Page 35 of John Eyre

Bertha

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Thornfield Hall

Yorkshire, England

February 1844

John was unaccustomed to visitors at Thornfield Hall. With only himself and a handful of servants in residence, there had been little point in anyone paying a social call. But with Mrs. Rochester home, the locals bestirred themselves. As a result, she was much engaged over the course of the next several days with receiving neighbors and entertaining acquaintances from town. Sometimes she even invited them to remain for dinner.

Mr. and Mrs. Eshton and their two sons called more than once. Away for the holidays, they had recently returned to the Leas, their estate on the other side of Millcote. According to Mr. Fairfax, they were—along with the Ingrams—the nearest neighbors to Thornfield.

“Mrs. Rochester practically grew up with the children of the Eshtons and the Ingrams,” he explained to John one evening when the Eshtons stayed to dine. “They’re quite old friends.”

John was seated with Mr. Fairfax in his small parlor, drinking a cup of after dinner tea. He’d been up on the battlements sketching when the Eshtons arrived, and had seen them disembarking from their fashionable carriage. They were a well-to-do family, clothed in fine silks and smartly tailored superfine. It had been difficult to tell from so far up, but it looked as though the two sons were of an age with Mrs. Rochester.

“Only friends?” It was none of John’s business. Still, he couldn’t help being curious.

“The old master did cherish hopes, at one time, that there would be a match between his daughter and one of the Eshton lads. But Mrs. Rochester would have none of her father’s scheming. She was resolved to have a love match.”

John held his tongue. To his mind, Mrs. Rochester wasn’t at all the romantic type. Quite the reverse. She seemed hard, and rather cynical. If there was any softness to her—any feminine vulnerability—he hadn’t seen it yet.

Not that he’d been much in her company of late.

Indeed, after she’d secured his promise not to interfere with this new herbal remedy of hers, she’d seemed to have no more use for him. The most he’d received from her was a distant nod or a cool glance when they happened to pass each other in the hall.

It nagged at him, her dismissiveness. Especially at night, before bed, when he dutifully swallowed down a teaspoonful of her vile prescription. It tasted of roots and earth, and rather vaguely of rosewater and garlic, with a tinny aftertaste he couldn’t quite identify.

But a promise was a promise.

And, to be fair, he hadn’t had a recurrence of his headaches. The strange medicine wasn’t laudanum by any stretch of the imagination, but who was to say that it wasn’t working?

“I confess I’ve wondered if she’ll marry again,” Mr. Fairfax said. “And if one of the Eshton boys might have a chance this time around. A union between the two families wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

“Do you think it possible?” John asked.

“It’s difficult to tell. She’s changed a great deal since returning from her journeys abroad. And it isn’t only that streak of white in her hair.”

John gave him an interested glance. “That’s something new?”

“Aye. Indeed. And the oddest thing, sir. She hadn’t any white in her hair at all when she left Thornfield after her parents died. None that I ever saw. But when she returned home last summer—not three years later—there it was, bold as you please. I didn’t like to enquire about it. Ladies can be sensitive about their hair. Their crowning glory, and all that. Though I did wonder, as anyone might. She never mentions it herself. Doesn’t mention much of anything about her travels.”

“Perhaps she’s ready to settle down?”

“With one of the Eshton boys? Who can say? I never could understand her, even when she was a girl, but now…” The butler’s lips pursed. He took another sip of his tea. “I expect it’s more likely she’ll leave us again, than that she’ll remarry. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

“I couldn’t guess,” John said. “We’ve had little interaction since she returned.”

“She may yet ask you to bring the children in to her. The Eshtons will have heard of them by now and might like to see them.”

John wasn’t so sure. But Mr. Fairfax had the right of it. A short time after the Eshtons departed, a message was sent up, summoning John and the boys to the drawing room.

Mrs. Rochester awaited them there, disposed on the silk-upholstered sofa near the fire, wearing her usual black crepe. A long necklace of jet hung loose at her throat, and jet combs adorned the intricate coils of her hair.

On a table near the windows sat a large white box tied up in satin ribbons.

“Stephen, Peter,” Mrs. Rochester said, making no move to look in their direction. “The Eshtons have brought you a present. You may open it.”