John Eyre

by Mimi Matthews

  When the blazing sun is gone,

  When he nothing shines upon,

  Then you show your little light,

  Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

  As he finished the second verse and continued on to the third and fourth, John felt Stephen draw closer on his left. At his right, Peter leaned in, his thin shoulder pressed against John’s arm.

  A guarded excitement built in John’s breast. By God, why had he not thought of this before? Not piano lessons comprised of notes and scales, but music. Song. Something to inspire them. Music was, like art, universal. It transcended language. He prayed it might even transcend speech.

  Pounding out the chords in anticipation of the final verse, he once again encouraged the boys to sing. “Come along, Stephen,” he said, sounding out the notes. “And you, Peter. Like this…”

  Tis your bright and tiny spark,

  Lights the traveler in the dark,

  Though I know not what you are,

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

  He’d no sooner finished the second line of the final verse than he heard it. A soft oohing sound, almost ghostly in manner. Not speech by any measure, but a vocalization. It came first from Stephen and then from Peter.

  John’s throat constricted with emotion. He swallowed hard. “Well done, boys. Very well done, indeed.”

  With that, he finished the song.

  And then he started again from the beginning, fairly brimming with pride as Stephen and Peter oohed along with the lyrics like two howling wolf pups.

  “Excellent,” John said. “Brilliant.”

  He couldn’t wait to share the good news with Mr. Fairfax.

  When lessons broke at midday, John found the elderly butler in his parlor, partaking of a light luncheon of bread and cheese. He wasn’t nearly as impressed by the boys’ breakthrough as John had hoped he’d be.

  “Humming, were they?” he asked as he sorted through the post. “But not speaking?”

  “Not yet. But I feel confident that, in time…” John trailed off, his attention arrested by one of the envelopes in Mr. Fairfax’s hand. “Has Mrs. Rochester written?”

  The butler was squinting at the envelope’s direction with particular interest. “This isn’t from the mistress.” He extended it to John. “It’s addressed to you, from Mr. Taylor. The vicar in Hay.”

  John opened it and swiftly read the short missive within. It was little different from the previous notes Mr. Taylor had sent to him. “He’s invited me to tea at the vicarage again. He asks if I’m free to come this afternoon.”

  “Does he?” Mr. Fairfax resumed his meal. “Well, you must go, of course.”

  “Impossible. The boys’ lessons—”

  “The boys will be glad of an afternoon to themselves. It’s not raining. Sophie can take them for a ramble.”

  John rose and went to the window. Drawing back the curtain, he saw that the rain had indeed stopped, and the mists had receded back from the lawn. With any luck, they would have agreeable weather for the remainder of the day. “I haven’t yet met Mr. Taylor. Is he a pleasant man?”

  “Pleasant enough, but quite busy. He knows better than to waste his time in calling here. Though I fear that if you continue to refuse his invitations, he may well bestir himself to do so. Mrs. Rochester wouldn’t care for the intrusion. Not if it occurred while she was in residence.”

  John glanced over his shoulder at Mr. Fairfax. “Well then,” he said at length. “I suppose I’d better accept this time.”

  John unlatched the wrought-iron gate that led to the churchyard in Hay. It swung open on well-oiled hinges. He was early by more than a quarter of an hour, having walked the two miles from Thornfield at a rather brisk pace.

  It wasn’t because he’d been afraid. He’d had no expectation of meeting another wolf in the mist. Indeed, he’d long since accepted that his previous encounter had been nothing more than the unfortunate result of too much laudanum. Since he was no longer taking the drug, he was confident that such spectral visions were a thing of the past.

  No. It wasn’t fear that had spurred him on. It was merely a consciousness of time. In his note, the vicar had stressed punctuality.

  John shut the gate behind him. He’d seen the churchyard before in passing—a neat and tidy area of rolling dirt and grass, scattered with well-kept graves that were marked with headstones of marble and granite. It was very different than the last graveyard he’d visited. That sad little plot of ground where the remains of Lady Helen had been consigned.

  Beyond stood the church, as small and tidy as the graves themselves. It was a Gothic structure, made of stone with a tall, thin steeple. A spire rose atop it, stretching up to the sky. The same spire John had often spied from atop the battlements at Thornfield.

  He strolled down the dirt path that curved through the graveyard, making his way toward the closed doors of the church. Mr. Taylor must be with someone. A parishioner, perhaps. John didn’t like to interrupt. He lingered along the path, reading one faded headstone and then another.

  A grave up ahead appeared newer than the others. Not only well-tended but liberally adorned with fresh flowers—a living accompaniment to the roses chiseled into the headstone. The symbol conveyed that the grave’s occupant was a lady who had died in her full bloom. He stopped to examine the inscription. It read:

  In Memory of

  BLANCHE INGRAM

  who departed this life 6th June 1843

  The rest was obscured by the pile of flowers. He bent to move them aside so he could see the final lines. It was a scrap of poetry, not uncommon to find chiseled into a headstone:

  Remember me as you pass by

  As you are now, so once was I

  As I am now, so you must be

  Prepare for death, and follow me

  “Ah,” a voice sounded behind him. “I see you’ve discovered Miss Ingram.”

  John turned abruptly to find a gentleman standing behind him on the path. He was clad in a collar and cassock. A well-favored fellow, with short side whiskers and a shock of sandy hair flopping over his forehead. He was younger than John had expected. “You must be Mr. Taylor.”

  “And you’re Mr. Eyre.” He extended his hand, and John shook it firmly. “A pleasure to meet you at last. Have you been waiting long?”

  “Only a few moments. I’ve been looking at some of the headstones.”

  Mr. Taylor came to stand next to him at the grave. “A tragedy, this. Miss Ingram was still young. Still beautiful.”

  “Was it an illness?”

  “No. It was a riding accident that took her from us. A gruesome affair.” Mr. Taylor cast him an enquiring glance. “You’ve not heard of it?”

  “Should I have?”

  “She was returning from a visit to Thornfield Hall.”

  John gave the vicar an alert look.

  “It was last summer. Mrs. Rochester had just arrived home from the Continent and Miss Ingram had gone to call on her. The two of them were childhood friends, you know. As close as sisters. I’d have thought Mrs. Rochester might have said something.”

  “Not at all. I’ve never heard Miss Ingram’s name spoken before. Not by anyone.” John frowned. “She fell from her horse?”

  “She was thrown, I believe, on the journey back to Millcote. Her horse arrived at the Ingrams’ stables without her. She was found the next day, her neck broken from the fall. I pray she died instantly.” Mr. Taylor’s expression tightened. “She was badly mauled about. The wild animals must have got to her in the night.”

  John winced. He wondered that Mrs. Rochester had never mentioned the loss of her friend. Then again, why would she? She wasn’t obliged to confide in him.

  Still, the manner of Miss Ingram’s death was surely of note. Mr. Fairfax, at least, might have said something. The most John could remember him hav
ing communicated was that the Ingram family was lately in mourning, but he’d revealed nothing of the reason why, and John hadn’t thought to ask. It hadn’t seemed relevant.

  Now, however…

  John recalled Mrs. Rochester’s words to him the day they’d walked together along the snow-covered lawn.

  My dear Mr. Eyre, what makes you think that it’s my husband for whom I wear mourning clothes?

  Was it possible that she was wearing black for Miss Ingram?

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I expect you knew her well.”

  Mr. Taylor’s mouth twisted. “I was betrothed to her.”

  John took an involuntary step back from the grave. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize.”

  “How could you if no one told you? You’re new to the vicinity, aren’t you?” Mr. Taylor turned back up the path to the church doors. He motioned for John to accompany him. “I’m glad you finally had time to spare for a visit. I regret I was unable to call on you myself.”

  “Not at all.”

  “We’re a busy parish, here. And I haven’t a curate to lighten my load. I confess it would be a relief if one were assigned to me. Especially, as now…” He gave a sad, self-conscious smile. “I haven’t any official right to be in mourning for Miss Ingram. We weren’t married. Even so, I feel as though I’ve lost my wife.”

  An image of Helen sprang into John’s brain. Fair and beautiful and pleading with him not to leave her. He made an effort to dispel it. To remind himself that the guilt and the sorrow weren’t his to bear. It was becoming easier to do so. Nevertheless…

  “I understand,” he said. “I’ve recently lost someone myself.”

  Mr. Taylor looked at him. “Not your wife, I trust?”

  “No. She was a…a friend.”

  “My condolences. Loss is never easy.”

  “No,” John agreed. “It isn’t.”

  Mr. Taylor led him into the church. It was warmer inside, and brighter, too. The high windows angled the sun directly into the nave, illuminating the wooden pews on either side of the aisle, and the raised pulpit ahead.

  A door at the back of the church opened onto a small garden, shared with an equally small house. “The vicarage,” Mr. Taylor said, ushering John into the parlor. “You’ll excuse the mess.”

  Books and papers were scattered on every available surface. Mr. Taylor swept up a stack from an overstuffed chair, clearing the way for John to sit down.

  “My housekeeper’s daughter is nearing her confinement. I gave her leave to take the month off. It seemed reasonable enough at the time, but as you can see, I’ve rather let things get out of hand.” He caught a stray paper as it fluttered from his arms. “Do have a seat, Mr. Eyre. I’ll be back in a moment with some refreshment. It’s already prepared.”

  With that, the vicar disappeared into what was presumably the kitchen.

  Sitting down, John looked about the cluttered parlor with frank curiosity. On a table nearby was another stack of books. They appeared to be of some antiquity, their covers worn and frayed with use. His gaze drifted over the spines, surprised by some of the titles he found there—and the language he found them in.

  “Folklore,” Mr. Taylor said, emerging from the kitchen with the tea tray in his hands. “I’ve been reading a good deal of it lately.”

  “In German?”

  “I find it best to go to the source. It saves me from worrying whether certain points have been lost in a poor translation.” He cleared another chair and took a seat. “Do you speak the language?”

  “Not enough to mention.”

  Mr. Taylor poured out their tea, extending a cup to John. “But you must be familiar with their folklore?”

  “A very little. Not as much as I’d like.” John took the cup. It was chipped at one corner. “Most of what I know on the subject, I owe to the superstitions of my childhood nurse. We hadn’t any books of fairy stories or folklore where I grew up, and there are none at Thornfield that I’m aware of, save an old copy of Aesop’s Fables.”

  “Then you must take leave to borrow one of these.” Mr. Taylor selected a volume and passed it to him. “This one is in English. You’ll find it a riveting read.”

  “Thank you.” John gave the book an appreciative glance before slipping it next to him in his seat. “I’ll have a look at it this evening.”

  Mr. Taylor settled back into his chair. “As I was saying earlier, I regret that we haven’t met sooner. You’ve been in residence at Thornfield since November?”

  “October, actually.”

  “Ah yes. I’d heard Mrs. Rochester had employed a tutor for her wards. I was disappointed not to see you in church.”

  “As to that—”

  “No, no. It’s perfectly all right. I assumed you had some good reason for absenting yourself from services. It’s why I’ve extended so many invitations for you to call on me at the vicarage.” Mr. Taylor paused. “You will understand, of course, why I couldn’t visit you at the Hall.”

  John recollected Mr. Fairfax’s remarks about Mrs. Rochester not permitting the vicar to call when she was in residence. The old butler had never specified precisely why, only alluded to it being because the boys were ill and Mrs. Rochester was still in mourning. “No. Not entirely.”

  “I did call there once, in the days after Miss Ingram’s death. Not my finest moment. I’m amazed you haven’t heard of it.”

  “Indeed, I haven’t.”

  “It’s embarrassing, really. I went there, intending to condole with Mrs. Rochester, and found workers rushing about, refurbishing rooms and decorating the place. Things that might have waited until a respectful period of time had passed. Miss Ingram had died but days before. And there was no sign of mourning. No sign of respect. Mrs. Rochester wouldn’t even receive me.”

  John shifted in his seat, not entirely comfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. “Grief manifests itself in different ways.”

  “Exactly right, sir. I told myself the very thing. Still, you’ll understand why I’ve since kept a wide berth of Thornfield Hall.” Mr. Taylor raised his teacup to his lips. “But all of that’s neither here nor there in terms of your own spiritual well-being.”

  John inwardly sighed. He’d been expecting remonstrations about the state of his soul. It made them no less tedious to hear. He nevertheless listened politely as Mr. Taylor spoke of the value of attending services, of prayer and Bible study, and the dangers of evil influences.

  “We’ve been seeking to explain the vagaries of evil for centuries,” Mr. Taylor went on. “Consider these folktales”—he gestured to the book wedged into the seat cushion at John’s side—“and the creatures that inhabit them. Dark figures conjured by human imagination to explain the inexplicable. Would that we would simply trust in God. There would be no need for superstition.”

  “You believe God to be the final word in matters that are otherwise incomprehensible?”

  “I do,” Mr. Taylor said. “I also believe that superstition runs deep in this part of the world. If I’m to understand my flock, I must understand those superstitions absolutely—even if I don’t subscribe to them myself.” He sipped his tea. “Take these strange weather patterns, for example. The fog and the mist, and the storm that never fully arrives. Some of the farmers contend it’s the result of witchcraft.”

  John’s mouth quirked. “Witches?”

  “Quite.” Mr. Taylor smiled. “And then there are our black dog legends. I expect you’ve heard something of those by now?”

  “Mr. Fairfax did mention the Barghest to me.”

  “The butler at Thornfield Hall? Yes. I suppose he would know.” Mr. Taylor’s smile faded as he stirred his tea. “We’ve had several strange sightings of late.”

  “Of black dogs?”

  “Of wolves.”

  There was a prickling at the back of John’
s neck. Foolish. He wasn’t one of the vicar’s superstitious parishioners. He was a man of reason. Of sense. All the same…

  Wolves?

  He recalled the black beast that had padded toward him out of the mist. “You’re not real,” he’d told it. And it hadn’t been.

  Had it?

  “Twice now someone claims to have seen one.” Mr. Taylor extended a plate to him. “Biscuit?”

  “No, thank you.” John’s throat had gone dry. He doubted he could eat one without choking on it.

  “Yes, well, it’s rather amusing, frankly.” Mr. Taylor returned the plate to the tea tray. “I suspect there was alcohol involved.”

  John forced himself to take a drink of his tea, and then to swallow it, as calmly as his host. “Where was it seen?”

  “Not here in Hay. Closer to your neck of the woods. I daresay that dratted mist is to blame. A man can become quite lost in it after dark. And if you add an excess of drink to the mix—”

  “You completely discount the tales?”

  Mr. Taylor lowered his cup back to its saucer. A shadow lurked at the back of his gaze. “Not completely.”

  “Then you believe—”

  “Lord, no. There are no wolves in Hay, or anywhere in the vicinity. That much is certain. But I confess, I’ve sometimes feared that—” He stopped.

  “What?”

  “It’s nonsense, really. No one has reported any cases of hydrophobia. But since Miss Ingram’s death, I’ve often wondered if there might be an afflicted dog hereabouts. You see…when they found her body, it hadn’t fallen victim to the usual depredations. It was a bit more serious than that.”

  John’s hesitated to ask. “How serious?”

  Mr. Taylor gave an ashen-faced grimace. “Her throat had been ripped out.”

  John arrived back at Thornfield well before sunset, a book of German folklore under his arm, and his thoughts consumed with images of black dogs, wolves, and gruesome deaths. Entering through a side door, he divested himself of his damp hat and overcoat. The rain had started again just as he’d passed through Thornfield’s gates, a light but steady patter, hurrying him the remainder of the way to the house.