Page 70 of John Eyre

The night’s silence was broken by a terrible, desperate scream.

It rang throughout the whole of Thornfield. A blood-chilling sound, enough to make John’s pulse stop.

Who was it? And where was it coming from? It appeared to be emanating from somewhere on the third story. Was it Mr. Poole?

But no.

This was a woman’s scream.

He leapt from his bed only to stand there, motionless, as the scream died. There was no repetition of it. How could there be? Such an outcry must have exhausted the lungs of the woman who uttered it.

Footsteps pounded along the floor above him, followed by several heavy thuds against the walls and the floor. And then—

John couldn’t be certain, but he thought he heard the rattle of chains.

Foolish thought! There was no ghost lurking on the third floor, rattling its chains like a specter in a penny novel. There was only Mr. Poole.

And whatever poor woman had screamed.

“Mrs. Rochester!” a man cried out from above. “Mrs. Rochester, help!”

At that, John sprang into action. Lighting a candle, he tugged on yesterday’s shirt and trousers, still draped on the clothespress. All the while, the noise outside continued. Doors opened and someone ran down the corridor, their light footfalls passing John’s room.

“What’s going on?” a gentleman demanded. “Where is Mrs. Rochester?”

“Was that her screaming?” an older lady asked.

“Heaven help us!” a younger lady cried.

John emerged from his room to stand at his door. The guests were milling around the hall in their nightcaps and dressing gowns. Sophie was among them. She hovered nearby, her eyes as large as saucers. “Go back to the nursery,” John said. “Stay with the boys.”

She nodded mutely before retreating back inside. John heard her lock the door.

“Check Mrs. Rochester’s room, Mother,” George Eshton was saying. “She might still be abed.”

“You reckon she slept through that god-awful shrieking?” the elder Mr. Eshton retorted. “No one could!”

“She might have taken a sleeping draught,” Miss Lynn said. “I often do.”

Mrs. Eshton entered Mrs. Rochester’s room only to come out seconds later, her face contorted in distress. “Her bed is empty!”

“Here I am!” Mrs. Rochester’s voice rang down the hall. “I shall be with you directly.” She strode past John without a glance, hurrying to join her guests. Like them, she wore a dressing gown over her nightclothes. Her black hair was disposed in a plait over her shoulder. Several strands had come loose to curl about her face.

“What in blazes has happened?” George Eshton asked. “Has someone been hurt?”

“No, indeed. A servant has merely had a nightmare.” Mrs. Rochester took Mr. Eshton’s arm, guiding him back to his door. “And here you’ve all disturbed yourselves for nothing. Come, back to bed with you. You too, Mrs. Eshton.”

“But really, my dear,” the elder lady began. “I—”

“I’ll hear no more on the subject.” Mrs. Rochester urged the older lady to her room. “I have the matter well in hand. Your interference will only embarrass the poor girl further.”

John remained where he was until everyone else in the hall had been dispersed.

When the final door closed, Mrs. Rochester’s gaze found his. There was nothing of calmness in her eyes. Only a glowing urgency. “Finish getting dressed.”

He didn’t linger to interrogate her. Withdrawing to his room, he put on his boots, slipped on a vest, and thrust his arms into the sleeves of his coat. He hadn’t any idea what she might require of him, but he intended to be prepared for anything.

That scream had been no serving girl having a nightmare.