Page 111 of John Eyre

“Perhaps, not. But it is my fault, for all that. I hadn’t the courage to put an end to my husband, and now poor Stephen must bear the burden of having done it.” She gave John a bleak look. “There will be an inquiry. I won’t be able to prevent it. After what happened with Mrs. Wren at the church, people will suspect the worst. And if the district coroner should want to see the body…”

“I wouldn’t worry on that score,” John said.

A cool night breeze drifted over the landscape, carrying away some of the flakes atop the growing pile of ash. At this rate, there would be nothing of Mr. Rochester’s body left for the coroner to examine. Nothing to hint at his having been anything other than a dangerous lunatic, charred to cinders in a fire.

“Do you suppose Stephen knew how to destroy him?” Bertha asked. “That the boys have always known?”

John smoothed a curl of silvery-white hair back from her face. “I wouldn’t mark it down to any particular knowledge. Stephen has always had an interest in kindling fires.”

“Well, he’s certainly kindled one now.” She glanced up at the Hall. “He’s destroyed Thornfield. It won’t survive the morning, not even if the engines do manage to arrive before dawn.”

“He was terrified,” John said. “Don’t be angry with him.”

“I’m not angry. I’m relieved.” Her mouth twisted. “My nightmare is finally over.”

Curling his arm around her waist, John drew her away from Mr. Rochester’s rapidly disintegrating body. The boys were looking at them intently, waiting for them to return.

“What now?” she asked.

“You can rebuild,” he said.

“Thornfield?”

“Your whole life.”

“A daunting prospect. I’m not entirely sure I can face it alone.”

John bent his head to hers. “You won’t be alone.”

She turned to look up at him, forcing him to stop walking and meet her gaze. “Do you mean that, John? You’re not just talking about the boys or—”

Leaning down, he captured her mouth with his. He kissed her fiercely, with all of the emotion roiling in his soul. She softened against him, arms sliding to circle his neck. For an instant, her lips yielded to his, and then she stretched up, returning his kiss with as much passion as he gave it.

She wasn’t a passive participant in anything. She was his equal. His second self.

“I trust that answers your question,” he said against her cheek.

She gave a soft, breathless laugh. “Yes. It does.”

Arm in arm, they crossed the lawn to rejoin the others. The fire brightened the night sky, illuminating the landscape around the Hall.

Something was different. A feature John had come to accept as being part of Thornfield and its vicinity was gone. Gone as though it had never been. “Look,” he said. “Do you see that?”

Her gaze drifted over the grass and trees. “The mist. It’s disappeared.” A sheen of tears sparkled in her eyes, reflecting the flickering flames. “He truly is dead.”

“He is,” John said. “Whatever he was—whatever power he had—it’s all over now.”

She looked at the heap of ash on the pavement. “Consumed by fire.”

He held her firmly against his side as they rejoined the boys. Stephen and Peter ran to him, clinging at his shirt. John felt a profound depth of responsibility for the three of them. It eclipsed all other concerns.

“We don’t have to stay here,” he said.

“I must,” she replied.

“Leave it with Mr. Fairfax. Trust him to manage. He always does in your absence.”

“But Edward was my husband,” she said, a quaver in her voice. “I have a duty—”