Page 53 of John Eyre

Or so he told himself.

The truth was, as focused as he was on his duties, a small part of him was always alert for the sound of carriage wheels rattling in the drive, or for the arrival of the post, forever imagining that she might have sent a letter announcing her imminent return.

But Mrs. Rochester sent no letter. No message of any kind.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she went straight back to the Continent,” Mr. Fairfax said one morning at breakfast, “and we didn’t see her again for a year or more.”

John lowered his fork to his plate, the sausage speared on its tines left uneaten. “Would she quit Thornfield in such an abrupt manner?”

“What’s that?” Mr. Fairfax tilted his ear toward John.

John repeated his question.

“Oh, she might do, at that,” Mr. Fairfax said. “I wouldn’t put it past the mistress. You know how the gentry can be, craving excitement and the company of other fashionable people. She’s never enjoyed the pace of life in this part of the country. She’d rather be abroad. And there’s nothing to keep her at Thornfield, is there?”

Hearing this, John was conscious of an odd chill at his heart. For the briefest moment he permitted himself to feel it in full measure—that sickening sense of disappointment at learning he might never see her again. Not for a year or more.

And then he marshaled his wits.

There was no reason Mrs. Rochester’s movements should be of any concern to him. No reason, save one. Or, more precisely, two.

“What about Stephen and Peter?” he asked. “Surely she must return for their sake.”

Mr. Fairfax continued eating his breakfast, seemingly oblivious to John’s concerns. “I wouldn’t depend upon it. Not when she has you to trust to their care.”

John’s spirits sank. “Yes. Of course.”

For the remainder of the week, he threw himself into his work. When he wasn’t tutoring the boys, he was sketching and painting, or tiring himself out with long walks over the grounds. It was a melancholy period during which he did his best to keep up the appearance of an even temper, if only for the boys’ sake.

The two of them were the brightest portion of his days. Brighter still as the second week of Mrs. Rochester’s absence came to a close. On two successive nights, he’d heard them whispering to each other in the nursery, the sibilant sound of their voices drifting through John’s wall in an unintelligible hiss. It unnerved him, just as it had the first time he’d heard it.

And then it inspired him.

On the following day, after they’d spent a successful hour at their sums, he summoned them to the piano that stood in the corner of the library. Music lessons weren’t uncommon. He’d made several futile attempts at teaching them their scales. But this time, he didn’t urge them to sit down in front of the piano and place their fingers on the keys. He sat down himself and began to play.

Stephen and Peter stood over him as John executed the beginning chords of a melody. It wasn’t Mozart. And it certainly wasn’t a religious hymn. But it was cheerful and bright. An old children’s lullaby that had, about five years ago, been set to music.

“Today,” John said. “We’re going to sing.”

At least, he was going sing.

He cast a glance at the door of the library, grateful—for the first time—that Mrs. Rochester wasn’t in residence. He was no trained vocalist. No talented baritone to entertain guests at a party or engage in a pleasing duet with a lady.

But the boys wouldn’t care about that.

Clearing his throat, John sang the first words of the lullaby in time with the music:

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are.

Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the sky.

He played the melody with a flourish, adding a few extra notes and chords. His former piano master at the charitable school would have struck his hands with a ruler for such absurdity. It wasn’t proper and correct. It was fun. Foolery.

“Sing, boys,” he said. “Like this…” He vocalized the notes without words—rather like a child sounding out their vowels—before singing the next verse: