Page 12 of John Eyre

Presently, a door at the end of the hall opened, and a middle-aged servant emerged. He was a large man—tall, broad, and muscular—with a dull, expressionless face and a rapidly balding pate. A less apparition-like figure John couldn’t have imagined.

“Too much noise, Mr. Poole,” Mr. Fairfax said.

Mr. Poole bowed and returned to his room.

“He mends old furniture for Mrs. Rochester, and is always at his work all hours of the day. He’s quite skilled actually, particularly in matters of metalwork. On rare occasion you may encounter him at his forge in the stables.” Mr. Fairfax walked alongside John as they departed the third floor, returning to the warmer, brighter levels below. “How did you fare with Stephen and Peter this morning? Are you making any progress?”

“Some,” John said. “They’ve had another drawing lesson.”

“Oh?”

“I mean to expand upon it when the weather permits.”

“If you’re waiting for sunshine, sir, you’ll wait a long while. Until the storm comes, we’ll have nothing but fog and damp.”

John had begun to doubt whether the storm Mr. Fairfax so often spoke of would come at all. Though the rain fell, and the mist clung determinedly to the landscape, the weather never worsened. It was as if Thornfield were perpetually on the cusp of a storm—or caught in the eye of one. “Children aren’t made of spun sugar. Many enjoy a bit of mud. Unless…you don’t suggest that the wet weather would imperil their health?”

“No more than any other boys of their age. Though Stephen and Peter were ill during the journey. Seasickness, I believe.”

“Is that all?”

Mr. Fairfax regarded John with a look of concern. “You suspected worse?”

“Frankly, yes. They look as though they’d fallen victim to something grave. A wasting disease, or—”

“Heavens, no. Mrs. Rochester would have told me if that was the case. She was confident the children could be fed up. It’s why Cook insists they eat double portions of liver and other red meats. To help them get their color back.”

“Have they yet seen a doctor?” John asked.

“On their arrival, Mrs. Rochester had the surgeon, Mr. Carter, in. He prescribed a tonic. Sophie administers it to them morning and evening.”

John’s lips compressed.

“You don’t approve?”

“Of patent medicines? No, I don’t. Not for children.” Most patent medicines contained laudanum. And while John didn’t scruple to take the drug himself, he knew enough of its side effects to be wary of it being administered to little boys.

“Mrs. Rochester wouldn’t have authorized the treatment if she didn’t believe it would work. She’s very discerning and has no tolerance for any nonsense.”

John wasn’t so sure. What sort of lady would abandon her two young wards when they were in such poor health? Why wasn’t she there, tending to them and looking after them? The boys must hold some affection for their benefactress. Surely her presence would be a comfort to them.

But of course it would. John knew that much from experience.

As a newly orphaned inmate of the charitable school, he’d often longed for the soothing touch of a mother. A cool hand across his brow, or a soft voice to sing him to sleep. It was easy to imagine the boys yearning for the same calming feminine presence. When one was ailing in body and spirit, nothing could compensate for the loving presence of a mother figure. Not a nurse or a benevolent butler. Not even a conscientious tutor.

But John didn’t press the matter. Not yet. He’d been in his position only a fortnight and wasn’t yet in possession of all of the facts. There was time enough to learn the truth of the boys’ condition. He’d question Sophie if he must. Inspect the patent medicine or even talk to the surgeon. And soon—if his mysterious employer was ever inclined to return to Thornfield—he would address his concerns with Mrs. Rochester herself.

Thornfield Hall

Yorkshire, England

January 1844

John measured out a teaspoonful of laudanum from one of the phials in his case. As autumn at Thornfield had given way to winter, he’d had no luck ridding himself of his headaches. But that was no reason he couldn’t combat them in a more sensible manner. It had been months since he’d last downed a whole phial in one swallow. Now, he restricted himself to small doses. Only enough to ease the pounding in his temples.

The pain always came at night. Lying within the pitchlike darkness of his box bed, John’s weary brain inevitably drifted to thoughts of Helen.

He’d sworn to purge her from his heart and mind, but the guilt over her death refused to be exorcised. As he drifted to sleep, he could sometimes fancy that he saw her there, kneeling at the end of his bed, inside of the darkness with him, accusing him of abandoning her.