Page 47 of John Eyre

With that, he gently released her hand. Were she fully in her right mind, she wouldn’t permit such intimacy, and he had no intention of taking advantage of her.

“Are you going, then?” she asked.

“It’s late. And you must be cold.” Indeed, it was a miracle she hadn’t yet caught a chill. The window of her bedroom had been open, and there was a frost outside. “You’ll want to get into bed.”

His bed, he might have said.

And he may as well have.

The color in her cheeks heightened. It was almost a blush. “Yes. Quite.” She inclined her head. “Good night, John.”

“Good night, Mrs. Rochester.”

He left quietly, making his way next door to the boys’ nursery. They were still fast asleep, seemingly untroubled by the night’s events. John gathered a blanket and pillow and lay down on the carpeted floor between their little beds.

Sleep was elusive. He tossed and turned until morning dawned, plagued by the thought that he’d missed something important about the fire. It was only as the sun rose, shining coldly through the nursery window, that he realized what it was that troubled him. It was that open window in Mrs. Rochester’s room—the place from where the smoke had emanated.

And it was the smoke itself.

Had it not been for the way it robbed him of breath—making him gasp and cough—he might have thought it wasn’t smoke at all.

He might have mistaken it, quite easily, for the Millcote mists.

On rising later that morning, John felt a keen longing to see Mrs. Rochester. The intimacy of the previous night seemed so much a dream to him. He needed to hear her voice, to see her face. Only then would he know if such emotion as she’d expressed—such a connection as they had shared—was strong enough to survive in the sunlight, and not merely the byproduct of a single dark and frightened moment.

He exited the nursery while the boys were still asleep. Sophie slept in a small bedroom adjacent to theirs and hadn’t yet risen to wake them. John hoped the woman wouldn’t feel too put upon that he’d stayed the night in what was, essentially, her domain.

Advancing into the darkened hall, he was surprised to find that the door to his own chamber stood open. He nevertheless rapped lightly on the doorframe before entering. When he received no answer, he entered and lit a lamp. It illuminated an empty room, the bed unoccupied, and the coverlet folded neatly at the foot of the mattress.

Mrs. Rochester must have risen even earlier than he had. Either that, or not slept at all.

But no.

On approaching the box bed, John caught the faintest scent of her exotic perfume. His stomach tightened. She had been here, in his bed. Though she must not have remained long.

He didn’t know enough of her habits to guess where she’d gone. Riding, perhaps? Or down to an early breakfast? He rather hoped it was the latter. But having washed, dressed, and made his way downstairs, he found the dining room as empty as his own chamber. Only Cook was up and about, uttering her usual monosyllabic greeting as she served John his breakfast.

Lingering over his meal, he entertained a pathetic hope that Mrs. Rochester would appear and join him. She didn’t, of course. Even Mr. Fairfax, also an early riser, was conspicuously absent. It left John with a distinct feeling of uneasiness.

When he’d finished eating, he returned upstairs to fetch the boys from the nursery. Servants were bustling in and out of Mrs. Rochester’s chamber. A voice sounded from within.

“Put your back into it, Alfred! No need to be gentle.”

John went to the door. A footman was kneeling in front of the fireplace, cleaning inside the chimney with a long brush. Soot fell down into his hair, blackening his face. Standing over him, issuing directions, was another footman.

They weren’t the only servants present.

A large, muscular man stood at the window with a hammer in his hand.

It was Mr. Poole.

Clad in his usual plain garments, he was lining up a row of nails on the exposed window ledge, preparing to drive one of them home. He was wholly focused upon his work, his broad features giving no indication of the villain that lay beneath.

If villain he be.

Mrs. Rochester had said Mr. Poole was partially responsible for the fire. But in what way responsible? Had he unknowingly knocked over a candle? Failed to douse the flames in the hearth?

John supposed it was possible. And yet…