meticulous order.
His efforts were not in vain.
At half past five, he received word from Mr. Fairfax that Stephen and Peter were to be brought to the drawing room after dinner, and that Mrs. Rochester had requested that John accompany them.
“She’ll brook no refusal,” Mr. Fairfax said.
John scarcely had time to shave and to change into a fresh coat and cravat before the appointed hour came. Collecting Stephen and Peter from their nurse, he descended to the drawing room.
It was presently empty, the party still lingering at dinner. But all was in readiness for them. The room was brilliant with light, a fire blazing in the hearth and candles flickering atop every available surface.
John drew the boys to a window seat, out of the way of the sofas and chairs that the guests would soon occupy. Sitting down, he was grateful for the brief moment of privacy so that they could get their bearings.
And not only them.
John felt a measure of apprehension as well. He hadn’t encountered Mrs. Rochester since the night of the fire. And now he would see her again at last, not from an upstairs window but face-to-face. Close enough to hear her voice and to register the subtle changes in her expression.
Stephen and Peter seemed equally anxious for her arrival. They sat solemnly beside him, watchful and waiting, their little frames taut with tension.
John laid a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. The boy looked up at him, a frightened question in his dark eyes. “You’re quite safe with me,” John assured him. “I won’t let anyone harm you.”
A soft sound emanated from the hall, drawing their attention. It preceded the arrival of the ladies: Mrs. Rochester, Mrs. Eshton, and another woman—quite young. They entered the drawing room together midconversation and at once sat down, making themselves comfortable in front of the fire.
Mrs. Roch
ester was wearing her usual black. A gown of silk and lace, with a fashionably low neckline. Her hair was drawn up in an elegant roll, secured with jet combs. At her throat, her silver locket glistened.
Her eyes briefly touched on John and the boys, half-hidden in their window seat, but no sign of particular warmth or recognition registered in her gaze. She resumed her conversation with the other ladies as if they had the room entirely to themselves.
John hadn’t expected her to introduce him to her guests. To do so would have been borderline scandalous. He was only a tutor. A paid employee. He knew that. Nevertheless, he hadn’t been prepared for her indifference.
Looking at her, he was painfully reminded of their last encounter. The way her voice had trembled as she clasped his bare hand in hers. So warm. So urgent. Her bronze-and-green-flecked eyes hadn’t been indifferent to him then. They’d been brimming with unspoken emotion.
“Those are your wards, I suppose,” Mrs. Eshton said, casting a cool look their way. “They’re quite dark, aren’t they?”
“Not at all English,” the other lady added under her breath.
Mrs. Rochester leaned back against the sofa in that queenly way of hers. As if she were mistress of all she surveyed. A Bengal tiger might have lounged thus. A fearsome predator, thoroughly at home in her lair. “Stephen and Peter are from Bulgaria,” she said. “I should be surprised if there was anything English about them.”
John observed the three ladies as they talked. Mrs. Eshton was a large woman, aged somewhere between fifty and sixty, by his guess. Her hair was liberally peppered with gray, and she had a rather impressive double chin that was partially camouflaged by an enormous pearl necklace. Her smallest movement evoked haughtiness. A sense of superiority so innate that her upper lip was permanently curled.
The other lady—whom he soon learned was an Eshton cousin by the name of Miss Lynn—appeared just as haughty. Thin and sallow, she sat primly beside Mrs. Eshton, her aristocratically beaked nose lifted high in the air as she spoke.
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