Page 73 of John Eyre

“Will she live?” Mrs. Rochester asked.

John was startled by her matter-of-fact tone. He might almost have believed that she didn’t care. That the life or death of this mysterious woman was of no consequence to her at all.

“It’s too soon to say.” Mr. Carter peeled back the final bandage. “What’s this?” His face darkened like a thundercloud. “The flesh on her throat is torn, but this—! By God, these are teeth marks!”

“He bit me,” Mrs. Wren murmured. “He struck like a viper.”

“I warned you,” Mrs. Rochester said grimly.

“I thought only to speak with him.”

“You thought! I told you to wait until daylight—until I could be with you. Haven’t you sense enough to be on your guard?” Mrs. Rochester looked to the surgeon. “Hurry, Carter. She must be off before sunrise.”

“Give me another moment to finish cleaning the wound, madam. The bite runs deep.”

“He sucked the blood,” Mrs. Wren said. “He told me he would drain my heart.”

Mrs. Rochester’s face paled. “Be quiet, Felda. Don’t repeat his gibberish.” Again, she turned to the surgeon. “Have you nothing you can give her?”

Carter applied a fresh bandage, pulling it tight. “I’ll administer morphia when she’s in the carriage. It will give her some relief.”

Mrs. Wren gave a pathetic cry. “His eyes!”

“Enough,” Mrs. Rochester commanded. “You will not speak of it, do you hear me? You’ll forget you ever came here. That any of this ever happened.”

“I can’t forget.”

“You will. Once you’re away from here—back wherever it is you came from—you may think of him as dead and buried.”

“Impossible. You know that he—”

“Dead and buried.” Mrs. Rochester’s voice was as cold and implacable as her countenance. “It isn’t impossible. You may believe that.”

“Bertha…” Mrs. Wren’s eyes were bleary from pain, but it seemed to John that there was a glitter of accusation in her gaze. “What have you done to him?”

“She’s becoming hysterical,” Mrs. Rochester said. “Best give her the sedative now, Carter, before she does herself further injury.”

“No!” Mrs. Wren cried. “No, you mustn’t.”

Mr. Carter went to his bag and withdrew a small leather case containing a needle and glass syringe. As he prepared the injection, Mrs. Wren tried to rise from the bed, only to slump back against the pillows, too weak to move.

Taking hold of her arm, Carter positioned the needle.

“No!” She struggled against his grasp, making a feeble attempt to evade the injection. All the while, her eyes were fixed on Mrs. Rochester. “What have you done, Bertha? What have you done to him? You…” Her words died away as the morphine did its work.

Mrs. Rochester stood, still as a statue, beside the bed, watching as Mrs. Wren slipped into unconsciousness. “I suppose,” she said at length, “that loss of blood causes confusion.”

Carter paused for a long moment before answering. “It can.”

“Are you able to lift her?”

“It’s difficult at my age. But perhaps your man might be of assistance?” He looked at John.

Mrs. Rochester looked at him, too. There was a hint of uncertainty in her face. As if she wasn’t quite sure of him. “Will you carry her downstairs?”

John nodded. It was the work of a moment to scoop Mrs. Wren up in his arms. She was heavier than Mrs. Rochester had been, and far more encumbered with wire underpinnings. It made her form somewhat unwieldy, but not too difficult to bear.

“A post-chaise is waiting in the yard,” Mrs. Rochester said. “We shall use the servants’ stairs. I’ll run ahead to see that the way is clear.” She met his eyes. “No one can know of this. Not a single soul.”