Page 6 of John Eyre

“There.” Mr. Fairfax stood. The fire in the grate crackled behind him. He looked about the room. “It is small, I grant you, but the furnishings are in the modern style. All of them excepting your bed. That dates to the fifteenth century, I believe, though it still has a practical use. Come, let me show you.”

The great oak monstrosity at the center of the room was shaped like a bed, certainly, but instead of being hung with heavy curtains, it was enclosed on all sides by carved panels of wood.

“A box bed.” Mr. Fairfax slid one of the panels open, revealing the mattress, pillows, and neatly folded coverlet inside. “I sleep in one myself. It does a splendid job of keeping out the cold and damp.” He looked over his shoulder, his bushy white brows lowered. “You’re not wary of enclosed spaces, I trust? If so, rest assured that you have nothing to fear. It opens from the inside as well as the outside.”

“It looks…” John faltered. What it looked like was a medieval cupboard—or worse. A tomb. But he was practically asleep on his feet, and the bedding appeared comfortable enough. “It suits me,” he managed finally. “I was always cold in my previous lodgings.”

“You won’t be so now, I promise you.” Mr. Fairfax lit a candle for John and then bid him good night, adding, “We breakfast at eight. I shall see that the boys are brought to the dining room.”

“Thank you. Good night.” John fastened the door behind Mr. Fairfax. The coachman had brought in his trunk. He rifled through it until he found a linen nightshirt. He changed into it, and then—after washing, and winding his pocket watch—he climbed into his new bed.

It was strange to be enclosed on all sides by wooden panels. Strange, and yet somehow rather reassuring. He felt oddly comforted. A fact which stood in stark contrast to the bleakness of his life in the months preceding his departure from Lowton. There had been no comfort in them. No warmth.

First had been his decision to leave his position at the village school. A decision only reached after weeks of heartsick anguish. And then Helen had taken her own life. It had been a blow from which John felt he’d never recover.

He’d wanted to shut himself away. To weep at the injustice of losing her. But he hadn’t the luxury of mourning Helen, nor the right. The best he could do was to hold to his plans. To leave Lowton forever and start afresh somewhere else.

Thornfield Hall was to be that place.

He was here now, warm and safe, in a new home and with a new position. It was an opportunity to wipe the slate clean. A chance to move forward—away from Helen Burns and the tragedies of the past—and into a brighter, more promising tomorrow.

The prospect of it brought John a rare measure of peace. At once weary and optimistic, his eyes slid shut and he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

John woke at dawn, as was his custom. Sliding open the panel of his box bed, he blinked against the sunlight shining in through the curtains that framed his chamber window. His eyes were always more sensitive to the light after a dose of laudanum.

Rising, he washed and dressed in a plain black frock coat, vest, and matching trousers. He took care that the cuffs and collar of his white linen shirt were clean, and that his cravat was knotted in a fashion that was neither too dandified nor too simplistic. First impressions were important, and as he fully anticipated meeting both his pupils and his new employer at breakfast, he intended to start as he meant to go on—neat, smart, and unpretentious.

Having threaded his watch chain through his waistcoat and assured himself of a clean handkerchief in his pocket, he at last ventured forth.

Thornfield looked far more welcoming in the daytime than it had in the dead of night. More luxurious, too. As John descended the oak stairs, his gaze took in the oil paintings on the walls, the crystal chandelier that hung overhead, and the great clock below with its case of carved ebony. He had no experience with such grandeur. In Lowton, the finest house had belonged to Sir William, and though it had been large and well-appointed, it had been nothing very awe-inspiring.

Across the hall, the front door stood half open. A sign that the servants were up and about, though he saw none of them nearby. Curious, he opened the door and crossed over the threshold.

Cold air nipped at his face as he stepped outside. The rain had stopped for the moment, and a shaft of early morning sunlight shone down through the dark clouds onto a well-tended expanse of lawn. It was abutted by a great meadow and an array of knotty thorn trees as strong and broad as oaks, which at once explained how Thornfield had acquired its name.

He turned to survey the front of the house. It had been too dark last evening to get more than the barest impression of its size. Now, however, he could appreciate the full height and breadth of it. Made entirely of worn gray stone, it was three stories high, with battlements along the top.

Brown hills rose in the distance, embracing the property at the front and the back and giving it a feeling of seclusion. There was no evidence of any other dwellings. No sign of a neighboring village, nor even of a neighbor. It must be that Millcote was the closest thing to society in these parts. And that some ten miles away.

No wonder Mr. Fairfax had admitted to being lonely here.

The thought had no sooner crossed John’s mind than the butler appeared at the door.

“You’re an early riser, Mr. Eyre,” he said.

“That I am.” John went to join him. “I’ve been exploring.”

“So I observe. And how do you find Thornfield?”

“I like it very well. What I’ve seen of it.” John paused, adding, “It’s bigger than I realized.”

“Yes, it is a grand place, though not at its best at the moment. A great house requires the presence of its mistress. I can only hope that Mrs. Rochester will one day decide to come and reside here permanently.”

John’s brows lifted. “She doesn’t live here?”

“She visits when she’s able—when her affairs permit it. Which isn’t as often as I’d like, I must tell you.” Mr. Fairfax’s rheumy eyes softened with memory. “Ah, but you should have seen Thornfield in the old days, all lit up for a ball or a party. It was a sight to behold. People came for miles to dine and to dance. Mind you, I was only a lad of eighteen when first I came here, employed as a footman by the mistress’s grandfather. And proud I was of it. But that was a long while ago. More than fifty years, at least. A different time.”

“It’s hard to imagine,” John said. “The location seems quite isolated.”