Page 10 of John Eyre

He kept back as the boys’ pencils scratched steadily over their papers. He didn’t like to loom over their shoulders. This was their time to express themselves. To be creative. Only when Peter put aside his pencil did John finally approach.

He recognized the subject of the drawing at once. A feeble effort, but not the worst John had ever seen. He was determined to praise it to the heavens.

“Oh, well done, lad. The sea, I believe. You’ve rendered the waves beautifully. No doubt you saw enough of them during your voyage to England.” John collected the paper. “I shall save it for you in my portfolio.”

Peter betrayed no pleasure in being lauded by his tutor. He sat still and quiet, his back hunched over his desk.

John next moved to review Stephen’s work, expecting to find a similar effort. Gazing down, he saw…

But he didn’t know what he saw.

Stephen appeared to have blackened the whole of his paper with the edge of his charcoal pencil. Only a single square at the top was left unshaded. A solitary block of white. John crouched beside Stephen’s desk to get a better look.

On closer examination, John saw that the shading was not, in fact, solid black. It was darker at the bottom of the page, seeming to grow faintly lighter as it reached the top. As if light were coming in through the white square and diffusing the darkness around it.

“Ah. I see,” John said. “Is it a window?”

Stephen stared at him blankly.

“Window,” John said again, carefully enunciating each syllable. He gestured to the bank of windows opposite. “Like that one?”

The boy’s thin face registered no understanding.

John’s spirits sank a little, but he was resolved not to be discouraged. “The shading is excellent. Altogether, a commendable first effort, I’d say.” He took the drawing from Stephen. “I shall save this one in my portfolio as well.”

Rising to his feet, John gave the boy’s drawing another lingering glance. A frisson of uneasiness tickled at the base of his spine. Odd that. There was nothing particularly sinister about the sketch. It was only that the perspective was all wrong. A window shouldn’t be placed so. Not on the ceiling of a room, surely. Unless it was a sort of skylight.

Then again, perhaps the white square wasn’t a window at all.

As the next week slipped by, Thornfield began to feel more and more like a home to John. His duties as tutor were often taxing. Some days he felt as though he was making progress with his pupils. Others were an exercise in pure frustration. He was pushed to the limits of his creativity—forever thinking up new ways to engage the boys’ interest. Drawing, globes, and counting games. Anything that might ignite a spark in their lifeless eyes.

But teaching didn’t absorb all of his time. After morning lessons, and then again during those evening hours that he could call his own, John explored the house and the grounds, making full use of his pad and pencils to sketch anything that caught his eye.

No servants were ever around to impede his wanderings. Indeed, he scarcely encountered a soul. Mr. Fairfax was his only companion. The two of them often dined together in the evening in the same cozy little parlor where John had taken tea on the night of his arrival.

During the day, Mr. Fairfax kept busy managing the small staff and seeing to meals and the account books. Thornfield employed no housekeeper. What servants John observed were mostly males—several strong footmen, a coachman, and a groundskeeper. The only women in residence besides Sophie were the cook and her scullery maid.

“Is it not too much, managing such a large house with so little staff?” John asked one morning, encountering Mr. Fairfax on the stairs.

The butler was breathing heavily as he climbed, clutching the banister with one age-spotted hand. “Not usually. Most of the house is shut up. We attend only to the main rooms.”

“A large enough responsibility on their own.”

“Yes, but one must keep them in order. Mrs. Rochester arrives with so little notice, you see. One never knows.”

“And she expects the house to always be in readiness?” John frowned. “Is she an exacting sort of mistress?”

“Not particularly so, but she dislikes a flurry of activity upon her arrival.” At the end of the hall, the folding doors of the drawing room stood open. Mr. Fairfax entered and immediately proceeded to dust some figures of fine porcelain that stood on the mantelpiece.

John followed behind. Until now, he’d only spied the lavish room from the threshold, not daring to enter it on his own. It was far too luxurious, with its rich chairs and curtains, thick Turkish carpets, and walnut-paneled walls. “Is she generally liked?” he asked.

“Oh yes. Her family has always been respected. They’ve owned most of the land in this county at one time or another.”

“But what of Mrs. Rochester herself? What of her character?”

“Oh…” Mr. Fairfax returned one of the figures to the mantelshelf. “She is rather peculiar, I suppose. She’s traveled a great deal and lived in a great many odd places. I daresay she’s intelligent. Clever, even. But since she’s returned to England, I’ve had little conversation with her.”

“In what way peculiar?”