Page 31 of John Eyre

“You shouldn’t have stopped taking the laudanum,” she said.

He looked at her sharply. “Why not?”

“For your own safety.”

His brow creased. “For my safety? What does that—”

“Your health, I meant.” She slowed her step as they approached the stable yard. A large man was there, bent over a forge. He was hammering a length of heavy silver chain, the clang of metal-on-metal ringing in the silence.

John recognized the fellow at once. It was Mr. Poole.

“How are you getting on?” Mrs. Rochester asked him. “Any progress?”

Mr. Poole briefly stopped hammering. His brow was beaded with sweat. “Almost done, ma’am.”

“And we won’t be having any more difficulties, I trust.”

“None so far as I can see.”

“Excellent.” She looked at John. “Come along, Mr. Eyre. I’ve changed my mind about riding this morning. Let us walk down to the orchard instead.”

Some of the tension left John’s muscles. It was difficult enough to parry with Mrs. Rochester while strolling at her side. On horseback it would have been well-nigh impossible. “If you like.”

She cast aside her crop in the stable yard, folding her arms as they trudged past the paddocks and down a dirt path toward the small orchard at the back of the Hall.

John had the sense that she was coming to a decision—and one he wasn’t going to like very much. “May I ask you a question?”

She flicked him a distracted glance. “That depends. What is it you wish to know?”

“Only this: what was it that originally ailed Stephen and Peter? The illness they had when first they came here? Mr. Fairfax insists it was nothing but seasickness.”

“You have reason to doubt him?”

“Mr. Fairfax has no firsthand knowledge of the boys. He knows nothing except what you’ve told him.”

Her mouth quirked. “You have reason to doubt me?”

John flushed. Of course he had reason. Her every word—every gesture—served to put him more on his guard. She was the embodiment of a mystery to him.

Even so, he had no reason to think her a liar.

“No, ma’am. But judging from the boys’ condition, I find it hard to believe their illness wasn’t something of a more serious nature.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t seasickness. Or rather, it wasn’t only that.” She readjusted the heavy skirt of her riding habit over her left arm, arranging the folds of fabric with deliberate care. “Stephen and Peter contracted a minor blood disease while living abroad. It weakened them substantially. I’ve been struggling with proper methods for restoring their health ever since.”

“What kind of blood disease?”

“A sort of anemia. Not entirely uncommon in the region they hail from.”

“What region is that?”

“A remote part of the countryside outside of Varna. You won’t have heard of it.”

Varna? Good lord. He’d thought Mr. Fairfax had been exaggerating when he said Mrs. Rochester traveled to such exotic places. It was all John could do not to gape at her. “Do you mean to say…the boys are Bulgarian?”

“Romani, I believe.” She frowned. “It’s difficult to be certain.”

Her tone was discouraging, but John felt anything but discouraged. Quite the reverse. The information opened up a world of possibilities. “But that’s wonderful news. There must be some Romani person living hereabouts. We could invite them to speak to the boys. To translate. It would be helpful to—”