Page 89 of John Eyre

What the devil?

Spinning around, he searched the darkness, all the while knowing what he would find.

There was no one else there, of course. It had been a trick of the candlelight. But such a trick! The face had been fearful. Ghastly. Possessed of a countenance that could never have belonged to a human being.

Was it some sort of premonition?

Or was it merely a side effect of his tired eyes and equally tired brain? It must have been, for when he looked into the mirror again, the face was gone.

It didn’t stop his pulse from racing. And later, when he finally climbed into his box bed, it did nothing to ease him to sleep. Instead he lay awake for hours, attuned to the slightest movement, the faintest noise.

When Bertha returned at the end of the week, John met her carriage at the gates. It was approaching twilight, the very hour when the mist was at its utmost. Seeing him, Jenkins stopped the horses. Bertha alighted, waving the coachman on without her.

“You needn’t have done that,” John said as the two of them met in the road. “I know you must be tired.”

“Not at all. I’m glad for the opportunity to get some fresh air. It’s been a long, stuffy journey.” She stretched up to kiss him, raising one hand to curl around his neck. Her lips shaped softly to his, their breath mingling sweetly.

John held her fast. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I you.” After another deep kiss, she drew back to look at him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, but—”

“Something’s happened. I can see it in your eyes.”

“It’s nothing,” he said again. “Only my imagination getting away from me.”

“Ah. Is that all?” She linked her arm through his as they turned to walk up the road back to Thornfield. “It’s the eve of our wedding, John. You had better confess all to me.”

He heaved a sigh. “It’s ludicrous. I’d blame the laudanum if I could. I often had strange visions while taking it. But since I’ve stopped, the visions have ceased. That is, they had done, until the night you left.”

“What happened? What did you see?”

“I was standing at the washstand, looking into the glass. And…a man’s face appeared.”

“A man’s face?”

He nodded. “It wasn’t a reflection. It simply materialized like vapor, floating there over my own face, nearly transparent—but not so transparent that I couldn’t see the horror of his countenance.”

“Describe it.”

“It was all over in a blink, mind you, but he seemed a fashionable gentleman. Handsome, even, with elegant features and waving ebony hair combed back from his forehead. But there the semblance of humanity ended. The image he cast was malevolent. The face of some poor creature damned to the pit.”

Her gaze jerked to his. “Why do you say that?” she asked sharply. “Why do you call him a poor creature?”

“He was white as death, with blood flowing from his eyes and ears to stain his face. And such eyes he had. Red as hellfire.” John grimaced. “Do you know, he rather reminded me of one of the foul specters in that book Mr. Taylor lent to me. One in particular: the German vampyre.”

Bertha’s footsteps faltered.

John caught her swiftly round the waist to steady her. “I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have gone into such gruesome detail.” He looked down at her. “Have I frightened you?”

“No. Of course not. I’m only a little tired, that’s all.” She stepped back from him. Her face was pale in the waning light of day. “What happened next?”

“Nothing. The vision disappeared. Gone as quickly as it had come. Though I confess it left quite an impression. I didn’t fall asleep until dawn.”

“Understandably so.” She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. Her gloved hand was trembling.

“Bertha—”