John Eyre

by Mimi Matthews

  How was it that Mrs. Wren had found her way to the third floor? What was she doing here in the dead of night while everyone else in the house was abed?

  Her eyes fell closed once more, and she seemed to drift into unconsciousness. John brought her a glass of water to revive her. She sipped it, whimpering.

  He prayed that Mrs. Rochester would hurry. That she’d bring the surgeon, and that he would take over John’s grim duties.

  It was nearly another hour before he heard the sound of the key in the lock. Outside, the first cold glimmer of dawn threatened, its gray light streaking through the cracks in the heavy curtains as the door opened and Mrs. Rochester entered the room with Mr. Carter.

  “Mind the time, Carter,” she said. “The servants will be up shortly. I give you but half an hour to dress her wound and to get her downstairs and into the carriage.”

  Mr. Carter approached the bed. He was an older gentleman with a thick beard and side-whiskers. “Is she fit to travel, ma’am?”

  “Of course. It’s not a serious injury. Not but that you’d know it from the way she carries on.” Mrs. Rochester opened the curtains, letting in as much of the early morning light as existed. “She’s a nervous woman. Keeping her calm during the journey will be your main concern. You may well have to administer a sedative.”

  John withdrew from his place by the bed to make room for the surgeon. Neither Mrs. Rochester nor Mr. Carter had acknowledged him as yet. Neither by word, nor deed. There was an air of haste about them.

  Mr. Carter bent to examine Mrs. Wren. His hands moved gently, but purposefully, to remove the blood-soaked bandage from her throat.

  Mrs. Rochester joined him at the head of the bed. She regarded Mrs. Wren with an expression that was impossible to read. “How do you do this morning?”

  Mrs. Wren gave a little cry as one of the bandages was pulled away. “He’s done for me.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Rochester said. “You’re not dead, are you? You’ve plenty of blood yet still pumping through your veins.”

  “She’s lost a great deal of it,” Mr. Carter remarked. “I wish I could have got here sooner.”

  “Will she live?” Mrs. Rochester asked.

  John was startled by her matter-of-fact tone. He might almost have believed that she didn’t care. That the life or death of this mysterious woman was of no consequence to her at all.

  “It’s too soon to say.” Mr. Carter peeled back the final bandage. “What’s this?” His face darkened like a thundercloud. “The flesh on her throat is torn, but this—! By God, these are teeth marks!”

  “He bit me,” Mrs. Wren murmured. “He struck like a viper.”

  “I warned you,” Mrs. Rochester said grimly.

  “I thought only to speak with him.”

  “You thought! I told you to wait until daylight—until I could be with you. Haven’t you sense enough to be on your guard?” Mrs. Rochester looked to the surgeon. “Hurry, Carter. She must be off before sunrise.”

  “Give me another moment to finish cleaning the wound, madam. The bite runs deep.”

  “He sucked the blood,” Mrs. Wren said. “He told me he would drain my heart.”

  Mrs. Rochester’s face paled. “Be quiet, Felda. Don’t repeat his gibberish.” Again, she turned to the surgeon. “Have you nothing you can give her?”

  Carter applied a fresh bandage, pulling it tight. “I’ll administer morphia when she’s in the carriage. It will give her some relief.”

  Mrs. Wren gave a pathetic cry. “His eyes!”

  “Enough,” Mrs. Rochester commanded. “You will not speak of it, do you hear me? You’ll forget you ever came here. That any of this ever happened.”

  “I can’t forget.”

  “You will. Once you’re away from here—back wherever it is you came from—you may think of him as dead and buried.”

  “Impossible. You know that he—”

  “Dead and buried.” Mrs. Rochester’s voice was as cold and implacable as her countenance. “It isn’t impossible. You may believe that.”

  “Bertha…” Mrs. Wren’s eyes were bleary from pain, but it seemed to John that there was a glitter of accusation in her gaze. “What have you done to him?”

  “She’s becoming hysterical,” Mrs. Rochester said. “Best give her the sedative now, Carter, before she does herself further injury.”

  “No!” Mrs. Wren cried. “No, you mustn’t.”

  Mr. Carter went to his bag and withdrew a small leather case containing a needle and glass syringe. As he prepared the injection, Mrs. Wren tried to rise from the bed, only to slump back against the pillows, too weak to move.

  Taking hold of her arm, Carter positioned the needle.

  “No!” She struggled against his grasp, making a feeble attempt to evade the injection. All the while, her eyes were fixed on Mrs. Rochester. “What have you done, Bertha? What have you done to him? You…” Her words died away as the morphine did its work.

  Mrs. Rochester stood, still as a statue, beside the bed, watching as Mrs. Wren slipped into unconsciousness. “I suppose,” she said at length, “that loss of blood causes confusion.”

  Carter paused for a long moment before answering. “It can.”

  “Are you able to lift her?”

  “It’s difficult at my age. But perhaps your man might be of assistance?” He looked at John.

  Mrs. Rochester looked at him, too. There was a hint of uncertainty in her face. As if she wasn’t quite sure of him. “Will you carry her downstairs?”

  John nodded. It was the work of a moment to scoop Mrs. Wren up in his arms. She was heavier than Mrs. Rochester had been, and far more encumbered with wire underpinnings. It made her form somewhat unwieldy, but not too difficult to bear.

  “A post-chaise is waiting in the yard,” Mrs. Rochester said. “We shall use the servants’ stairs. I’ll run ahead to see that the way is clear.” She met his eyes. “No one can know of this. Not a single soul.”

  “I understand,” he said. “I’ll be as quiet as I can.”

  “I knew you would be.” Mrs. Rochester exchanged another brief, whispered word with Carter before departing the room as swiftly and silently as a cat.

  John followed after her, Mr. Carter at his side.

  The stairs were dark, as were the floors below. It must be five o’clock or thereabouts. Though it was light outside, there were no servants in the kitchen as yet. John was able to carry Mrs. Wren out the back door without arousing any attention.

  Rain fell steadily, wetting his hair and coat. He bent his head against it, half hunching over Mrs. Wren in a pathetic attempt to protect her limp body from the elements.

  As promised, a post-chaise waited in the yard. Mrs. Rochester stood next to it, holding the door open. “You may put her inside.”

  John settled Mrs. Wren onto one of the padded seats. She slumped into a heap. Mr. Carter climbed in after her, shaking the raindrops from his tall beaver hat.

  Mrs. Rochester shut the door of the post-chaise behind him. “Keep her with you for another day or two. I’ll ride over on Friday to see how she does. With any luck she’ll be fit to board a steamer.”

  “I’ll look after her,” Carter said.

  The coachman—a faceless figure in an oilskin greatcoat with a hat tipped low over his brow—gave the horses the office to start. With a rattle of wheels and a crunch of steel-shod hooves on gravel, the vehicle drove off, leaving John standing beside Mrs. Rochester in the yard, the rain beating down upon them.

  She didn’t seem to heed it. Her thoughts were plainly elsewhere. “What a godless night!” she said at last.

  “And a wet morning,” he replied.

  Her gaze cut to his. A flare of wry humor flashed in her eyes. “You must think me mad.”

  “Not mad. Only distracted.” He paused. “Who was she?”

&n
bsp; The humor in Mrs. Rochester’s eyes vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “No one,” she said. “Only a shadow. An apparition from the past.”

  “From your past?”

  She gave a tense nod. “I’d never thought to see her again. Though I suppose I should have expected it.” She didn’t seem disposed to elaborate. Hoisting her skirts in her hands, she moved toward the path that led to the orchard. “Come, John. I know somewhere we can be dry.”

  John followed Mrs. Rochester through the rain, down the muddy path that ran past the wood-fenced paddocks to the back of the Hall. The orchard lay ahead, and at its edge, half-hidden in the mist, a small arbor stood, twined with an overgrowth of ivy and clinging vines.

  It was an old structure, composed of faded and splintered wood. The sagging steps creaked under Mrs. Rochester’s half-boots as she climbed up to shelter beneath its roof.

  “Here, John.” She extended her hand.

  He took it, holding it fast as he came to join her. It wasn’t entirely dry inside the arbor. Raindrops blew in on the storm, splashing lightly on seats already cluttered with broken twigs and windblown leaves.

  Brushing aside some of the debris, Mrs. Rochester sat down, drawing him down next to her. She didn’t release his hand. “I know it isn’t very warm here, but I must have a moment of freshness before I return to that mausoleum.”

  They sat, half turned to face each other, arms and knees almost touching. Her heavy skirts bunched against his legs, the hem pooling over his booted feet. It was intimate. Loverlike. Close enough to provoke a disconcerting simmer of heat low in his belly.

  “Will you remain with me?” she asked.

  “If that’s what you wish.”

  “It is. Most assuredly.” Her fingers twined through his. “We’ve passed a strange night together.”

  “The strangest.” He swallowed hard. Her bare skin was silken soft, her slender fingers sliding through his to settle in a sensual clasp. It sent a tremor through his vitals. Rather like a minor earthquake. He cleared his throat. “What was Mrs. Wren doing on the third floor? Had you invited her to stay?”

  “I had. She was meant to retire to bed in a room near to where the servants sleep. She should never have ventured beyond its threshold.”

  “She certainly suffered for her error. The poor woman looked as though she’d been mauled by a tiger. Or worse.”

  “You weren’t afraid, were you? When I left you alone with her?”

  “Not afraid, no. But I didn’t much look forward to Mr. Poole coming out of that inner room behind the tapestry.”

  “You had no cause to worry on that score. The door was bolted.”

  “And what of the man inside the room?”

  “What about him?”

  “Will he live here still? Or have you made other arrangements for his care?”

  A pensive frown touched her lips. “You’re speaking of Mr. Poole.”

  “Who else?”

  Her brows knit. She bent her head, her gaze lingering on their joined hands. “Yes, he’ll remain here. But you needn’t worry about him.”

  “How can I not? You must see that the man is dangerous.”

  “Things aren’t always as they seem.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Often they’re worse.”

  She huffed a short laugh. “I thought you more optimistic.”

  “I am when it’s called for, but in this case…” His thumb moved over the curve of her knuckle in an unconscious caress. “You’re not safe with him here. No one is. If he can do such a thing to Mrs. Wren—”

  “Spare your sympathy. Mrs. Wren will be fine.”

  “I trust she will be. But it isn’t her I’m concerned with. It’s you, and the boys. It’s all the rest of us living here at Thornfield. If, at any given instant, Mr. Poole can lose his head, surely it must be better for him to be put somewhere?”

  “I have the matter under control now. No one else will be hurt. I can promise you that.”

  “But you won’t dismiss him.”

  “Mr. Poole is no threat to you. No more than I am.” She drew his hand onto her lap. “But enough about him. Tell me, are you still taking your tonic?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. Good.” A breath of relief sounded in her voice. “I know you’re wary of patent medicines, but I have faith in the mixture. Though I don’t suppose it’s helped your headaches as much as the laudanum.”

  “It has, actually.”

  She gave him a startled look. “Truly?”

  “They come less frequently now. Some days not at all.” He smiled, a little rueful. “I daresay it’s because I’m happy here.”

  A flicker of emotion passed over her face, gone before he could grasp it. “Are you happy, John? Despite all of…this?”

  “I believe I am. I’m proud of what I’ve achieved with the boys. And I realize it isn’t ideal, not for a man in my position, but I must admit, I’ve come to care for them.”

  “Only them?”

  His heart thumped heavily. He was silent for a long a while. And then: “You know what happened in my former position.”

  “Don’t say you’re comparing me to Lady Helen?”

  “No. God, no. You’re not at all the same. But I am. I’m still a teacher—a subordinate, if not in spirit, then in fact. And you’re…”

  “What?”

  “Far above my sphere of life,” he said. “So much as to be from a different world.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. Shared struggles have brought us closer—the difficulties with Mr. Poole and with the boys. But it’s an illusion of intimacy. It isn’t real.”

  “It feels quite real to me,” she said. And then, before he could guess what she was about, she stretched up and kissed him, very softly, on the mouth.

  John’s breath stopped. His heart followed suit. He had a vague notion that he should draw back. That he should set her away from him just as he’d set Helen away during their single fateful encounter.

  But Mrs. Rochester was no Helen Burns.

  At the touch of her warm, half-parted lips, the simmering in his belly swiftly transfused to his blood—to his heart, and head, and loins. His breath stuttered to life, his pulse along with it. Without thought—without reason—he bent his head to hers, and returned her kiss in full measure.

  It wasn’t wrong. Not in that moment. It was perfect.

  She was perfect.

  Her eyes were closed, her lips soft and pliant beneath his. Though boldly initiated, there was a carefulness to her kiss. A trembling uncertainty. “We shouldn’t.” Her faint protest whispered against his mouth, their breath mingling.

  “No. We shouldn’t.” Their fingers twined tighter.

  “John…”

  “I know.” His forehead came to rest gently against hers.

  “That was…”

  “Yes.” He loosened his grasp on her hand. But he didn’t pull away from her. He hadn’t the will for it.

  It was she who pulled back, drawing away from him to meet his eyes. Her cheeks were flushed. “If you like, we can forget that, right along with all the rest of what’s happened today.”

  “I think it unlikely that either of us will forget.”

  “No. Probably not.” Releasing his hand, she stood, folding her arms at her waist. A gust of wind blew through the arbor. It stirred the loose strands of hair at her face. “Do you have a future in mind for yourself, Mr. Eyre?”

  Mr. Eyre.

  He slowly got to his feet, conscious of her changeable mood. He’d be a fool to presume anything from that kiss. Not only a fool. A cad. It was plain she was already regretting it. “What do you mean?”

  “After you leave here. You must have an idea of what you’ll do next.”

  He regarded her with increasing wariness. “Am I leaving
?”

  “Eventually. Stephen and Peter won’t remain boys forever.”

  “True enough.” He propped his shoulder against the damp wall.

  “Well? Do you intend to seek employment elsewhere? Or have you some other plan?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a plan. But…I suppose, I’d always hoped that I might save enough money out of my earnings to set up a small school of my own somewhere.”

  She flashed him a look. “When?”

  He shrugged. “Someday.”

  “Someday,” she repeated. “That means never.”

  “What about you?” he countered. “What does your future hold?”

  She walked to the edge of the arbor, her skirts brushing over the wet leaves on the ground. “You’re familiar with Mr. George Eshton?”

  A knot formed in John’s stomach. “Quite familiar.”

  “He’s handsome, wealthy, and amusing. A fine partner in a duet. Do you not think that he would make me a creditable husband?”

  “You can answer that better than I,” John said stiffly. “You’ve known him since you were a child.”

  “Who told you so? Mr. Fairfax?” She frowned. “It’s true enough. There was a time, many years ago, I might have married George. It was the dearest wish of my parents—and of his.” She shot him another look. “But perhaps you think it too late for me to find happiness.”

  “Not at all. I wish you every happiness in the world.” He meant it, though it pained him to say it. “I pray that you’ll find it. If not with Mr. Eshton, then with someone equally worthy.”

  “A worthy suitor. An estimable ideal, and one that George Eshton fits to a certainty. Would that my parents were here to see it. Had I been a more dutiful daughter, I’d have wed him while they were still alive.” Her brow contracted. “Perhaps it is too late to try for happiness.”

  “I don’t believe that. Not for you or anyone.” Bitterness colored his words, but it didn’t suppress them. “Love deferred is still love.”