Page 95 of John Eyre

He laughed. “Having second thoughts, more like.”

“Never.” She gave him an arch look. “And you? Have you—”

“Been pacing? My God, yes.” He poured himself a cup of coffee. “But I haven’t had any second thoughts.”

“Not a one?”

He shook his head. “No regrets. No changes of mind.”

“Regrets.” She paused. “Now those I have had.”

His hand stilled, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth. “Not about me, I hope?”

“Specifically about you.” Her faint smile turned rueful. “I regret that I never met you before.”

“Before when?”

“Before I married Mr. Rochester. Before I became the woman I am now.”

He slowly lowered his cup back to the table. “I adore the woman you are now.”

Her expression softened. “Ah. But you didn’t know me then. I often wonder what you would have made of me. And what I would have made of you.”

“Were you so very different?”

“I was innocent. Disposed to see the best in people—and blind to the worst of them.” A shadow crossed over her face, briefly dimming the light in her green-and-bronze-flecked eyes. “But I don’t mean to distract you with my melancholy reflections.” She motioned to his plate. “Eat, please. The carriage is waiting.”

John made short work of his breakfast. Ten minutes later, they were settled into the cab of the carriage, rattling down the road toward Hay.

Mr. Taylor had agreed to marry them at his church. A generous gesture considering that he and Bertha didn’t like each other very much. As far as John was aware, the two of them hadn’t seen each other since Miss Ingram’s death.

Was that the cause of Bertha’s dark mood?

She gazed out the window, tense and still, frowning at the gathering mist that clung to the trees and shrubs that lined the road.

“Is something troubling you?” John asked.

She turned her head to look at him. “Such as?”

“I hope you aren’t apprehensive about seeing Mr. Taylor. I know the two of you have had your differences. And after the death of Miss Ingram—”

“Mr. Taylor is the least of my concerns,” she said. “I’m merely impatient. Everything feels as if it’s taking hours longer.”

His brow creased with concern. “Is that all? Truly?”

“Don’t ask me that now.”

“If not now, when?”

“When we’ve been married a year and a day. Ask me again then, and I shall tell you about my troubles. Every cursed one of them. Until that time, you mustn’t press me, John.” She turned back to the window. “Oh, but I do wish Jenkins would drive faster!”

He studied her profile, trying to suppress the creeping uncertainty that threatened his sense of well-being. It was his wedding day. He should be happy. They both should be. There was no time for doubts. Indeed, it was rather too late for them. “We’re nearly there.”

As the carriage came to a halt in front of the church’s wrought-iron gate, John’s attention was drawn to the rolling graveyard, with its headstones of marble and granite—a reminder that death was ever present.

The specter of it had been with him for as long as he could remember. A grim companion on his journey from childhood all the way to the night of his arrival in Millcote. Even then, Helen’s ghost had stood at the crossroads, her hand held up in warning.

It seemed a distant memory now. A nightmare from which John had slowly awakened during his time at the Hall.