Page 19 of John Eyre

Yorkshire, England

January 1844

After depositing Mr. Fairfax’s letter at the post office in Hay, John returned to Thornfield along the same narrow lane from whence he’d come. Walking briskly through the gathering mist, he was alert for any sign of the wolf. But the creature made no reappearance.

John began to doubt whether it had ever existed to begin with.

It had likely been nothing more than his imagination playing tricks on him again. One day the ghostly figure of Helen Burns, another the form of a ravening wolf. If there was some deeper meaning to the sightings, John couldn’t discern it. All he knew—all that he was quite certain of—was that the two teaspoonfuls of laudanum he’d taken last night had been one teaspoonful too many. Better to suffer the pains of a headache than to be haunted thus.

Passing through the creaking gates that led up the drive to Thornfield, he crossed the frozen lawn and entered the house through one of the side doors. At this time of evening, Thornfield was usually quiet, its inmates settling down for dinner and bed. Tonight, however, it was bustling with activity. Footmen dashed past John in the hall. Mr. Fairfax followed after them, barking orders at everyone in his path.

“Whatever is the matter?” John asked.

Mr. Fairfax came to meet him. “Oh, Mr. Eyre. Thank goodness you’ve returned.” He took John’s hat and coat. “The mistress has arrived this very moment. And injured, too! Some thoughtless fool startled her horse on the road. She fell and turned her ankle. I’ve been unable to persuade her to send for the surgeon. She claims all is well, but what a foul mood she’s in. And rightfully so.”

John stilled for an instant, understanding sinking in.

The darkly beautiful lady he’d encountered in the lane had been Mrs. Rochester.

A leaden weight formed in his stomach as he recollected the noble turn of her countenance, the feel of her corseted waist under his hands, and the soft brush of her hair against his face. She’d been almost queenly. Vaguely seductive with her exotic perfume and imperious manner.

Good lord. He’d known his employer was a woman, but he hadn’t imagined her being quite so womanly. How could he work for such a person? Not a middle-aged matron, but a lady who was almost of an age with him?

It was perhaps foolish to concern himself with such things. A lady was a lady, no matter her age, and he was only a tutor. A gentleman of no family or fortune. He could scarcely be expected to have much interaction with her. But his experience with Helen had made him wary.

“I’m sorry now that I sent you off with my letter,” Mr. Fairfax said. “Had I known the mistress was returning today, I’d never have troubled to write to her. If only she could have given us some notice. But I won’t complain. We’re fortunate to have her home in any event.”

“Does she wish to see me?” John asked.

“You, sir? Ah, you mean does she wish you to bring down Stephen and Peter. No, indeed, Mr. Eyre. She’s in no mood to see the boys this evening. You’re quite at liberty to retire after you dine. Alas, I will be too busy to join you. The coach will be arriving soon with her baggage from Millcote. I shall have to eat in the kitchen as I’m able. Make free with my parlor, if you like.”

“Thank you,” John said, “but I believe I’ll dine with the boys this evening.”

He’d done so on several occasion in the past months. It gave him an opportunity to be with them outside of the schoolroom and to further develop the tenuous bond they were forging.

That he hoped they were forging.

After washing and changing, he joined them in the nursery. A small walnut table stood in the corner. The two boys sat around it in high-backed wooden chairs.

John wondered how Mrs. Rochester would react to the changes in their appearance. Not only had their hair grown, their features had filled out a bit, too. Gone were the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes that had characterized their faces on John’s arrival last year. Under his care, even their skin had improved. It was no longer deathly white, only a little pale and shadowed.

A footman assisted Sophie in bringing up their dinner, a wholesome meal of roast beef, boiled potatoes and carrots, and a tureen of pea soup.

Dismissing the servants, John ladled out the soup to the boys himself. “Mrs. Rochester has come home.”

Stephen and Peter exchanged a glance before dropping their eyes to their bowls. Their faces were curiously blank.

John gestured for them to pick up their spoons. He hadn’t expected them to respond, but was nevertheless disappointed at their lack of reaction. The least they could do was show some sign that Mrs. Rochester’s return was of interest to them. She’d brought them into her home. Had ensured that they were looked after. Provided for.

“Perhaps you’ll see her tomorrow,” he said as the boys began to eat. “She’ll be pleased to hear of all the progress you’ve made.”

But on the following day, Mrs. Rochester didn’t send for the boys, nor did she send for John. In fact he didn’t see her at all, not even during his midday and early evening walks about the grounds. He’d quite given up on being summoned when, at half past four, as afternoon lessons were ending, Mr. Fairfax came into the library.

“Mr. Eyre,” he said. “Mrs. Rochester has requested that you and the boys join her in the drawing room for tea this evening.”

John was standing at the bookcase, directing the boys to put away their books for the day. He straightened to attention at Mr. Fairfax’s words. “Of course. What time does she take her tea?”

“At six o’clock. You’ll have ample time to shave and change.”