Page 88 of John Eyre

“Yes, the boys. You are to be commended, sir. They’ve improved a great deal under your care, and will improve even more if taken away from here. I’ve always thought as much.” Mr. Fairfax’s brows knit into a bushy white line. “Could you not travel with the mistress as their tutor? Must you marry her?”

“I want to marry her,” John said. “I love her.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Fairfax cocked his ear toward John.

“I said that I love her.”

Mr. Fairfax’s frown deepened. “Oh dear. That is unfortunate, for you see, I do fear there will be things that come to light that are far different from what you expect.”

John was hurt by the insinuation. Hurt, and a little irritated. Did Mr. Fairfax truly think John had an expectation of wealth and property? That he’d forsake Bertha if her estate turned out to be worth less than it appeared? “I have no expectations,” he said. “I want only to look after her.”

“Well. I suppose your mind is made up. I pray that you won’t be disappointed.” Mr. Fairfax at last poured out their tea. He handed John a cup with an unsteady hand.

Some of the tea sloshed over into the saucer as John took it. He didn’t drink. And when Mr. Fairfax offered him a sandwich, John declined it. He found that he’d quite lost his appetite.

Bertha remained in residence at Thornfield another fortnight—a blissful period of picnics, candlelit conversation, and stolen kisses—at the end of which she was called to London. Her solicitor required her to sign a few remaining documents relating to the administration of the estate in her absence.

John accompanied her out to the waiting carriage. “I still think he might have come to you.”

“Mr. Hughes is pushing eighty. I daren’t leave the final details of our departure to his feeble constitution. If left to his own devices, he’d make us wait another week, only to write and say he was too ill to embark on the journey.” She held tight to John’s arm as they descended the front steps. “No. I shall go to him in Fleet Street myself and see that all is in readiness for our departure. I’ll be back the day before the wedding, no later. And then, the moment we’re wed, we must fly. I won’t tolerate a second’s delay.”

John gave her a look of concern. She was wearing a carriage dress of dark green silk trimmed in darker velvet—one of the many gowns she’d ordered on her visit to Millcote. The color set off her complexion to magnificent effect, and the wide flounced skirts and delicate velvet belt at her waist showcased her figure. He admired her in it, though it was still a trifle strange to see her out of her blacks. “You’re anxious.”

“With good cause. I’ve too often had the cup of happiness snatched from my lips not to be wary of divine intervention.”

He gave her a reassuring smile. “If God intervenes, I trust it will be on the side of our union.”

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she turned into his arms, embracing him and pressing a hard kiss to his mouth—right there in front of Jenkins, Mr. Fairfax, and the boys. She broke away just as abruptly, permitting Jenkins to hand her into the cab of the carriage. He shut the door behind her, and leaping up on the box, set the horses in motion.

As the carriage rolled away, Bertha’s solemn profile was briefly visible through the window. John watched her go, troubled.

Perhaps it was only bridal nerves. A common enough condition among soon-to-be-married ladies—or so he understood.

But Bertha was no virgin bride.

Nevertheless, in the past few days, as the calendar had advanced toward the date of their wedding, she’d seemed to become increasingly restless and distracted.

John’s own state of mind was generally more optimistic. There were difficulties in marrying a wealthy widow, it was true. People would talk. They were bound to do so. And he didn’t much relish being labeled a fortune-hunter. But the compensation of having Bertha Rochester as his wife would be worth it. Not her money or her property, but her.

He was in love with her. And though she hadn’t yet declared her love for him—not in specific terms—he knew that what she felt for him was no passing fancy. He may not be dashing or daring. May not have wealth or breeding. But he was confident he could give her something of what she needed. Acceptance. Understanding. A shoulder to lean on when the next storm came.

It was impossible to solve her problems for her. He wouldn’t presume to try. But he could stand by her side. He could be there for her as an equal. A second self, as she’d said.

As for all the rest of it, John was resolved to be patient. There would be time enough for her to confide in him after they were married.

He retired to his room that night wearier than usual. In Jenkins’s absence, John had been tasked with supervising Stephen and Peter at their afternoon riding lessons.

Fortunately the boys required little instruction. Indeed it was clear that they’d ridden before. Once in the saddle, their confidence rose. John supposed it derived from the ease with which they could kick their mounts into a gallop and swiftly escape any perceived danger.

But there was no danger here. Not for them. They never went about unescorted, and they never ventured onto the third floor. It was surely only the memory of danger that plagued them.

Standing in front of the washstand in his bedroom, John bathed his face and dried it with a clean towel. A single flickering candle illuminated his reflection in the mirror that hung over the basin.

Sometimes he hardly recognized himself anymore. He looked older. Graver. Good lord, there were even a few faint lines at the corners of his eyes. He leaned over the basin, drawing closer to the mirror in order to see them.

And suddenly another face appeared in the glass, shrouding John’s own face like a caul.

He jerked back in alarm. His heart jerked, too, leaping hard against his ribs.