Page 37 of John Eyre

“Beauty, you believe, is weakness? A fair damsel in distress?”

“Yes. I suppose I’ve been guilty of thinking that on occasion.”

“How, then, do you view strength? Is it an ugly quality in a woman?”

“Not at all. It’s…admirable.”

Her eyes briefly sparkled with amusement. “But I’m not admirable, am I? Nor am I beautiful.”

“You’re exceedingly handsome.”

She laughed. “A spontaneous compliment. Thank you, Mr. Eyre. I believe you’ve been made to squirm enough.”

He smiled slightly. “I’m not squirming yet, ma’am.”

“No? Then perhaps I may be so bold as to tell you what I think of your appearance?”

“You already have. Rather frequently.”

Her brows lifted.

“You believe I look like a curate,” he reminded her. “An ascetic.”

“That’s your manner, not your face and figure. Mind you, it doesn’t help that you dress all in black.”

“Would you prefer plaid waistcoats and trousers?” Brightly colored plaids were all the rage at the moment in gentlemen’s suiting. They were also incredibly garish as far as John was concerned, and not at all proper for a man in his position.

“It isn’t a criticism, Mr. Eyre. Merely an observation. Just as I’ve observed that you’re really quite handsome, though I suspect you try to conceal it.”

Quite handsome?

His heart beat hard. “I’ve never—”

“Come, sir. I know when a person is seeking invisibility. I’ve sought it myself on occasion. I only wonder why? Did you suffer such abuse in your last position that you decided it was better to lurk in the shadows than to draw attention to yourself?”

“A man in my profession is content to remain in the background,” he said. “It’s the job of others to shine.”

“You’re a supporting player, then? Not a hero?”

“Hardly.” He was tempted to smile again. “What’s heroic about a schoolmaster?”

She leaned back on the sofa. “I wonder.”

Across the room, the boys were playing with their blocks. The echo of wood clacking against wood sounded along with the crackling of the fire.

“If you’d wished it,” John said, “I could have brought Stephen and Peter down earlier. They might have been introduced to your guests.”

Mrs. Rochester’s expression of amusement faded. “I have no intention of introducing the boys to any of my guests. They’re not trained monkeys to be made to perform for strangers.”

“Certainly not. But they’re doing better these days. They’re writing their letters and numbers, and can do their sums. They haven’t yet spoken to me, but—” He broke off.

Her eyes narrowed. “But what?”

“I thought perhaps Mr. Fairfax might have told you.” He lowered his voice. “I heard them once, whispering through the wall.”

“Whispering what?”

“Nothing I could make out. I suppose it was Romani. Which is another reason why it would be helpful to—”