Page 54 of John Eyre

When the blazing sun is gone,

When he nothing shines upon,

Then you show your little light,

Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

As he finished the second verse and continued on to the third and fourth, John felt Stephen draw closer on his left. At his right, Peter leaned in, his thin shoulder pressed against John’s arm.

A guarded excitement built in John’s breast. By God, why had he not thought of this before? Not piano lessons comprised of notes and scales, but music. Song. Something to inspire them. Music was, like art, universal. It transcended language. He prayed it might even transcend speech.

Pounding out the chords in anticipation of the final verse, he once again encouraged the boys to sing. “Come along, Stephen,” he said, sounding out the notes. “And you, Peter. Like this…”

Tis your bright and tiny spark,

Lights the traveler in the dark,

Though I know not what you are,

Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

He’d no sooner finished the second line of the final verse than he heard it. A soft oohing sound, almost ghostly in manner. Not speech by any measure, but a vocalization. It came first from Stephen and then from Peter.

John’s throat constricted with emotion. He swallowed hard. “Well done, boys. Very well done, indeed.”

With that, he finished the song.

And then he started again from the beginning, fairly brimming with pride as Stephen and Peter oohed along with the lyrics like two howling wolf pups.

“Excellent,” John said. “Brilliant.”

He couldn’t wait to share the good news with Mr. Fairfax.

When lessons broke at midday, John found the elderly butler in his parlor, partaking of a light luncheon of bread and cheese. He wasn’t nearly as impressed by the boys’ breakthrough as John had hoped he’d be.

“Humming, were they?” he asked as he sorted through the post. “But not speaking?”

“Not yet. But I feel confident that, in time…” John trailed off, his attention arrested by one of the envelopes in Mr. Fairfax’s hand. “Has Mrs. Rochester written?”

The butler was squinting at the envelope’s direction with particular interest. “This isn’t from the mistress.” He extended it to John. “It’s addressed to you, from Mr. Taylor. The vicar in Hay.”

John opened it and swiftly read the short missive within. It was little different from the previous notes Mr. Taylor had sent to him. “He’s invited me to tea at the vicarage again. He asks if I’m free to come this afternoon.”

“Does he?” Mr. Fairfax resumed his meal. “Well, you must go, of course.”

“Impossible. The boys’ lessons—”

“The boys will be glad of an afternoon to themselves. It’s not raining. Sophie can take them for a ramble.”

John rose and went to the window. Drawing back the curtain, he saw that the rain had indeed stopped, and the mists had receded back from the lawn. With any luck, they would have agreeable weather for the remainder of the day. “I haven’t yet met Mr. Taylor. Is he a pleasant man?”

“Pleasant enough, but quite busy. He knows better than to waste his time in calling here. Though I fear that if you continue to refuse his invitations, he may well bestir himself to do so. Mrs. Rochester wouldn’t care for the intrusion. Not if it occurred while she was in residence.”

John glanced over his shoulder at Mr. Fairfax. “Well then,” he said at length. “I suppose I’d better accept this time.”

John unlatched the wrought-iron gate that led to the churchyard in Hay. It swung open on well-oiled hinges. He was early by more than a quarter of an hour, having walked the two miles from Thornfield at a rather brisk pace.

It wasn’t because he’d been afraid. He’d had no expectation of meeting another wolf in the mist. Indeed, he’d long since accepted that his previous encounter had been nothing more than the unfortunate result of too much laudanum. Since he was no longer taking the drug, he was confident that such spectral visions were a thing of the past.