Page 45 of John Eyre

She crossed the room to him through the rapidly receding smoke. “There is no fire.”

“You managed to put it out?” He looked behind her. “The curtains—”

“I’ve taken care of it.” Relieving him of the water pitcher, she pushed him toward the door. “Your assistance is no longer required.”

He backed out of her room. “Mrs. Rochester—”

“Wait for me in your chamber. I’ll be with you as soon as I make myself decent.”

Heat rose in his face at the reminder of her scantily clad state. As if he could forget! Was it any wonder she wanted him out of her presence? “Yes, of course. If you’re certain the danger has passed.”

“I am,” she said.

He reluctantly returned to his room. Finding the tinderbox in the dark, he struck a spark to a light a tallow candle.

Within minutes, there was a soft knock at his door. He opened it to find Mrs. Rochester on the threshold. She’d put on a flannel wrapper and slippers as a nod to propriety, but with her black hair curling loose down her back, she managed to look as tempting to him as she had in her nightgown.

“What happened?” he asked.

She didn’t answer, saying only, “There’s nothing more to worry over. But I need you to do something for me, John. I need you to wait here while I attend to something on the third floor.”

He stilled. “You believe Mr. Poole was involved?”

“I mean to find out.”

“Shall I wake Mr. Fairfax?”

“Why on earth would you want to do that? No, no. Let the man sleep. I’ll sort this matter out myself. In the meanwhile, you must remain here. Bolt the door and don’t open it for anyone until I return.”

He opened his mouth to object, but she forestalled him.

“You don’t have to understand the why of it, so long as you do as I say.” With that, she abruptly took her leave.

John was no more capable of obeying her than he’d been before. And this time, it wasn’t because he was afraid for her. It was because he was worried about someone else.

Two someones.

A pit of anxiety forming in his stomach, he slipped out of his chamber and made his way next door to the boys’ room.

It might have been Mr. Poole whose laugh John had heard, but it was Stephen and Peter who enjoyed lighting fires. Stephen and Peter who gazed on the flames they’d kindled with twin expressions of rapture. It stood to reason that, if the fire in Mrs. Rochester’s room had been started deliberately, it was one of them who must be to blame.

John’s heart hated to admit to the possibility, even as his head recognized that the boys were obviously the most likely culprits. Indeed, John fully expected to find them awake, giddy from the aftereffects of their mischief.

Instead, on entering their room, his candle held aloft to illuminate his way, John found both Stephen and Peter tucked fast in their beds, looking as innocent as two sleeping angels.

He stared down at them, frowning.

Was Mr. Poole truly to blame for the fire?

Was anyone?

Perhaps it had been nothing more than a stray spark from the hearth or from an unattended candle?

The prospect did nothing to quell John’s sense of uneasiness. He lingered in the boys’ room only long enough to adjust their blankets and smooth the hair from their brows before returning to his own room. There, he sank down in a chair by his box bed and waited.

In short order, another soft tap sounded at his door.

“Let me in, John,” Mrs. Rochester whispered.