Page 22 of John Eyre

He poured out a cup for himself and took a drink. It was Indian tea—strong, and fragrant.

“Why did you leave Lowton?” she asked.

He lowered his cup back to its saucer. “I decided it was time for a change.”

“So, you placed an advertisement in the newspaper. And Mr. Fairfax answered.” A wry smile edged her mouth. “You came well-recommended. Indeed, the squire’s wife in Lowton gave you a glowing character. One might even say a worshipful one.”

John’s stomach knotted. His gaze briefly fell to the contents of his cup. “I was grateful to her for providing it.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Rochester leaned back on the sofa. The fabric of her skirts rustled over her petticoats. An alluring sound—and one John hadn’t heard since leaving Lowton. He hadn’t had much occasion, of late, to be in the presence of ladies. “What are your particular skills, sir? Mr. Fairfax would have me believe you an expert in all things, but you and I know better. An education from a charitable school is oft as many times one of God-fearing piousness than of reading, writing, and arithmetic.”

“There was a great deal of religious emphasis at the school,” John conceded.

Rather too much. The children had often been deprived of food and warmth. The proprietor claimed that such deprivations brought them closer to God. In reality, it had only made them weaker and more susceptible to illness. During John’s time there, many children had died.

“I suppose, then, that you can quote me scripture and verse of your Bible,” Mrs. Rochester said.

“If you require it. I was also taught more practical skills. In addition to reading, writing, and arithmetic, I know something of globes, a little French and Italian, music, and—”

“Drawing? Mr. Fairfax says you carry a sketchpad about the grounds, and that you’ve been teaching the boys to draw, as well.”

“I’ve been giving them some instruction, yes, ma’am.”

“I suppose you fancy yourself an artist.”

“Not at all. I have only a modest talent, but I believe the boys are learning—and deriving pleasure from their efforts.”

“A modest talent? I shall be the judge of that.” She made an impatient gesture toward the door. “Well, Mr. Eyre? Fetch your portfolio.”

He retrieved it from the library and brought it to her. She took it without a word. John returned to his seat, watching her flip through the contents with a vague feeling of uneasiness. He’d shared his portfolio before—with other employers, as well as with his students. And yet it was an infinitely personal thing. A unique expression of his vision. A glimpse at how he viewed the world, and the people around him.

She scrutinized each sketch and painting, turning them over when she’d finished with them. Some she held longer than others, her eyes drifting over the work with greater interest. “This landscape,” she said as she perused a watercolor. “Is it somewhere in Hertfordshire?”

“No, ma’am. It’s a place I imagined.”

She turned to the next painting in his portfolio. “What of this subject? Was she also a product of your imagination?”

John’s chest tightened. “No. That one was taken from life.”

Mrs. Rochester looked over the portrait. It was a watercolor, like the painting before it, but there the similarity ended. There was no darkness to the delicate rendering, only light. The golden sun of a glittering summer afternoon, shining on the subject’s blond hair and illuminating the perfect oval of her face. John had mixed the blue tint for her eyes with special care. A subtle shade, with a mild sheen to it. It was the only thing to hint at the sadness within.

“Who is she?” Mrs. Rochester asked.

He cleared his throat. “She was the squire’s wife in Lowton.”

“Ah, I see,” she said. “The lady who gave you such an impeccable character.” And then: “Was?”

“She died recently.”

Mrs. Rochester’s eyes briefly met his over the painting. “You begin to worry me, Mr. Eyre. It seems you’ve left a trail of bodies in your wake. Is there anyone for whom you’ve worked that still lives? Or am I, myself, now in peril?”

A flare of indignation ignited in John’s breast. He reminded himself of Mr. Fairfax’s words—that Mrs. Rochester was eccentric. That she enjoyed putting people out of countenance. But to make light of Helen’s death? To mock the very losses that had brought him low? “Mrs. Rochester,” he began. “The tragedies of my past—”

“What is this?”

John broke off. She’d turned to the next painting in his portfolio. But it wasn’t a painting. It was a charcoal drawing.

And it wasn’t one of his.