Page 98 of John Eyre

In that darkness a figure lurked, his movement announced by the same rattle of chains John had often heard while lying in his box bed at night. A sound that had resonated from the floors above. He heard it now, unmuffled—a metallic scrape and clink that quickened his pulse.

“Edward!” Mrs. Wren called out. “It is I!”

The shadow moved, seeming to rise up on its hind legs. A deep baritone voice emanated from the cell. “Come closer.”

Mr. Briggs laid a staying hand on Mrs. Wren’s arm.

“You come to us,” Bertha said. “Step into the light. Show these fine people what you are.”

“Bertha,” the voice said.

“Are you Mr. Edward Rochester?” Mr. Taylor asked. “Can you affirm your name?”

A long pause. And then: “I am Edward Rochester.”

“And do you have a wife?”

“A wife?” Familiar laughter rippled from the darkness. Cold and mirthless. The very laughter John had attributed to Mr. Poole. “Many.”

“Many wives?” Mr. Briggs’s brows lowered. “Enough nonsense, sir. Can you tell us if you’re presently married? And, if so, to whom?”

“She is there with you now. I can smell her.” The voice drew closer. “Bertha.”

Bertha’s hand tightened on John’s. “Your sister wishes to take you away, Edward. This very moment, along with her solicitor. It’s midmorning. Can you tell the time of day anymore? Never mind it. You will soon feel the sun on your skin.”

Mr. Rochester shrank back with a hiss, accompanied by a loud clang of chains and a stream of muttered words in a language John couldn’t understand.

“What is he saying?” Mr. Taylor asked.

“I believe,” Bertha replied evenly, “that he’s calling me a bitch or a whore. He often does.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Mrs. Wren said. “She’s starved him.”

Mr. Briggs gave Bertha a sharp look. “Is that true, madam?”

“I’ve starved him of blood,” Bertha said. “Of anything else he’s welcome to eat his fill. Tell them, Mr. Poole.”

Mr. Poole nodded. “Aye, sir. He’s got the bloodlust something fierce. I bring him up rare meat, and all manner of things, but he won’t partake of much. Would rather bite and drink from me if he could manage it—and he has done once or twice, the cunning fellow. Just as he bit this lady, here.”

Mr. Taylor shuddered, and Mr. Briggs turned the color of parchment. “Human blood?” the latter echoed.

Mrs. Wren shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. He didn’t know what he was doing. Leave him with me a day or two and you shall see how soon he recovers—”

“Would you like to go with your sister?” Bertha called loudly into the cell. “She can take you now, straight out into the sunlight.”

Another hiss.

“No, no,” Mrs. Wren protested. “It isn’t how it seems. We must come back after dark. He’ll be stronger then and can tell you his side of things. If you’ll permit him to explain—”

“After dark?” Bertha gave a scornful laugh. “Oh yes, by all means. Come again when all is in darkness and he can strike with efficiency.”

“I think not, madam,” Mr. Briggs said. “Daylight will suffice. We’re safer in his presence when we can see.”

“I’ve seen enough.” Mr. Taylor paused before calling into the darkness, “Unless you would say something more on your own behalf, sir?”

“Come closer,” the voice beckoned. “I thirst.”

Mr. Taylor’s lip curled with thinly veiled revulsion.