John Eyre

by Mimi Matthews

  It was during this particular conversation that he first informed me that his finances were not what they once were. Apparently, in the last several years, his investments in the West Indies have begun to suffer. I asked him to explain, but he would say nothing more than that British law made it impossible for his sugar plantation to make a profit any longer.

  I suspect he must have earned his money there on the backs of slaves. Now that the vile practice has been abolished, it seems he’s unable to acclimate himself to a new method of doing business. I had thought…

  But there’s no excuse for my ignorance. As soon as he said he had holdings in the West Indies, I should have interrogated him further. Instead, I assumed only the best, just as I did in every other regard. Was there ever a woman so ignorant? So certain she had evaluated a potential mate with a critical eye, only to discover that she’s been as gullible as every other unwitting member of her sex?

  The least I can say for myself is that, though I may occasionally make mistakes, I rarely make the same one twice.

  14 April. — My nights with my husband have been passing much as ever, with only one marked change: I have lately seen him looking at me, studying me, when he believes I’m not aware. It’s enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. He’s up to something, and I fear that whatever it is, it bodes nothing but ill for me. My only advantage is one he hasn’t yet surmised. He believes he is studying me, but it is I who have been watching him. Learning him. What use I can make of this meager knowledge, I don’t know. Not yet.

  Some hours ago, as the sun fully set, he departed on one of his mysterious errands. I stood in the hall as he unchained the front door.

  “Why must you lock it behind you?” I asked.

  “For your safety, my love,” he said.

  “Yes, but what if I should have some emergency? What if I’m injured? Or require help?”

  He gave me a hard look. “You will receive no injury so long as you adhere to my rules. Stay close to your bedchamber, or to these rooms.” He gestured to the hall and the adjacent library. “Do not venture any farther. My home is an ancient place, with stones and timber that have needed replacing these many years. I cannot promise you will be safe if you put a foot on the wrong step, or go through a forbidden door.”

  His speech chilled me. Was he aware of my daylight explorations? I didn’t see how he could be. “Even more reason for you to leave the door unlocked,” I said. “Or to trust me with the keys.”

  His lips curled in a mocking smile. “You may as well ask that I leave the door to my vault unlocked. I keep my treasures well protected. All of them.” With that, he kissed me very hard on the mouth. So hard that the inner flesh of my lips was cut against my teeth, drawing a trickle of blood.

  What my husband did next, I can hardly bring myself to put to paper. But I have promised a true account here, and so I must transcribe this aberrant behavior along with all the rest. It is this: as he kissed me, he lapped up the trickle of blood from my mouth with his tongue.

  I stood there, stunned and repulsed, as he took his leave, shutting the door behind him. He drew the bolt from the outside, locking me in the house until his return.

  What would he do, I wondered, if I were to fall upon the door, pounding with my fists and screaming? I feared the worst. This absurd pretense of normalcy was the only thing keeping me safe from him at the moment.

  Lighting a lantern, I returned upstairs, but instead of going to my room, I climbed two flights to the topmost floor. It was darker there, and dustier, stinking of damp and rot. I checked the doors. Most of them were locked. But, much to my surprise, two of them were not.

  The first opened stiffly as I turned the handle, swinging back with a shriek of rusty hinges so loud I nearly jumped out of my skin. Raising my lantern, I looked about the room. It was nothing very impressive. Some old furnishings, half covered with sheets. Rather like the furniture stored on the third floor of Thornfield.

  Going to the barred window, I saw that it looked out over the courtyard, giving a rare glimpse of the path by which my husband made his comings and goings. He wasn’t there at present, and there was no sign of any horses or carriages, nor of any servants that I could see. There was only a strange silver mist that had gathered in the darkness, rolling over the ground to the edges of the fortress. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

  Resuming my investigations, I continued to the next unlocked door. It led to an even smaller chamber that contained nothing but a wardrobe and an old sea trunk. Dust lay upon the floor in a thick layer. I was conscious of leaving my footprints in it as I made my way to the window.

  The view through the iron bars was nothing to speak of—only a glimpse of the sea below. All but one side of Nosht-Vŭlk was built at the very edge of the cliff, making escape from these windows impossible, even if I could manage to fit through the bars. Indeed, I was beginning to think that escape was impossible entirely.

  After obscuring the evidence of my footsteps, I returned to my room, my mind in a tumult. At length, I came to the following conclusion: it is pointless to concern myself with thoughts of escape. Far better to remain in my husband’s good graces until the day of our departure. Once I’m back in England, I will have a greater chance of extricating myself from his clutches.

  Though I fear it is already too late for that. Whether locked inside of a remote fortress or not, a wife is a prisoner of her husband, confined by the legal bonds of matrimony. Such bondage knows no geographic boundary.

  16 April. — My plan to appear a good and obedient wife has, so far, been successful. As a result, Edward has been kinder to me and has seemed less menacing. To keep him thus, I initiate conversation only on topics that are of particular interest to him, such as the history of his homeland or his collection of antiquities. He’s always willing to expound on these subjects whenever he has a free moment. However, of late his free moments have become fewer and farther between.

  He’s busy from sunset to sunrise on some business venture of his own. It involves a great deal of letter writing, and a great many midnight errands outside of the house. He won’t share the details of his enterprise with me, and I dare not press him too hard, lest I disrupt the tenuous peace we’ve come to in our marriage.

  18 April. —Edward has been going into and out of his vault rather a lot in the past days, each time unlocking it and locking it again behind him. This morning, in the early hours before sunrise, I persuaded him to let me accompany him inside. Much to my surprise, he relented.

  I’ve been inside the vault before. It’s a cool room, dry and airless, filled with the most fascinating collection of antiques. However, as I looked about the walls, starkly brightened by lanternlight, I recalled that on my previous visit, the shelves housing my husband’s treasures had been markedly fuller.

  “Where is the rest of your collection?” I asked.

  “Gone,” he said.

  “Yes, but where?”

  “Gone,” he said again. “Sold.”

  I noticed then that Edward’s expression was unusually grim. He plainly wasn’t happy to have parted with the pieces in question. “Why?” I asked.

  “It was necessary,” he said. “I required additional coin to purchase another item. A book.”

  “What sort of book?”

  “Egyptian,” he said. “Quite valuable to me. It may have come from the empty tomb in Thebes.”

  “And you bought it?”

  “Not yet. But it will be mine.” And then he added, very quietly: “I have been looking for it all of my life.”

  His words shouldn’t have been ominous. I know the single-mindedness of some collectors. They’ll happily bankrupt themselves to acquire a coveted piece. But I nevertheless felt a strange shiver of unease. “Is there something particular about this book that appeals to you?”

  “You ask a great many questions,” he said. “
Take care. The answers may not be to your liking.”

  21 April. — Today, Edward was out again on another midnight errand. When he returned, he came to my bedroom, and summoning me to my little desk, placed before me a bottle of ink, a freshly sharpened quill, and several blank sheets of paper. “You must write two letters to your friend, Miss Ingram,” he said.

  My heart fairly leapt. “To Blanche? Do you mean to post them for me?”

  “Indeed.” He set his hand upon my shoulder, squeezing it so tightly that he caused me pain. “But you must write what I tell you to.”

  A chill settled into my veins. “What is it that you wish me to say to her?”

  “Only this,” he replied silkily. “In the first letter, you will tell her that you and I have left Varna. In the second you will say that we have boarded a ship for Marseilles.”

  I met his eyes, and he looked into mine, unflinching. There was a diabolical gleam in the depths of his gaze. I knew then that, were it up to him, I would never again see Varna, let alone England.

  Strengthening his grip on my shoulder, he commanded me to date the first letter ten days hence, and the second for two weeks after that. When I’d done so, he collected the letters, along with the writing implements, and departed my chamber. I heard the bolt slide into place as he shut the door behind him.

  I am again locked in my room. And unless I am very much mistaken, I have but ten days to contrive an escape. Or else…God help me.

  22 April. — The pretense between Edward and I has been entirely abandoned. I know it now for what it was all along. A source of amusement to him. A means of toying with me, as a cat toys with a mouse, building the smaller creature’s terror until that final moment when the cat at last makes a meal of him.

  This morning, he returned at sunrise to unbolt my door. Where he’d been, I haven’t the faintest idea. Yesterday, I might have refrained from asking in order to keep the peace. But today, I had no such concerns. I went directly up to him, and spoke in my most challenging tone. “What do you mean by locking me in my room? Have you no honor at all?”

  His mouth curved into a lazy smile. “My English tigress. I see that a night in your cage has failed to subdue you.”

  Oh! If I were a man, I would have hit him. But I have no such power. Only words—the bulk of which appeared to have no impact on him at all. “It was never Mrs. Wren, was it? That first time I found myself a prisoner here? It was you all along. You locked me in my room then, just as you did last night.” I looked him straight in the eye. “You coward.”

  His mood changed, swift as quicksilver. One moment he was smiling, and the next he had me by the throat. With one squeeze of his fingers, he cut off my air. “Have a care, dear lady,” he said. “Lest I tire of you sooner than anticipated.”

  Blood roared in my ears. I daresay it deprived me of sense, as well as oxygen, for when he loosened his grip, I took only the barest breath before attacking him, once more, with the only weapon at my disposal. “Coward,” I said. “Abuser of women.”

  His fingers tightened, crushing my throat as brutally as a vise. He lifted me straight up onto the toes of my slippers. “Say it again,” he said softly. “I dare you to.”

  I was afraid. Of course, I was. But another emotion transcended fear. I saw my life flash before my eyes, as bright and brilliant as the pages of an illuminated manuscript. All those years yearning for adventure. All those years resisting marriage to worthy gentlemen. All for this—to end my days in the clutches of such a villain. And I wasn’t frightened any longer. I was angry.

  “Coward,” I choked out. “Parasite.”

  At that, he roared his outrage like any animal and threw me across the length of the room with unbelievable strength. I hit the wall, banging my head sharply before crumpling to the floor. Dizziness assailed my senses, and a taste of bile rose in my throat. I feared I would faint, my lifeless body left entirely to his evil devices.

  I willed myself to remain conscious, rising up to a sitting position against the wall.

  For a moment, it looked as though he would come to me and finish the violence he’d begun. Instead, he drew back, his face a mask of controlled fury. “Count yourself lucky I still have need of you,” he said.

  And then he left me.

  23 April. — The date of our departure is set for the first of May. That gives me seven days exactly. A feeling of desperation has made me conscious of every passing second. I’ve resolved to use my time as efficiently as I can.

  I spent all of last night in my room, wary of venturing forth. Only this morning, when Edward finally retired to bed, was I able to go down to the kitchen to procure myself something to eat. The cheese and bread I found had gone moldy, and our small store of meat had begun to rot. My husband must be dining out in the evenings, for he has touched none of the food here. I shouldn’t like to eat it either, but I must keep up my strength.

  At present, there is no way out of Nosht-Vŭlk. No unlocked door, and no window from which I can climb. What I require most is a key. But how to gain access to it? Edward carries the keys on his person. I can’t overpower him when he’s awake, and while he sleeps, he lies safe behind the two locked doors of his bedchamber.

  Returning to my room, I examined this lock on the connecting door. I knew it was strong. It had never so much as budged during all of my angry shaking and rattling. But was it a complicated mechanism? I knelt down on the stone floor in front of it and gave it a thorough looking over.

  When I was a girl, Mama once confiscated a novel she caught me reading and locked it away in the drawer of her dressing table. Later, after much clumsy fiddling, I managed to spring the lock with a bent hairpin, and thereby retrieve my book. Would such a simple trick work on one of the locks at Nosht-Vŭlk?

  Removing one of the hairpins from my coil of plaits, I bent it and poked it into the bottom part of the keyhole. As I rattled it about, a growing fear rose within me. What if Edward was to wake and catch me at my illicit task? But there seemed little chance of that. In all the months of our marriage, I’d never once seen my husband in the daylight. He was a sound sleeper—the soundest I’d ever encountered—and not likely to be disturbed by any amount of noise.

  I continued my efforts, aided by the fact that, though strong enough, the lock was as old as everything else in the fortress. There didn’t appear to be anything overly complicated about its interior mechanism. Surely nothing like the newer sets of locks and bolts that guarded Edward’s vault.

  After a time, in some frustration, I withdrew a second hairpin and inserted that into the lock as well. It took a great deal of trial and error. Rather too much. My patience had nearly run out when, at last, I heard the telltale click.

  I can’t describe the relief I felt. Wiping the perspiration from my brow, I stood and tested the doorknob. It turned in my hand. A little push, and the door creaked open. Holding my breath, I walked through it.

  My husband’s bedchamber was not unknown to me. Some nights, when first I arrived at Nosht-Vŭlk, the connecting door between our rooms had stood open. Then, I had curiously glanced inside, as any new bride might. Because of this, I recognized its grand furnishings: the twin wardrobes, marble-topped washstand, and stately four-poster bed with its heavy velvet curtains, drawn shut to block out the light.

  My plan was simple. Moving as silently as a ghost, I would search his room for the keys. Where might he have put them? On the tall chest in the corner? In the pocket of his coat hung over the chair by his bed? I looked in the obvious places, but found no trace of them. I was about to commence searching the wardrobes when an unsettling thought occurred to me. What if the keys remained with him while he slept?

  Steeling my courage, I approached the closed curtains of his bed. My heart beat so that I could scarcely hear myself think. I was deathly afraid he’d wake up and find me looming over him. However, when I finally worked up the nerve to draw back the b
ed curtain, I found—to my bewilderment—that Edward was not there at all.

  How was this possible? He’d retired to his room at dawn, just as he always did. I’d heard the door in the hall open and shut. Had heard the lock turning. And yet…his bed was empty. Not only empty. It hadn’t appeared to have been slept in at all. Not yesterday, nor the day before. Not in an age. The ancient coverlet and bolster were moth-eaten and covered with a layer of dust.

  I backed away from the bed, truly afraid. If my husband hadn’t been sleeping here all these months, where had he been sleeping?

  More to the point, where on earth was he now?

  Thornfield Hall

  Yorkshire, England

  March 1844

  At Mr. Fairfax’s pronouncement, Mrs. Rochester lost a good deal of her color. John had never seen her look so pale. So shaken. Not even on the night he’d rescued her from her smoke-filled bedroom.

  “Tell Mrs. Wren I shall be with her directly,” she said to Mr. Fairfax.

  “Very good, madam.”

  She remained where she was until the butler departed, and then, gripping the banister with one white-knuckled hand, she sagged against the wall.

  For an instant, John feared she would swoon. He reached instinctively to steady her, only to draw back at the last moment, mindful of his place. “Are you ill, ma’am?”

  She looked up at him with wide, unseeing eyes.

  A surge of protectiveness took him unaware. Damn and blast it anyway. What care had he for propriety when she was in such a state? “Here, lean against my shoulder. Let me help you.” Putting his arm at her waist, he guided her to a silk-upholstered bench in the hall.

  She sank down upon it, and taking his hand, drew him down beside her. He might have maintained a respectful distance from her, even then, but she didn’t relinquish his hand. She clasped it tightly in hers, keeping him close. “Would that we were far away from here,” she said. “Away from violence and danger. Removed from any recollections of the past.”