Page 59 of John Eyre

A footman leapt down from the box of the first vehicle, and setting down the steps, opened the door of the carriage. A gentleman emerged—tall and impeccably tailored. He turned to hand down a lady. An achingly familiar figure, garbed in a black traveling dress. As she stepped down onto the drive, she lifted her face to the house. Her features were briefly illuminated in the lamplight.

John’s heart gave a heavy thump at the sight of her.

Mrs. Rochester was home at last.

But she hadn’t returned alone.

The man—who now tucked her arm so masterfully into his in preparation for escorting her to the house—must be George Eshton.

John withdrew from the window before he was seen, and urged the boys to do the same. “Back to the table. Finish your pudding.”

Joining them there, he made short work of his own portion.

It may as well have been sawdust.

He told himself that it didn’t matter. Her arrival, whether on the arm of George Eshton or not, had no bearing on John’s duties. Soon, he’d bid the boys goodnight and retire to his room to read his borrowed book. Perhaps later Mr. Fairfax would invite him for tea in the parlor?

Or perhaps…

But John dared not hope for it.

Who knew how long into the night Mrs. Rochester’s guests would remain? In the past it hadn’t been terribly long. And afterward, when they’d gone, she’d invited him to come to the drawing room with the boys. She’d encouraged him to talk to her.

But there was no guarantee he would see her tonight, nor even tomorrow.

Leaving the boys’ room later that evening, he walked next door to his own. He was just preparing to enter when a floorboard creaked down the hall. It was Mr. Fairfax.

The elderly butler lowered his voice, addressing John quietly as he approached. “Such a to-do. The Eshtons have accompanied Mrs. Rochester back from the Leas.”

John frowned. “Have they? Why?”

“On account of the rain, and the mist being high. They didn’t like her to ride home alone, and insisted on escorting her. She says there was no way to dissuade them. And now here they are, all of them in the drawing room, as merry as if it were a party. I’ve had to rouse Cook to prepare something, for it looks as though they won’t be leaving anytime soon.”

“Can I be of help?”

“You wouldn’t object?”

“Not at all.” A tutor wasn’t meant to be doing menial work, but John wasn’t so full of his own self-importance that he couldn’t roll up his sleeves on occasion and lend a helping hand.

Mr. Fairfax exhaled a heavy breath. “Thank you, Mr. Eyre. I knew I could count on your assistance. If you’ll go down to the kitchens and see what you can do to smooth Cook’s feathers, it will be much appreciated.”

“Of course.” John doubted he’d have much success. Up to this point, his interaction with Cook had been confined to perfunctory greetings at mealtime. The few servants employed at Thornfield weren’t accustomed to treating him as a comrade. His position was considered far above theirs—though not far enough to merit any particular respect.

“And Mr. Eyre?” Mr. Fairfax added before he departed. “Use the servants’ stairs. It will be quicker.”

John responded with a stiff inclination of his head. The servants’ stairs indeed. He supposed that put him on notice. A not-so-subtle reminder of his place in the household.

As if he needed reminding.

It shouldn’t bother him. As a tutor, he’d long grown accustomed to being put in his place. And yet…

For the past months he’d had the run of Thornfield and had become used to exercising his authority. Even Mrs. Rochester had addressed him not as a servant but as a man who was worth knowing better. Someone of value.

Or so John had believed.

He used the back stairs to make his way down to the kitchens. There, he found the cook and her scullery maid busy preparing a tray. Alfred, the footman, stood waiting for it.

“See that Mr. Poole gets his pot of porter,” Cook said. “And a double portion of that rare beef. He’ll have a long night ahead of him what with all the commotion in the house.”