Page 94 of John Eyre

The fine hairs rose on the back of my neck. But this time I couldn’t run away. I was stuck there with it.

Muffled as the sound was, it only became more insistent as the next hour ticked by. Where was it coming from? I performed a cursory search of the room. In the meanwhile, Edward appeared to have gone. To where I didn’t like to think.

I looked behind the shelving as best I could, scanning for hidden spaces in the lamplight. There was nothing. Not a single crack in the plaster. “Is someone there?” I called out softly.

Scratch, scratch.

My pulse skittered wildly. I stood, stock still, in the center of the vault, straining to listen over the sound of my blood pounding in my ears. But the vault had fallen quiet again. I sank back down on the carpet, legs too unsteady to bear my weight. And then I heard it once more.

Scratch, scratch.

I realized then, with a jolt of fresh horror, that it was coming from below. As if someone—or something—was underneath the very ground I sat upon. Crawling away from the edge of the carpet, I began to roll it back. It came up easily, revealing a sight as ominous as any I’d seen since my time at Nosht-Vŭlk.

There was a door in the floor. A simple square with a bolt set into it. I drew the pads of my fingertips over the latch.

And something beneath responded.

Scratch, scraaaatch.

My heart stopped. Was it one of Edward’s victims? Another servant he was in the process of disposing of? Or was it something else? Something worse?

Withdrawing the vault key from my pocket, I tested it in the lock, both relieved and disappointed to discover that it fit. My constitution couldn’t handle much more. I’d been frightened enough for a lifetime. But if some poor soul was entombed below—a living victim that I could render aid to—then I knew my duty.

Unfastening the latch, I lifted open the door.

Thornfield Hall

Yorkshire, England

May 1844

The first of May fell on a Wednesday. A bright and blooming morning, rife with the fragrance of spring. It was the ideal weather for a wedding.

His waistcoat buttoned and his cravat arranged in an elegant knot, John shrugged on his new frock coat and made his way downstairs. His trunks were already packed and corded. By this time tomorrow, they’d be on their way to Rome, right alongside the trunks belonging to Bertha and the boys. She would be Mrs. Eyre, then. His wife.

John still found the reality of it difficult to believe. When he’d left Lowton, he’d had no expectation of forming a family, let alone falling in love. And yet, in less than a year, Bertha and the boys had become his whole world. What doubts he had were eclipsed by the great love he felt for them.

Entering the hall, he found the doors standing open. Outside, Jenkins waited with the carriage. Someone had hung a wreath of bloodred roses on the door and twined rosebuds into the horses’ manes.

Strange that. John’s wedding to Bertha wasn’t a grand occasion. Indeed, she’d several times referred to it as a “mere formality.” A tedious but necessary ceremony that would enable them to set off for Europe without delay. There would be no guests at the church, save the two people who were obliged to witness the affair.

“Mr. Eyre. Good morning.” Mr. Fairfax came in from outside where he’d been exchanging words with Jenkins. “Have you breakfasted?”

“Not yet.” John consulted his pocket watch. He supposed there was still time. Enough, at least, for a cup of tea and some porridge. “Have you seen Mrs. Rochester?”

“Here I am.” Her voice sounded from the landing. She came down the stairs to join them, the full skirts of her cream silk dress held in her hands. It wasn’t a wedding gown. Not of the sort worn by young ladies embarking on their first marriages. But the delicate embroidery on the bodice, and trim of finely wrought Brussels lace on the collar and cuffs, gave it the richness and radiance of a queen’s raiment.

John’s gaze drifted over her. His soon-to-be bride. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

Bertha greeted his perusal with a slight smile. “Come.” She extended her hand to him and he took it. “I shall give you five minutes to eat something, and then we must dash.”

He followed along after her to the dining room, careful not to tread on her skirts. “Have you eaten?”

“I had a tray in my room at dawn.” Releasing his hand, she took a seat at the table.

He made himself a modest plate at the sideboard before sitting down in the chair beside her. “So early?”

“I’m accustomed to rising with the sun.” Her mouth quirked. “Why? Did you think it was nerves? That I’ve been up all night, pacing my bedchamber with anticipation?”