Page 78 of John Eyre

“There can be no equivocation. You either believe them or you don’t.”

He fell quiet a moment before asking, “Is my friend in this hypothetical situation a woman?”

Her shoulders tensed. “Does it matter?” She gave him no opportunity to answer. “Of course it does. Women are emotional. Prone to mistaking intention. To misinterpreting the facts.”

“I never said that.”

“Yet you wouldn’t believe your friend?”

He would have liked to reassure her. To tell her only what she wanted to hear. But it didn’t feel like the time for calming platitudes. It felt like the time for honesty. “I don’t know.”

“What if this friend of yours had no evidence? Or worse—what if the outlandish story she told you was directly contradicted by someone else. By a man, in fact. A powerful man.”

“I don’t know,” he said again. “How can I until that moment arrives? I’d like to think I would stand with my friend.” He straightened from the wall, sorely tempted to go to her. “I’d stand with you if given the chance.”

She turned to face him, one hand still resting on the railing. “You’ve already done so. Your help this morning—it was invaluable to me. I won’t forget it, you know. I don’t ever forget a service. As for the rest of it… Well. I suppose it must all depend on me.”

“I wish I could do something to ease your burden.”

“Be careful what you wish for, sir.” At that, her face spread into a smile. But it wasn’t directed at him. It was aimed at someone beyond the orchard. “Ah, look. There’s the Eshton brothers now, up for their morning ride. Rain and sleet have never stopped them from a good gallop.” She flicked John a glance. “Best return to the house before they see you.”

He stood there a second longer, feeling the full weight of his position in her life. Her paid employee. Someone to be dismissed the instant a worthier companion appeared.

But no. That wasn’t it at all, was it?

George Eshton may have her smiles. Her singing and laughter. But John…he’d been privileged to see the real Bertha Rochester. A mercurial figure—dark and passionate—plagued by mystery. She was a lady in desperate need of an ally.

As he exited the arbor, he wondered if he was up to the task.

Mrs. Bertha Rochester’s Journal.

23 April, continued. — Having discovered Edward’s bed empty, I was tempted to retreat back into the relative safety of my chamber. But there were still many hours left of daylight. Many hours while he slept—if he slept—during which I could make my investigations. I was determined that they wouldn’t go to waste.

I conducted a painstaking search of every drawer before turning my attention to the first of my husband’s two wardrobes. They were a matched set—centuries old, by the look of them. More like great oak cabinets with tall doors, wide enough for a person to step through. The front panels were plain, but carved above them were the same worn wolf figures I’d seen on the outside of Nosht-Vŭlk. I shivered to touch them.

The first wardrobe yielded nothing more than a collection of my husband’s linens. Shirts, handkerchiefs, and cravats, neatly folded. My hands trembled as I slid my fingers through each stack, praying that a key might be tucked away inside. But there was no key. No sign of any hidden secrets.

Disappointed in my search, I moved to the second cabinet with little hope of success. Opening it, I was more disappointed still to find it empty. Worse than empty. It appeared to have been unused for a very long time. There was a distinct smell of rot about the interior. It nearly caused me to immediately shut the wardrobe door. It was that repellant. But I was resolved not to be so fainthearted. Holding my breath, I ducked my head and shoulders inside of the wardrobe and had a good look around.

I shudder to think what might have happened if I hadn’t pressed on. Had I withdrawn immediately—had I given up—I’d never have spied the strange crack in the seams of wood. Never have recognized what I recognized in that moment: the wardrobe had a false back.

My heart beat so heavily I could scarcely hear myself think. A false door. Of course. This must be how he was departing his room each morning and returning to it each night. But where did the false door lead? I felt along the back of the wardrobe with my fingertips, pressing on the thin panel of wood in various places, until I heard a faint click. At that, the panel swung open, revealing a stone corridor and a steep stairway that led down into darkness. A waft of dank air emanated from its depths. It smelled of damp and decay. Of rotting flesh. As if an animal had crawled down below and died there.

I was both intrigued and repelled. Mostly, I was afraid. Too afraid to venture farther. I wasn’t prepared for it. I had no candle to light my way. No weapon to defend myself. Closing the panel, I withdrew back to my bedroom to make a plan.

24 April. — It is perhaps a peculiarity of the marital state that, upon discovering my husband was sneaking out each night via a secret passage in his bedroom, my first thought was that he must be guilty of violating his wedding vows. Did he keep a mistress in the village? Some local beauty whom he hoped to be reunited with once he’d drained me of all of my money and property?

Where else could he be spending his days? He was up all of the night, and he must sleep sometime. No doubt it was in a woman’s bed somewhere. I wasn’t jealous. Any ire I had was solely directed at myself for having been so foolish as to marry the scoundrel. My only hope was that the secret passage behind the wardrobe would serve for me as well as it did for him. If it led outside of Nosht-Vŭlk, I would soon be free.

Last night, at sunset, I listened at the connecting door, straining to hear the wardrobe open and close, signifying his return. I heard nothing—not a single breath or footstep—until he emerged into the hall. From there, he came to my room to bid me good evening. He informed me he was going out again on matters of business.

“What business could you possibly have in the middle of the night?” I asked.

“The business of living,” he said. And with a mocking bow he swept out of my room.

I was nettled by his reply. What in heaven was he up to? I waited a moment before lighting a candle and slipping out of my chamber to the stairs that led to the floor above. There, I found my way to the room with the barred window that looked down over the courtyard. I stood at the edge, half-hidden behind velvet curtains that stank of mildew, and watched for Edward, waiting for him to exit Nosht-Vŭlk.

At last he emerged, coming to a stop in the courtyard. No carriage awaited him. No horse saddled and ready for riding. Where then did my husband go of an evening? Business, he said. The business of living. Perhaps that was another way of referencing his affair. A euphemism for sex, and drink, and other bodily indulgences. It seemed that his mistress did reside in the village. At least within walking distance.