Page 38 of John Eyre

“Out of the question. They’ll talk on their own when they’re ready. Until then, I won’t have you introducing them to strangers who may or may not speak their native tongue. It would be far too disruptive.”

“You’d rather they remain silent?”

“It’s not a question of silence. It’s a matter of timing. And right now…” She shook her head. “It’s too soon.”

“They’ve been living here since July, and under my care since October. That’s more than half a year altogether. In my opinion—”

“Your opinion?” Her eyes kindled. “What right have you to preach to me? You, who have never set foot outside the safety of this small island? You speak of life in Hertfordshire, London, and Surrey. While I, I have traveled the depth and breadth of this world. I’ve seen its beauty, and its depravity. Have encountered evils you could never dream of. Don’t think to tell me of your opinion on matters you don’t understand, or I shall be obliged to crush that opinion with my experience. It will not be pleasant, I promise you.”

John’s mouth compressed. He said nothing.

Nor did she for several taut seconds. And then: “I suppose I’ve hurt your feelings.”

“Not at all,” he said stiffly. “I’m your paid subordinate. You may speak to me in whatever manner you choose.”

“My paid subordinate,” she scoffed.

He rose, deeming it useless to continue their conversation when she was lapsing into one of her foul moods.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To return the children to the nursery. It’s past their bedtime.”

“You’re afraid of my temper.”

“I’m bewildered by it,” John said. “But I’m not afraid.”

“Do you never feel passion, Mr. Eyre?” she asked. “Do you never bellow and roar?”

“What good would it do me? In my experience, talking about one’s problems is far more productive than shouting about them.”

“Yes, I daresay.” She turned her attention back to the fire. Her voice fell quiet. He couldn’t tell if she was speaking to him or to herself. “I sometimes think that I should like someone to talk to. Someone to confide in.”

There was a rare vulnerability in her words. A deep thread of loneliness. It inspired a pang of sympathy within John’s breast. He stilled, waiting for her to say something more.

The long moment stretched out between them, and in that silence he was struck with the rather disconcerting urge to ease this mysterious burden of hers. Despite her changeable moods, and her seemingly irrational demands, he wanted to be of service to her, even if only in some small way.

But it wasn’t to be.

Mrs. Rochester had withdrawn into herself again. She waved him to the door with a distracted flick of her hand. “Away with you. You may take my wards back to the nursery.”

John didn’t see Mrs. Rochester again until later that week. He chanced to meet her out on the grounds when he was walking with Stephen and Peter. While the boys occupied themselves with a game of battledore and shuttlecock, she invited John to stroll with her along the edge of the meadow.

It was an icy February afternoon, the ever-present mist swirling down the drive and settling over the snow-covered lawn. John was wearing his heavy wool coat, scarf, and gloves. Mrs. Rochester was similarly bundled up in a black cloak, her hands thrust into the confines of a fur-trimmed muff that she wore suspended from a silken cord round her neck.

“I’ve been thinking about something you said, Mr. Eyre.”

He cast her a wary glance. “Have you?”

“You told me that you had lately lost your faith.”

“Ah.” John had forgotten about that conversation.

“Were you in earnest?”

“I was.”

“Will you tell me what precipitated your loss of faith? Mind you, you’re not obliged to. Even if you are my paid subordinate.”