Page 81 of John Eyre

I didn’t linger to discover the answer. My brief moment of compassion was blotted out by the urgency of reality. Dead or no, he was unmoving, and I’d have been a fool to forego the opportunity to make a thorough search of his person. I slid my hands over his body, inside of his frock coat and his waistcoat. My efforts were rewarded, for there, in an interior pocket, I discovered a single key.

It wasn’t what I’d been looking for. Not the house keys on their heavy ring. But it was something. My fingers curled around it.

In that same instant, Edward’s eyelids slid open. He stared at me, unseeing in the lamplight. He was awake, and not awake—his eyes as lifeless as those among whom he made his bed. I didn’t understand it. And I didn’t remain long enough to investigate further. Snatching the key from his pocket, I leapt up in a tangle of skirts, and ran back the way I’d come as if the devil was at my heels.

Writing it all down now, I’d like to believe that I imagined it. Such horrors lie outside the realm of comprehension. But what I’ve seen cannot be denied. I’ve known for some time that Edward Rochester is no gentleman. Now, I must recognize that he is something worse. A murderer. A parasite who enriches himself on the wealth—on the very lives—of his victims.

Had he seen me? Was he even now rising to give chase? The thought provoked me to flee straight out of the secret panel in the wardrobe and up the stairs to the chamber with its window overlooking the courtyard. I suppose I had some hysterical notion to squeeze through the bars and fling myself out. Surely being crushed on the paving stones would be preferable to spending my final hours in that fetid graveyard beneath Nosht-Vŭlk.

But when I attempted to fit my body through the bars, I couldn’t manage it. My shoulders were too broad. I was stuck there, head hanging out in the bright sunlight, choking back sobs of desperation. “Help me!” I cried. “Won’t anyone help me!”

And God answered. For when the tears cleared enough that I could see, I beheld a familiar figure creeping into the courtyard, gazing up at me in abject astonishment.

It was Mr. Poole.

Thornfield Hall

Yorkshire, England

April 1844

John sat back against the broad trunk of the thorn tree, his sketchbook and pencil in his hand. His gaze intermittently lifted from the page to watch Stephen and Peter frolicking about the meadow. The pair of them were engaged in a haphazard game of battledore and shuttlecock.

It was a fine spring day. Warm and sweet-smelling. The mist had dissipated to the veriest vapor, clinging weakly at the edges of the Hall but coming no farther. John scarcely noticed it from his position.

He was in his shirtsleeves, his frock coat discarded at his side. It was hard to believe that only weeks ago a storm had raged at Thornfield. A strange storm, for it had ended within a day of Mr. Poole’s attack on Mrs. Wren. A mere twenty-four hours later, the rain and thunder had ceased, and the light of the sun had broken through the clouds.

The Eshtons had left the following day, and Mrs. Rochester the day after that. She hadn’t said goodbye to John. It wasn’t her habit to inform him of her comings and goings. He’d had to hear it from Mr. Fairfax.

“She’s gone to London again,” he’d said. “To see her solicitor, I suspect.”

John feared she was making preparations for her marriage. Not that it was any of his concern—kisses and confidences notwithstanding. But she’d been gone a fortnight, and he was conscious of every passing day.

His pencil moved over the page, shading in the landscape he’d sketched with rapid strokes. He was thus occupied when the echo of clattering hooves sounded in the drive.

It was Mrs. Rochester.

She cantered up on her great black horse, the drape of her heavy skirts floating behind her. A high-crowned hat was perched upon her raven tresses, a net veil shielding her eyes.

The coachman, Jenkins, came out to meet her. He held her horse as she dismounted. Having done so, she turned and looked out toward the thorn trees. After issuing a few words to Jenkins, she crossed the meadow.

John rose to greet her.

“John!” she called out. “Enjoying the fine weather, I see.”

“I am, ma’am.” He closed his sketchbook, and tucked his pencil away. “Did you have a good journey?”

“Good enough, but ultimately unsuccessful. How are the boys?”

“Very well.” He paused. “That is, they were a bit distressed after the events of last month. I expect they heard the screaming. But I explained things to them, and they appear to be fine now.”

Her mouth curved in a dry smile. “I hesitate to enquire what explanation you provided.”

“Only that there was an accident, and that a guest had been injured.”

“True enough.” Her gaze drifted over his face before dropping lower.

He reached for his coat, but she forestalled him.