Page 97 of John Eyre

“He’s there,” Mrs. Wren insisted. “He resides in a small room on the third floor, under constant guard. She has made him her prisoner.”

John’s blood ran cold. He looked to Bertha. She didn’t deny it.

A smoldering flame glinted in her gaze. She glared at Mrs. Wren in taut silence as if, at any moment, she would do the woman physical violence. And then: “Close the church, Mr. Taylor. There will be no wedding today.”

John’s heart plummeted like a stone. And yet he’d known that something was bound to go wrong. A feeling of foreboding had troubled him ever since he’d fallen in love with her.

He’d anticipated her growing bored with him. Of leaving Thornfield, or of marrying George Eshton. Never once had he thought that she was already married to a living husband. Never once had he contemplated the possibility of bigamy.

“You’ve no doubt heard whispers about the strange goings-on at Thornfield,” Bertha said to Mr. Taylor. “About my man, Mr. Poole, and the lunatic he’s charged to look after. A distant relation of my late husband, or so I would have my servants believe.” Her hand held tight to John’s, for all that she wouldn’t look at him. “What this London solicitor and his invertebrate client say is true. Edward Rochester still lives. If you can call it living. He’s plagued by insanity. Consumed by delusions. And possessed with a silver tongue that would convince even the most rational person that he is the victim, and I the oppressor.”

“It’s not true,” Mrs. Wren said. “He is not insane.”

“He’s a man who believes himself something akin to a deity. An immortal. A vile parasite who would slaughter his own sister to restore his strength. Do you doubt it?” Bertha pulled John along with her as she strode down the aisle. “Come, Mr. Taylor, Mr. Briggs. Come and see this creature that I have made my prisoner.”

It was a stony drive from the church, all of them bundled inside the carriage—Mr. Taylor, Mr. Briggs, Mrs. Wren, and Bertha. John held himself under tight control, unable to utter a single private word to the lady who should now be his wife. There was no opportunity to do more than clasp and unclasp her hand, his palm dampened with apprehension.

The carriage rolled to a lurching stop in front of the entrance to Thornfield Hall. One by one, they disembarked. Mr. Fairfax stood at the open door. Sophie was next to him, Stephen and Peter arrayed at her side, waiting to welcome back the newlyweds.

“Away with you all,” Bertha said as they entered.

John forced her to slow her pace. He met Stephen’s eyes, and then Peter’s, giving the boys what he hoped was a bracing look. “It’s all right. Go along with Nurse back to your rooms. I’ll come and see you before the day is out.”

Stephen looked past John to the figure of Mrs. Wren. At the sight of her, he visibly blanched, shrinking back from the door. Peter followed suit.

John’s gaze cut sharply to Mrs. Wren. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Do as he says,” Bertha ordered Sophie. “Take the boys to the nursery and lock the door.” She tugged on John’s hand. “This way, everyone else. You too, Mr. Fairfax. We all of us have no secrets any longer.”

As a group, they trudged up the stairs to the third floor and down the darkened corridor to the tapestried room John had visited on that fateful night in April. Rapping once at the door, Bertha entered.

Mr. Poole was inside, seated in a high-backed chair by the fire. He got to his feet, eyes narrowing at the strangers who accompanied his mistress.

“How is he today, Mr. Poole?” Bertha asked.

“Restless, ma’am. Seemed to know something was afoot. Been muttering to himself all morning and pacing the room to the length of his chains.”

“You keep him chained?” Mr. Taylor asked.

“He’s violent,” Bertha said. “And strong. He’d as soon kill you as look at you. Chaining him is a mercy, and far gentler than the treatment he’d be served in an asylum.” She stiffened her spine. “Unlock the door, Mr. Poole.”

John looked at her, and for the first time since they’d stood together in front of the vicar, she met his gaze. He saw determination in the depths of her eyes. Bone-deep resolve. And something else. Something that made goose-flesh rise on his arms.

It was fear.

The sort of fear one only felt in the face of extraordinary danger.

“Stand back,” Mr. Poole warned as he drew back the tapestry and unbolted the hidden door. “You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but he can move fast as lightning when the spirit takes him.”

The small crowd of interested onlookers withdrew a safe distance. Even Mrs. Wren—Mr. Rochester’s own sister—stepped back, taking refuge behind her solicitor.

Only Bertha remained where she was, holding John fixed to her side. “Scared, are you?” she asked Mrs. Wren. “You should be. It was here your brother attacked and bit you.”

“He bit you?” Mr. Taylor sounded appalled.

“He wasn’t himself,” Mrs. Wren said. “He didn’t know me.”

Mr. Poole drew open the door, revealing a small windowless room. There were no lamps. No candles to brighten the darkness. The only light provided came from the outer chamber, illuminating the front half of the cell, but leaving the back in darkness.