Page 57 of John Eyre

“Ah yes. I’d heard Mrs. Rochester had employed a tutor for her wards. I was disappointed not to see you in church.”

“As to that—”

“No, no. It’s perfectly all right. I assumed you had some good reason for absenting yourself from services. It’s why I’ve extended so many invitations for you to call on me at the vicarage.” Mr. Taylor paused. “You will understand, of course, why I couldn’t visit you at the Hall.”

John recollected Mr. Fairfax’s remarks about Mrs. Rochester not permitting the vicar to call when she was in residence. The old butler had never specified precisely why, only alluded to it being because the boys were ill and Mrs. Rochester was still in mourning. “No. Not entirely.”

“I did call there once, in the days after Miss Ingram’s death. Not my finest moment. I’m amazed you haven’t heard of it.”

“Indeed, I haven’t.”

“It’s embarrassing, really. I went there, intending to condole with Mrs. Rochester, and found workers rushing about, refurbishing rooms and decorating the place. Things that might have waited until a respectful period of time had passed. Miss Ingram had died but days before. And there was no sign of mourning. No sign of respect. Mrs. Rochester wouldn’t even receive me.”

John shifted in his seat, not entirely comfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. “Grief manifests itself in different ways.”

“Exactly right, sir. I told myself the very thing. Still, you’ll understand why I’ve since kept a wide berth of Thornfield Hall.” Mr. Taylor raised his teacup to his lips. “But all of that’s neither here nor there in terms of your own spiritual well-being.”

John inwardly sighed. He’d been expecting remonstrations about the state of his soul. It made them no less tedious to hear. He nevertheless listened politely as Mr. Taylor spoke of the value of attending services, of prayer and Bible study, and the dangers of evil influences.

“We’ve been seeking to explain the vagaries of evil for centuries,” Mr. Taylor went on. “Consider these folktales”—he gestured to the book wedged into the seat cushion at John’s side—“and the creatures that inhabit them. Dark figures conjured by human imagination to explain the inexplicable. Would that we would simply trust in God. There would be no need for superstition.”

“You believe God to be the final word in matters that are otherwise incomprehensible?”

“I do,” Mr. Taylor said. “I also believe that superstition runs deep in this part of the world. If I’m to understand my flock, I must understand those superstitions absolutely—even if I don’t subscribe to them myself.” He sipped his tea. “Take these strange weather patterns, for example. The fog and the mist, and the storm that never fully arrives. Some of the farmers contend it’s the result of witchcraft.”

John’s mouth quirked. “Witches?”

“Quite.” Mr. Taylor smiled. “And then there are our black dog legends. I expect you’ve heard something of those by now?”

“Mr. Fairfax did mention the Barghest to me.”

“The butler at Thornfield Hall? Yes. I suppose he would know.” Mr. Taylor’s smile faded as he stirred his tea. “We’ve had several strange sightings of late.”

“Of black dogs?”

“Of wolves.”

There was a prickling at the back of John’s neck. Foolish. He wasn’t one of the vicar’s superstitious parishioners. He was a man of reason. Of sense. All the same…

Wolves?

He recalled the black beast that had padded toward him out of the mist. “You’re not real,” he’d told it. And it hadn’t been.

Had it?

“Twice now someone claims to have seen one.” Mr. Taylor extended a plate to him. “Biscuit?”

“No, thank you.” John’s throat had gone dry. He doubted he could eat one without choking on it.

“Yes, well, it’s rather amusing, frankly.” Mr. Taylor returned the plate to the tea tray. “I suspect there was alcohol involved.”

John forced himself to take a drink of his tea, and then to swallow it, as calmly as his host. “Where was it seen?”

“Not here in Hay. Closer to your neck of the woods. I daresay that dratted mist is to blame. A man can become quite lost in it after dark. And if you add an excess of drink to the mix—”

“You completely discount the tales?”

Mr. Taylor lowered his cup back to its saucer. A shadow lurked at the back of his gaze. “Not completely.”