Page 14 of John Eyre

It’s coming through the wall.

“They’re not mutes,” John said.

Mr. Fairfax was seated at a wooden table in the butler’s pantry polishing the silver with a blackened cloth. Candlesticks, salt cellars, serving dishes, and flatware were all set out before him. “I beg your pardon, sir?” He cocked his ear toward John. “What was that you said?”

“Stephen and Peter aren’t mutes.” John sank down onto the hard wooden chair beside Mr. Fairfax. “I heard them speaking last night. Whispering to each other.”

“You heard them?”

“Through the wall of my room.”

Mr. Fairfax continued polishing. “What did they say?”

“I couldn’t tell. The words were too faint. But I think…I very much suspect…that they weren’t conversing in English.”

“A foreign language?”

“None that I could discern. But I don’t believe it was French or Italian. I would have recognized the cadence of it.” John didn’t know why Mr. Fairfax wasn’t reacting with more interest. The butler just kept polishing, intent upon his task, as if spotless silver were the most important thing in his universe. “Did Mrs. Rochester never mention where it was they came from?”

Mr. Fairfax’s brows beetled. He worked his cloth over the intricate relief decoration on the branches of a silver candelabra. “Europe?”

John suppressed a flicker of irritation. “Is that a question?”

“Only what I assumed, Mr. Eyre. Where else would they have come from?”

Where else, indeed.

“Did you ask Stephen and Peter directly?” Mr. Fairfax enquired.

“Not yet.” John didn’t want to alert the boys to the fact that he’d heard their whisperings. With any luck, they’d whisper again—and next time he’d be able to make out exactly what language they were speaking in.

They’d already come so far under his care. Both of them could now write their letters, and perform simple addition and subtraction. More importantly, they’d grown used to John himself. There was no more flinching—no more cringing away when he beckoned them forward. Once or twice, Stephen and Peter had even appeared to look to him for praise.

Their health had improved as well. With no parents about to object to his edicts, John had been able to do as he thought best. He’d put an end to their doses of tonic—a patent liver medication that held a greater concentration of opiates than it did any ingredients of value.

He’d also seen that fruits and sweets were added to their diet, and that Sophie ceased shearing their hair down to their scalps. Some still believed that, during illness, the hair deprived the body of vital nutrients, but John had never subscribed to that view. He preferred his pupils to have healthy food, and healthy occupation, without any remnants of the sickroom following them about.

Overall, he was pleased with the progress he’d made. His pupils looked less like animated corpses and more like little boys. They behaved more naturally—moved more naturally. And yet…

John knew enough to recognize that Stephen and Peter still didn’t entirely trust him. There were no smiles. No laughter or boyish hijinks. And there was no speech. No sounds.

At least, not until last night.

“I wonder if I should write to Mrs. Rochester?” he asked. “It would save me trying to discover the answers to my questions on my own.”

“You could do so,” Mr. Fairfax replied. “But she moves about so frequently. It might be months before you receive an answer. Too much time to be of any use.” He gestured to an envelope on the table. “I’ve written to her myself, as you see, in care of a hotel in Paris.”

“Paris?” John had imagined Mrs. Rochester to be in London for the winter, not on the Continent. “Is that where she is?”

“She does abide there on occasion, or in Cairo, Athens, or Varna.”

John’s mouth quirked. Surely the butler was joking. “I hope you haven’t any pressing concerns.”

“No more than usual, sir. She answers my letters in her time. As long as I remember to post them.”

“I’m walking to Hay after the boys’ afternoon lessons,” John said. “I can take your letter with me, if you like.”

“You don’t mind?”