Page 42 of John Eyre

John didn’t know what to say. He suspected she was remembering her husband. Grieving him.

“But I’m being morbid.” She dashed the fingers of one hand against her cheek before turning back to him. There was a peculiar sheen to her eyes. “That’s why I must have a companion to talk to. Someone thoughtful and sensible. Like you, John. Someone who won’t be put off by all of the nonsense I talk, and who isn’t afraid of the sharp side of my tongue.”

He wondered if she realized she’d called him by his Christian name? He rather thought not. “I’m certainly not that. But I do wish I understood you better.”

“So do I,” she said. “More than you can possibly know.”

Thornfield Hall

Yorkshire, England

March 1844

“Who will light the fire this morning?” John asked several days later, standing in front of the children’s makeshift desks in the darkened library. “Stephen? Peter?”

Stephen was on his feet in a flash, his chair scraping back upon the floor as he pushed it behind him. Peter trailed after his brother, both of them hurrying to the hearth for what was, undeniably, their favorite schoolroom task.

“Wait,” John cautioned as Stephen retrieved the tinderbox. “Don’t be careless. Remember, fire is dangerous. You must treat it with respect.”

Having duly warned him, John stood back, giving Stephen independence to apply steel to flint. In no time at all a spark was struck.

“You may help him, Peter.” John urged the younger boy forward, one hand resting gently on his back.

The boys knelt down in front of the hearth, and while Stephen lit the kindling, Peter blew on it to coax it into a flame.

John hadn’t any idea why the activity was so enthralling to the pair of them. He suspected it was because they’d once been very cold. To them, a fire was a valuable thing, the ease with which they could now conjure one endlessly fascinating.

“Very good, boys,” John said. “Now the lamps, if you please.”

Stephen obediently lit two twists of paper, and distributing one to Peter, the two boys made short work of lighting the library’s oil lamps. When they were finished, they threw the remains of their twists back into the fireplace before resuming their seats.

“Excellent. We shall need the light today.” John brought out the watercolor paper and paints and set them before the boys.

Yesterday had been a particularly difficult day for them, working at their letters and sums. And then in the afternoon the rain had come in a furious gale, putting a stop to any outdoor activities.

John was determined that today would begin on a less dreary note. “We’re going to paint a landscape this morning.”

Peter glanced out through library windows at the bleak winter scene beyond.

“Precisely,” John said, handing out their paintbrushes. “But we won’t paint the lawn and the trees as they look now. We’ll paint them as they looked in the summer.”

Sitting down across from them, he demonstrated on his own piece of watercolor paper, deftly sketching in a sun and trees with leaves on their branches. Stephen and Peter watched intently, leaning forward in their chairs, as John began to fill in the sketch with light touches of watercolor paint.

“Do you see?” He took a bit of green paint onto his brush and gave a wash of color to the lawn. “It’s not wintertime in our painting. There’s no snow or ice. It’s warm and sunny out. Just as when you first arrived here at Thornfield.”

The boys briefly exchanged a look.

“Go on,” John encouraged them. “You’ll want blues, greens, and yellows. Bright colors for a bright summer day.”

Standing up again, he busied himself about the library, organizing the books for their next lesson as the boys began painting. Intermittently, he stopped to assist them—helping Stephen to mix his colors, and guiding Peter in how to better hold his brush—but for the most part, he left them to their own devices. It was better that way, in his opinion. Not everything in drawing and painting should be minutely circumscribed. An artist must learn to trust his own interpretation.

When an hour had passed, he returned to look over their work.

“Was the sky really so blue, then?” John examined Peter’s childish painting. “That gives me hope it might be so again. But what’s this?” He took a closer look. There was a grayish cast over part of the landscape—a wisp of swirling vapor, unartfully rendered. “You’ve painted the Millcote mists,” he said, smiling. “But the mists weren’t here in the summer, surely. Fog and mist come with the cold weather. They derive from moisture in the air.”

Peter blinked up at him.

“It’s not a criticism.” John squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Your work is very good. I especially like the way you’ve shaded the trees.” With that, he moved to look at Stephen’s painting.