Page 71 of John Eyre

For one thing, they didn’t have a serving girl at Thornfield, only the scullery maid. And she didn’t sleep on the third floor. Add to that the tenor of the scream—the pure horror of it—as if it came from the throat of a woman damned to torment in the deepest pit of hell.

John shuddered to recall it.

When dressed, he returned to the door and cracked it open. Minutes passed. The house was quiet, save for the sound of rain pelting the roof and windows as the storm raged outside. It was well past three. The moon had begun to wane, casting his bedroom in darkness. He was grateful for the light of his candle.

A moment later, Mrs. Rochester’s soft footsteps sounded on the carpet. She approached his door, fully dressed now in her black riding habit, gloves, and cloak. Her hair had been twisted into a hasty chignon at her nape. “Come with me,” she said, holding aloft a small oil lamp. “Quietly, please.”

John obeyed without question, accompanying her down the hall to the stairs that led up to the third floor. He was conscious of every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the steps under his booted feet. They stopped outside the same door through which he’d once seen Mr. Poole disappear. It was the man’s lair, John presumed.

Mrs. Rochester produced a key from her pocket, and fitting it to the lock, opened the door.

John didn’t know what he’d been expecting. An animal’s den, perhaps. Something filthy and rank. This room was neither of those things. It was clean and spare, housing only a large curtained bed, a wooden chest, and a washstand.

On the opposite wall hung an enormous tapestry. A corner of it had been looped back, revealing a small hidden door. What lay behind it, John didn’t need to guess. He heard, quite clearly, the faint rattle of chains and the muffled, preternatural laughter of Mr. Poole.

“Never mind that.” Mrs. Rochester went to the bed and drew back the curtain. “Here, John. This is where I need you.”

He came to stand beside her. As she lifted her lamp, he saw—to his astonishment—that a woman lay atop the bed. Her eyes were closed, her skin as white as a corpse. The bodice of her gown had been opened to the waist, revealing not only her corset and chemise but the blood-soaked bandage at her throat.

“Hold the lamp,” Mrs. Rochester said.

John took it from her and raised it high, illuminating the poor woman’s face. She was a stranger to him. A female of passing middle age. Her hair was sleek and dark, her eyes and mouth bracketed by faint lines. On the third finger of her lifeless left hand a sizeable ruby glinted, set in a band of gold.

Was this the mysterious Mrs. Wren?

Mrs. Rochester crossed the room to the washstand. Water splashed in the bowl, and there was a sound of tearing linen. When she returned, she blotted the woman’s face with a thickly folded pad of wet cloth before using the same cloth to wipe away the fresh blood that trickled from the bandage.

The woman’s eyes fluttered opened. “Am I out of danger?” Her words were strangely accented. John wondered if she was Bulgarian.

“Danger?” Mrs. Rochester gave a huff of impatience. “What do you know of danger? This is only a scratch. Don’t be so fainthearted.” She swabbed away more blood from the woman’s throat. “Bear up awhile longer till the surgeon comes.” Her eyes found his. “John?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I must fetch Mr. Carter from Hay.”

“In this weather?” He couldn’t imagine any of the servants being willing to go out on such an errand. Not at this time of night.

“I’ve little choice. But it won’t take me long. No more than an hour or two. I intend to ride like the very devil.”

Understanding sank in. “You?” He stared at her. “But…you can’t. It isn’t safe.”

“Safer for me than anyone else. Don’t argue. We haven’t the time. I must go at once. In the meanwhile, I shall have to leave you here with this lady. You may continue cleaning the blood away as I have done. If she appears to be failing, bathe her face or offer her a glass of water.”

The woman moaned softly. “Bertha…”

Mrs. Rochester stood over her, something vaguely threatening in her manner. “You’re not to say a word to him. Do you understand me? Not a single syllable. If you dare defy me, I won’t be responsible for what becomes of you.”

A weak groan emerged from the woman’s lips. Her eyes closed once more.

Mrs. Rochester put the pad of cloth into his hand. “Mind what I’ve told you. Remain here, within the four corners of this chamber, and venture no farther. Open no windows and no doors. And remember—not a word of conversation!”

With that, she exited the room, locking the door behind her.

John’s stomach sank at the sound of the key turning in the lock. He wasn’t afraid. But he didn’t much fancy Mr. Poole leaping out at him from inside whatever room was hidden behind the tapestry. Then again, John supposed that Mrs. Rochester must have locked that door as well.

He wiped another trickle of blood from the wound on Mrs. Wren’s neck. Her eyes were closed, her mouth clamped so hard that her lips had gone blue. Was it loss of blood that made her hold herself so still? Was it pain?

Or was it fear?