John Eyre

by Mimi Matthews

  “There is reason. It would be the end of you.”

  “My reputation, you mean.” Bitterness sounded in her voice. “What care I for that anymore?”

  John ran a hand through his hair. Outside the sun was setting. How long ago it seemed he was in this very room, rising at dawn to dress for his wedding. “I want to do what’s best for you, and for the boys. But…I need to think on it.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Yes, of course.” She stood up. “Will you stay here tonight, at least?”

  “I believe I must. It grows late already.”

  It seemed there was nothing more to say. Head bent, she moved briskly to the door.

  He caught her hand as she walked past. She stopped, frozen where she stood as he brought it to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to her wrist.

  Her throat worked on a swallow. “I’m sorry, John.”

  “I am, too,” he said.

  Sliding her hand from his, she exited his room in a flurry of black crepe skirts, shutting the door behind her.

  John was left alone in the shifting shadows. He took a ragged breath. And then, standing from the chest, he went to the basin and splashed cold water on his face. It did little to revive his spirits, but it was sufficient to awaken him to his duty. He’d promised the boys he’d stop in to check on them. And he always kept his promises.

  Minutes later he entered the nursery to find Stephen hunched in the window seat. Peter was crouched on the floor below, huddled near the foot of the chair where Sophie sat, sewing by lanternlight. She looked up at John.

  “Mr. Eyre!” She lowered her needlework, speaking in heavily accented French. “There, you see? Did I not tell you he would come?”

  Stephen rocked back and forth in the window. He was emitting a soft sound—a continuous low moan. It was so faint that John hadn’t heard it upon entering. But he heard it now. It sent a jolt of alarm through his system.

  Crossing the room in three strides, John came to sit beside him in the window. “What’s wrong?” He laid a hand upon Stephen’s shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

  “That man,” Sophie said.

  John’s gaze jerked to hers. “What man?”

  “The man up there.” She pointed to the ceiling. “The bad man. Stephen hears him speak.”

  Bloody hell.

  Was it true? Had Stephen heard Mr. Rochester’s voice? Had he recognized it?

  John leaned over Stephen’s small frame, his posture protective. “Is that so? Did you hear him?” He rubbed his back in gentle circles. “No matter. He won’t harm you. I promise you that. He’ll never harm you again.”

  Below, Peter rose from his place on the floor to lean against John’s leg. He clutched John’s trousers in one small fist.

  John ruffled his hair. “You’re all right, Peter. You’re both safe and well.”

  “That woman,” Sophie remarked. “The brunette lady who comes today. They know her, too.”

  “She’s gone now,” John said. “Everything is back as it should be.”

  Sophie snorted as she resumed her sewing.

  John ignored her. Holding the boys close, he offered soothing words and caresses. All the while, the anger built within him. That such a monster should reside on the third floor! In the very house with those he’d previously made his victims. It was a cruelty to Stephen and Peter.

  A cruelty to Bertha, too.

  John wanted to go to her. He wanted to tell her that he’d made up his mind. That he’d leave with her straightaway, along with the boys. What other choice was there?

  But his emotions were such that he couldn’t trust any decisions made in the moment. Better to confront the matter in the morning, with a clear head.

  “It is past time for dinner.” Laying aside her needlework, Sophie stood from her chair. “Will you dine here, sir?”

  “I believe I will.” John urged the boys up. “Go with Nurse and wash for dinner. We’ll all feel better after we’ve eaten.”

  A short while later, dinner was delivered to the nursery by Alfred and Mr. Fairfax himself. The elderly butler cast John a sidelong glance as he deposited a tray on the small nursery table.

  “That will be all, Alfred,” he said. When the footman had withdrawn, Mr. Fairfax turned to John, addressing him in a low voice. “My dear Mr. Eyre. I swear to you, I had no knowledge of the true identity of our unfortunate tenant. I thought him a distant relation of Mrs. Rochester’s late husband. It never occurred to me that he was Mr. Rochester himself. We kept it from you, it’s true, but only for the boys’ sake. What tutor would take employment in a house with a lunatic in residence? I hope you can forgive—”

  “You’re forgiven,” John said. “Pray, speak of it no more.”

  Mr. Fairfax appeared relieved. “Very good, sir. Will you be sleeping in the nursery again tonight?”

  John’s gaze flicked to the boys. The pair of them were pale and drawn, all of the progress he’d made with them vanished in the space of a single day. He was sure they’d rally tomorrow, but for now… “I will. The boys are a little distressed this evening.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Fairfax inclined his head. “I shall be in my parlor if you require anything else.”

  When Sophie and Mr. Fairfax had withdrawn, John attempted to engage the boys’ attention. Retrieving the tinderbox, he prompted them to light a fire in the hearth. They did so, albeit with a trifle less enthusiasm than usual. Afterward, the three of them sat down to dinner. None had much of an appetite.

  John was glad when the time came for bed. Sleep would be a welcome reprieve from the horrors of the day. Not just for the boys, but for all of them. After making his pallet on the floor, he reached to turn off the oil lamp.

  From his bed, Stephen made a sound of protest.

  “Very well, we’ll turn it down, but not off.” John lowered the wick until the flame was reduced to a tiny glow. “How’s that?”

  Stephen and Peter were silent.

  John supposed that was answer enough. Lying down on his pallet between their two narrow beds, he rested his head on his arm. He was still in his trousers and shirt. It was a concession to Sophie being abed in the connecting room. He daren’t offend her sensibilities.

  An odd consideration given the reality of the situation.

  His thoughts were consumed by that reality. By everything that Bertha had told him. So much so that it seemed he would never find any rest. Sleep was, indeed, elusive, but it came eventually—though not a deep sleep. He drifted in and out of it for several hours, tossing and turning on his pillow.

  Sometime after midnight, he was vaguely conscious of the creak of bedsprings, and the light tread of footsteps on the carpeted floor. There was a clink and a scratch somewhere near the fireplace. And then the sound of the nursery door opening and closing again.

  John sat up, at once wide awake. The light of the oil lamp still glowed faintly from the bedside table. He turned up the wick and the glow brightened to illuminate the room.

  His eyes went first to Peter’s bed. His small form was outlined there beneath the blankets. John then looked to Stephen’s bed. It was empty.

  Stephen was gone.

  John leaped up and quickly tugged on his boots. He caught hold of the lamp by the handle and raised it high, giving a cursory look around the room as he strode to the door.

  There was no sign of Stephen hiding anywhere. No sign of anything. And yet John had the distinct sense that there was something else he should have noticed. Something important.

  As he exited the room, his gaze moved swiftly over the nursery one last time, only to land on the mantelpiece with a gut-wrenching jolt. Realization struck him like a thunderbolt.

  Good God.

  Stephen had taken the tinderbox.

  It took no more than a few minutes to rouse Sophie and Peter and urge them to get dressed, but they were cr
ucial minutes. Advancing into the hall, John caught the acrid scent of smoke.

  Bertha’s bedroom door opened. She came out to join him, still tying the belt of her chintz dressing gown. “What’s going on?”

  “A fire. And a real one this time.” He quickly relayed the particulars. “Dress and wake the others. Get everyone out of the house.”

  “Can’t it be put out?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll try. But I want you safe.” He bent his head and kissed her, hard and brief, before striding away down the hall.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the third floor. To find Stephen.” John took the stairs two at a time. Smoke billowed through the corridor, accompanied by the crackling of flame. It was coming from one of the storage rooms next to the room where Mr. Rochester was held. The old furnishings within had provided ready kindling. Stephen appeared to have set their holland covers alight.

  John shielded his nose with his arm. “Stephen?” he called. “Stephen, where are you?”

  The door to the tapestried room opened. Mr. Poole stepped outside, looking about in confusion. “Sir? What the devil—”

  “It’s a fire, Mr. Poole!” John shouted. “Get out of there!”

  Mr. Poole appeared to hear him—to register the smoke and the flames—but he didn’t flee. Instead, leaving the door open behind him, he ducked back into the room.

  The blasted fool.

  John hadn’t a moment to spare for the man’s idiocy. Making his way through the smoke, he continued calling for Stephen. And he prayed—prayed like he hadn’t done since before Helen had died. Since before he’d lost his faith. He prayed that Stephen would be all right. That he was safe somewhere, clear of the flames.

  God, please protect him.

  But prayers didn’t exist in isolation. They must be accompanied by intent. By action. He sprinted up the stairs to the attic. He even climbed the ladder that led to the trap door. “Stephen!”

  But there was no sign of him. Not in the attic, nor on the roof. Only the ever-increasing smoke that burned John’s lungs and stung at his eyes, blurring his vision.

  Coughing, he managed to find his way back to the third floor. He had a faint hope remaining that Stephen was hiding in one of the storage rooms. He might have been frightened after setting the holland covers alight. Perhaps even feeling guilty.

  John raised his lantern. “Stephen!”

  In that moment, a blood-curdling scream broke through the darkness.

  John stumbled to a halt. It wasn’t a boy’s scream, thank God. It was a man’s scream. And it was coming from the tapestried room.

  Good lord, it was Mr. Poole.

  John’s pulse throbbed in his ears. His vision narrowed to a point. For an instant, all he could see was that open door. There was no time to close and lock it. No time to do anything but run.

  And not even that.

  A figure emerged from the room. Tall and lean. An elegant gentleman with black hair swept back from his brow. He was rubbing one of his burn-reddened wrists. And then he stopped, his gaze fixing on John like a wolf fixing his attention on a rabbit. His eyes glimmered red amid the smoke. “Mr. Eyre,” he said. “I’ve been waiting to make your acquaintance.”

  John backed away, his heart pounding like a drum. “Mr. Rochester.”

  “You know who I am? How gratifying.” Mr. Rochester’s mouth curved up in a mockery of a smile. His lips were stained with blood. “I know who you are. I’ve heard you these many months. I’ve smelled you.” His eyes blazed. “Where is my wife?”

  John’s gaze darted to the storage room where the flames were now licking out of the door to run along the wall. The silk paper hangings in the corridor were curling away from the wood. “Stephen!” he called hoarsely.

  “Stephen. Peter.” Mr. Rochester advanced upon him. “The first martyrs, isn’t that what she calls them? Peasant boys she saved from a fate worse than death.” He gave a low chuckle. “You mustn’t believe everything my wife tells you, Mr. Eyre. Women are prone to exaggeration.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a glimmer of movement in the chamber directly across from the burning storage room. A small figure in a long white linen nightshirt.

  Stephen.

  Relief tore through him. As he backed past the door, he held out his hand. “Now, Stephen!”

  A small hand shot out of the smoke. John gripped it hard, and turning around, he broke into a run toward the stairs, with Stephen close at his side.

  “Don’t look back,” he said in a litany. “Don’t look back.”

  They’d nearly reached the landing when a loud thump sounded behind him, and Stephen’s hand was ripped from his own.

  John spun around to find Stephen on his knees, a bunched piece of carpet tangled under his feet. His small face was white with terror. Whiter still as Mr. Rochester closed the distance between them.

  “John!” Stephen cried out.

  There was no time to contemplate the fact that he’d spoken for the first time. No time for emotional displays. John’s response was fueled by pure adrenaline. By a soul-deep determination to save Stephen from harm.

  This inhuman monster had hurt them enough. All of them.

  But no more.

  Bertha and the boys were John’s family now. His to love and to protect.

  And John would protect them, even at the cost of his own life.

  He darted back to Stephen, grabbed him by the hand and pulled him to safety in the same instant Mr. Rochester lunged to strike.

  In his opposite hand, John raised the lantern. He flung it at Mr. Rochester with all his might. The glass shattered, the paraffin oil splashing over Mr. Rochester’s ragged clothes. He looked at John with an expression of horrified amazement and then promptly burst into flames.

  A sense of savage triumph coursed through John’s veins.

  But he didn’t linger to admire his handiwork. Half carrying Stephen along with him, he descended the stairs to the hall and raced out onto the lawn. Bertha was already there with Mr. Fairfax, Sophie, and Peter. The other servants were nearby, milling about in various stages of undress.

  “John!” Bertha flew into his arms. “Thank God you’re safe. I was about to go in after you.”

  He held her fast as he scanned the lawn, feeling her heartbeat against his breast, as swift and wild as his own. “Is everyone here? I don’t see Jenkins or the footmen.”

  “Alfred has gone to summon the engines from Millcote. Jenkins and the others are seeing to the horses. The only ones unaccounted for were you and Stephen. And Mr. Poole. He wasn’t inside, was he?”

  A breath shuddered out of John. “Mr. Poole is dead.”

  She drew back to stare at him. “What?”

  “I think he was trying to unchain Mr. Rochester in order to get him out of the house. He must have thought he was saving him from the fire. You said he didn’t know what Mr. Rochester was. That he believed him to be nothing more than a lunatic.”

  Bertha’s eyes lit with dawning horror. “By God, John, you don’t mean to say that Edward got free?”

  “He killed Mr. Poole. He must have taken his keys and unlocked himself. I saw him on the third floor. He spoke to me. Tried to take Stephen.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Still inside the house. I threw an oil lamp at him and he caught fire. I thought he’d given chase—”

  “Heavens above!” Mr. Fairfax pointed to the battlements. “Who’s that on the roof?”

  As one, they all stared upward. It was a black, starless night, but Thornfield stood out against the darkness in a growing conflagration. Its upper stories were consumed by flames. They licked out from the third-floor windows, and higher still, reaching toward the roof.

  Along the battlements a figure moved against the night sky, his body consumed by fire.

  I
t was Mr. Rochester.

  Stephen gave an inarticulate cry, and Peter’s face crumpled. John pulled them closer, circling them with one arm while the other remained securely around Bertha’s waist. The boys clung to him, leaning against him as she did, drawing strength from his nearness.

  “His face,” Bertha said under her breath. “He’s burning.”

  And he was. John could see it even amidst the chaos of the fire. Mr. Rochester’s skin was blackening to ash. As they all watched, he yelled something out in a strangled voice and sprang from the roof, as if in a desperate attempt to escape the pursuing flames. He landed on the paving stones with a loud crack of bones and thud of flesh.

  The servants screamed, and the boys buried their faces in John’s shirt. John would have liked to hide his face as well, but he forced himself to look. To bear witness.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Bertha, too, refused to avert her gaze. She regarded the bloody heap on the ground. The creature who had once been her husband. Her bosom rose and fell on shallow, trembling breaths. “I must go to him. I have to be certain.”

  “No,” John said. “It isn’t safe.”

  “Come with me, then.” She slid her arms from his waist, and hoisting her skirts, picked her way across the lawn.

  “Stay with Nurse,” John said to the boys. “Mr. Fairfax? Watch over them. They’ve had a fright.”

  “As you say, Mr. Eyre.”

  John went after Bertha. She was standing over her husband’s body, staring down at it with an expression that was hard to read. He came to a halt beside her, following her gaze. His stomach recoiled in protest.

  Mr. Rochester’s skin had flaked away, but the blood inside of him—his final meal—seeped out of him and into the paving stones in a steady stream.

  “Mr. Poole wouldn’t have let him perish,” she said. “It would have meant an end to his position here. And he liked his wages too much to give them up.”

  “It was his choice to go inside. He must have known the danger.”

  “I’d given him tonic to drink. It should have worked as a repellent. Indeed, I thought it would.” Her brow creased. “But it doesn’t work, does it? Not reliably. It didn’t work the night the mist came into my room. The night Edward bit Mr. Poole. I should have realized then—”