Page 66 of John Eyre

14 April. — My nights with my husband have been passing much as ever, with only one marked change: I have lately seen him looking at me, studying me, when he believes I’m not aware. It’s enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. He’s up to something, and I fear that whatever it is, it bodes nothing but ill for me. My only advantage is one he hasn’t yet surmised. He believes he is studying me, but it is I who have been watching him. Learning him. What use I can make of this meager knowledge, I don’t know. Not yet.

Some hours ago, as the sun fully set, he departed on one of his mysterious errands. I stood in the hall as he unchained the front door.

“Why must you lock it behind you?” I asked.

“For your safety, my love,” he said.

“Yes, but what if I should have some emergency? What if I’m injured? Or require help?”

He gave me a hard look. “You will receive no injury so long as you adhere to my rules. Stay close to your bedchamber, or to these rooms.” He gestured to the hall and the adjacent library. “Do not venture any farther. My home is an ancient place, with stones and timber that have needed replacing these many years. I cannot promise you will be safe if you put a foot on the wrong step, or go through a forbidden door.”

His speech chilled me. Was he aware of my daylight explorations? I didn’t see how he could be. “Even more reason for you to leave the door unlocked,” I said. “Or to trust me with the keys.”

His lips curled in a mocking smile. “You may as well ask that I leave the door to my vault unlocked. I keep my treasures well protected. All of them.” With that, he kissed me very hard on the mouth. So hard that the inner flesh of my lips was cut against my teeth, drawing a trickle of blood.

What my husband did next, I can hardly bring myself to put to paper. But I have promised a true account here, and so I must transcribe this aberrant behavior along with all the rest. It is this: as he kissed me, he lapped up the trickle of blood from my mouth with his tongue.

I stood there, stunned and repulsed, as he took his leave, shutting the door behind him. He drew the bolt from the outside, locking me in the house until his return.

What would he do, I wondered, if I were to fall upon the door, pounding with my fists and screaming? I feared the worst. This absurd pretense of normalcy was the only thing keeping me safe from him at the moment.

Lighting a lantern, I returned upstairs, but instead of going to my room, I climbed two flights to the topmost floor. It was darker there, and dustier, stinking of damp and rot. I checked the doors. Most of them were locked. But, much to my surprise, two of them were not.

The first opened stiffly as I turned the handle, swinging back with a shriek of rusty hinges so loud I nearly jumped out of my skin. Raising my lantern, I looked about the room. It was nothing very impressive. Some old furnishings, half covered with sheets. Rather like the furniture stored on the third floor of Thornfield.

Going to the barred window, I saw that it looked out over the courtyard, giving a rare glimpse of the path by which my husband made his comings and goings. He wasn’t there at present, and there was no sign of any horses or carriages, nor of any servants that I could see. There was only a strange silver mist that had gathered in the darkness, rolling over the ground to the edges of the fortress. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

Resuming my investigations, I continued to the next unlocked door. It led to an even smaller chamber that contained nothing but a wardrobe and an old sea trunk. Dust lay upon the floor in a thick layer. I was conscious of leaving my footprints in it as I made my way to the window.

The view through the iron bars was nothing to speak of—only a glimpse of the sea below. All but one side of Nosht-Vŭlk was built at the very edge of the cliff, making escape from these windows impossible, even if I could manage to fit through the bars. Indeed, I was beginning to think that escape was impossible entirely.

After obscuring the evidence of my footsteps, I returned to my room, my mind in a tumult. At length, I came to the following conclusion: it is pointless to concern myself with thoughts of escape. Far better to remain in my husband’s good graces until the day of our departure. Once I’m back in England, I will have a greater chance of extricating myself from his clutches.

Though I fear it is already too late for that. Whether locked inside of a remote fortress or not, a wife is a prisoner of her husband, confined by the legal bonds of matrimony. Such bondage knows no geographic boundary.

16 April. — My plan to appear a good and obedient wife has, so far, been successful. As a result, Edward has been kinder to me and has seemed less menacing. To keep him thus, I initiate conversation only on topics that are of particular interest to him, such as the history of his homeland or his collection of antiquities. He’s always willing to expound on these subjects whenever he has a free moment. However, of late his free moments have become fewer and farther between.

He’s busy from sunset to sunrise on some business venture of his own. It involves a great deal of letter writing, and a great many midnight errands outside of the house. He won’t share the details of his enterprise with me, and I dare not press him too hard, lest I disrupt the tenuous peace we’ve come to in our marriage.

18 April. —Edward has been going into and out of his vault rather a lot in the past days, each time unlocking it and locking it again behind him. This morning, in the early hours before sunrise, I persuaded him to let me accompany him inside. Much to my surprise, he relented.

I’ve been inside the vault before. It’s a cool room, dry and airless, filled with the most fascinating collection of antiques. However, as I looked about the walls, starkly brightened by lanternlight, I recalled that on my previous visit, the shelves housing my husband’s treasures had been markedly fuller.

“Where is the rest of your collection?” I asked.

“Gone,” he said.

“Yes, but where?”

“Gone,” he said again. “Sold.”

I noticed then that Edward’s expression was unusually grim. He plainly wasn’t happy to have parted with the pieces in question. “Why?” I asked.

“It was necessary,” he said. “I required additional coin to purchase another item. A book.”

“What sort of book?”

“Egyptian,” he said. “Quite valuable to me. It may have come from the empty tomb in Thebes.”