John Eyre

by Mimi Matthews

  She made a scoffing sound. “What has love ever had to do with anything? Marriage, least of all.”

  John’s gaze drifted over her riding dress. It was as black as every other garment he’d seen her wear. Mourning clothes, to the smallest detail. But not for her husband, she’d said. “Did Mr. Fairfax happen to mention to you that I finally visited the vicar in Hay?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “No, indeed. When did this inauspicious event take place?”

  “Two days ago.” He hesitated before adding, “Mr. Taylor told me about the death of Miss Ingram.”

  She turned away from him to look out at the orchard, but not before he saw her flinch. “Did he.”

  “I saw her grave in the churchyard. I’d no idea you’d recently lost a friend.”

  “The vicar has given you an earful, I see. He’s worse than any village tabby.”

  “He seems a pleasant enough fellow.”

  “Pleasant enough to you.” Mrs. Rochester flashed him a humorless look from over her shoulder. “He’s halfway to suspecting me of being a witch. Afterward…he all but accused me of being responsible.”

  “After Miss Ingram’s death? I daresay he was distraught. She’d come to visit you, hadn’t she? On the day you returned from the Continent? If she met her death upon leaving—”

  “It wasn’t the day I returned.” Mrs. Rochester resumed looking out at the orchard. “That is, she had come on the day I arrived back at Thornfield. We had tea together. Talked for hours. But she came again the next day. Her return visit was…unexpected.”

  “It was then she had her accident? Riding home in the fog?”

  “Her accident. Yes.” Mrs. Rochester set both of her hands on the railing of the arbor.

  “Is she the reason you’re still in mourning?” he asked.

  “I suppose she is, though our relationship hardly merits it.”

  “Mr. Taylor said you were as close as sisters.”

  “Not in the end.” Her fingers tightened around the railing. “You think you know a person. All your life. But in the single moment you need them most…” She bowed her head. “May I ask you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “If you heard a story from a friend—as outlandish as it seemed impossible—would you believe them?”

  “I suspect that would depend on the degree of friendship. And on how outlandish the story.”

  “You’d sooner think your friend a liar?”

  “No, but—”

  “There can be no equivocation. You either believe them or you don’t.”

  He fell quiet a moment before asking, “Is my friend in this hypothetical situation a woman?”

  Her shoulders tensed. “Does it matter?” She gave him no opportunity to answer. “Of course it does. Women are emotional. Prone to mistaking intention. To misinterpreting the facts.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Yet you wouldn’t believe your friend?”

  He would have liked to reassure her. To tell her only what she wanted to hear. But it didn’t feel like the time for calming platitudes. It felt like the time for honesty. “I don’t know.”

  “What if this friend of yours had no evidence? Or worse—what if the outlandish story she told you was directly contradicted by someone else. By a man, in fact. A powerful man.”

  “I don’t know,” he said again. “How can I until that moment arrives? I’d like to think I would stand with my friend.” He straightened from the wall, sorely tempted to go to her. “I’d stand with you if given the chance.”

  She turned to face him, one hand still resting on the railing. “You’ve already done so. Your help this morning—it was invaluable to me. I won’t forget it, you know. I don’t ever forget a service. As for the rest of it… Well. I suppose it must all depend on me.”

  “I wish I could do something to ease your burden.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, sir.” At that, her face spread into a smile. But it wasn’t directed at him. It was aimed at someone beyond the orchard. “Ah, look. There’s the Eshton brothers now, up for their morning ride. Rain and sleet have never stopped them from a good gallop.” She flicked John a glance. “Best return to the house before they see you.”

  He stood there a second longer, feeling the full weight of his position in her life. Her paid employee. Someone to be dismissed the instant a worthier companion appeared.

  But no. That wasn’t it at all, was it?

  George Eshton may have her smiles. Her singing and laughter. But John…he’d been privileged to see the real Bertha Rochester. A mercurial figure—dark and passionate—plagued by mystery. She was a lady in desperate need of an ally.

  As he exited the arbor, he wondered if he was up to the task.

  Mrs. Bertha Rochester’s Journal.

  23 April, continued. — Having discovered Edward’s bed empty, I was tempted to retreat back into the relative safety of my chamber. But there were still many hours left of daylight. Many hours while he slept—if he slept—during which I could make my investigations. I was determined that they wouldn’t go to waste.

  I conducted a painstaking search of every drawer before turning my attention to the first of my husband’s two wardrobes. They were a matched set—centuries old, by the look of them. More like great oak cabinets with tall doors, wide enough for a person to step through. The front panels were plain, but carved above them were the same worn wolf figures I’d seen on the outside of Nosht-Vŭlk. I shivered to touch them.

  The first wardrobe yielded nothing more than a collection of my husband’s linens. Shirts, handkerchiefs, and cravats, neatly folded. My hands trembled as I slid my fingers through each stack, praying that a key might be tucked away inside. But there was no key. No sign of any hidden secrets.

  Disappointed in my search, I moved to the second cabinet with little hope of success. Opening it, I was more disappointed still to find it empty. Worse than empty. It appeared to have been unused for a very long time. There was a distinct smell of rot about the interior. It nearly caused me to immediately shut the wardrobe door. It was that repellant. But I was resolved not to be so fainthearted. Holding my breath, I ducked my head and shoulders inside of the wardrobe and had a good look around.

  I shudder to think what might have happened if I hadn’t pressed on. Had I withdrawn immediately—had I given up—I’d never have spied the strange crack in the seams of wood. Never have recognized what I recognized in that moment: the wardrobe had a false back.

  My heart beat so heavily I could scarcely hear myself think. A false door. Of course. This must be how he was departing his room each morning and returning to it each night. But where did the false door lead? I felt along the back of the wardrobe with my fingertips, pressing on the thin panel of wood in various places, until I heard a faint click. At that, the panel swung open, revealing a stone corridor and a steep stairway that led down into darkness. A waft of dank air emanated from its depths. It smelled of damp and decay. Of rotting flesh. As if an animal had crawled down below and died there.

  I was both intrigued and repelled. Mostly, I was afraid. Too afraid to venture farther. I wasn’t prepared for it. I had no candle to light my way. No weapon to defend myself. Closing the panel, I withdrew back to my bedroom to make a plan.

  24 April. — It is perhaps a peculiarity of the marital state that, upon discovering my husband was sneaking out each night via a secret passage in his bedroom, my first thought was that he must be guilty of violating his wedding vows. Did he keep a mistress in the village? Some local beauty whom he hoped to be reunited with once he’d drained me of all of my money and property?

  Where else could he be spending his days? He was up all of the night, and he must sleep sometime. No doubt it was in a woman’s bed somewhere. I wasn’t jealous. Any ire I had was solely directed at myself for having been so foolish as to marry the scoun
drel. My only hope was that the secret passage behind the wardrobe would serve for me as well as it did for him. If it led outside of Nosht-Vŭlk, I would soon be free.

  Last night, at sunset, I listened at the connecting door, straining to hear the wardrobe open and close, signifying his return. I heard nothing—not a single breath or footstep—until he emerged into the hall. From there, he came to my room to bid me good evening. He informed me he was going out again on matters of business.

  “What business could you possibly have in the middle of the night?” I asked.

  “The business of living,” he said. And with a mocking bow he swept out of my room.

  I was nettled by his reply. What in heaven was he up to? I waited a moment before lighting a candle and slipping out of my chamber to the stairs that led to the floor above. There, I found my way to the room with the barred window that looked down over the courtyard. I stood at the edge, half-hidden behind velvet curtains that stank of mildew, and watched for Edward, waiting for him to exit Nosht-Vŭlk.

  At last he emerged, coming to a stop in the courtyard. No carriage awaited him. No horse saddled and ready for riding. Where then did my husband go of an evening? Business, he said. The business of living. Perhaps that was another way of referencing his affair. A euphemism for sex, and drink, and other bodily indulgences. It seemed that his mistress did reside in the village. At least within walking distance.

  It was a cold night, the mist drifting along the edges of the courtyard. As I watched him, he took a step toward it, and then another. And here I must catalog a strange phenomenon. I hardly know how to describe it. Indeed, I can’t be sure I saw it correctly. My eyes were tired, and I was scared and hungry. Who can guess what illusions might plague a woman in this condition? Nevertheless, I feel constrained to record what I saw. It was this: Edward lifted his hands as he walked into the courtyard, and the mist seemed to swirl about him in a very specific pattern, circling around his legs and arms, enshrouding his body.

  I don’t mean to claim that my husband commanded the mist. It was something else. As if the mist were a part of him. An extension of his limbs. Of his very movement. It accompanied him across the courtyard, emanating from his person, a silvery vapor that thickened into a fog. I lost sight of him for a moment, and then, in the next instant he was gone, subsumed by the very fog he had seemed to create.

  Gazing down at the empty courtyard, a sickening anxiety swelled in my breast. For the first time, I had cause to doubt my own sanity. If I could imagine this strange vision, what else might I have imagined?

  I felt compelled to watch and wait for his return, if only to convince myself that I hadn’t been dreaming. Settling myself into a corner of the window embrasure, I rested my head against one of the iron bars. Down below, the howl of ravenous wolves rose from the woods that surrounded Nosht-Vŭlk. It wasn’t a landscape that was safe for walking. My husband may be able to navigate it somehow, but if I ever managed to escape, I would have to find a way to procure a horse and carriage.

  On this thought, I must have drifted to sleep, for when I next woke it was to the sound of wailing. A pitiful noise. The cry of a child, quickly suppressed. By this time, it was well past midnight. Those early hours before dawn when the first glimmers of light begin to threaten. I sat up straight, leaning to peer out the window. I saw no one in the courtyard to whom I might attribute the sound, certainly not a child.

  What I did see was the mist. It was there in abundance, blanketing the courtyard, and rising up along the walls of the fortress. It stretched its silvery fingers—up, up—toward my window. I drew back with a start, standing from the embrasure, and once again hiding my figure behind the mildewed curtains. But the mist remained, hovering there. I had the queerest sensation that it saw me.

  24 April, later that morning. — The strange sights I beheld during the night convinced me that I’d too long deprived myself of adequate food and sleep. I slipped down to the kitchen again before sunrise and gathered what was left of the molded bread and cheese. There was a knife there as well—a dull instrument, good only for slicing cake. But it was better than nothing. I tucked it in with my food and returned to my room. There, I ate and then slept, attempting to conserve my strength for my journey into the secret corridor.

  At sunrise, I was awakened by the sound of my husband’s key scraping in the lock. His bedroom door opened and closed. A long silence followed, during which I imagined he was creeping into the wardrobe and making his exit through its back. I bided my time.

  When another hour had passed, I dressed in my warmest traveling gown and my sturdiest pair of boots, and packed a few necessities into a leather satchel—the knife, my travel documents, and what was left of my food. If the opportunity to walk out of Nosht-Vŭlk presented itself, I intended to be ready.

  As an added ward against evil, before leaving my room, I retrieved my silver locket from my jewel case and fixed it around my neck. At my husband’s request, I hadn’t worn it since my wedding night. But now I couldn’t imagine proceeding without my parents’ portraits to guard me and give me courage.

  Lighting an oil lamp, I entered Edward’s chamber through the connecting door. It was just as I’d left it, with no sign of where he’d been during the night—or where he was now. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought he’d simply disappeared. Climbing into the wardrobe, I pressed open the false door and entered the stone corridor. The same rank scent assailed me. It seemed stronger this morning, enough that I was obliged to raise my scarf up over my nose and mouth lest I choke on the stench.

  I descended the stairway, lamp lifted to guide my steps. All was in darkness. There was no natural light at all. And the smell! It only increased as I reached the bottom—two or three flights down by my estimate. I was met by another passage—a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor with a heavy wooden door at the end of it.

  My throat tightened on a cry of frustration, for I feared I had reached the end of the road. But when I tried the door, I found it unlocked. It opened easily on well-oiled hinges—a good sign, to be sure. However, beyond it was only darkness, the fragrance of decay so pronounced that I gagged.

  I haven’t a fear of small places, thank God. If I had, I’d never have gone farther. The ceiling was low enough that I had to stoop as I walked. The stone slabs beneath my feet gave way to a dirt floor. The soil emitted a smell as foul as the smell of rot that had preceded it. Was it here that an animal had died? Somewhere in the darkness, curled up in a hidden corner?

  This thought was at the forefront of my mind when I struck something hard with the toe of my boot. I leapt back, a jolt of terror nearly rending a scream from my lips. Shining the light at my feet, I was relieved to see that it was no animal carcass. It was nothing but an old suitcase, and next to it, a damp pile of faded clothing. Indeed, as I moved my lantern over the ground, I saw that there were many similar articles. Clothing and shoes. Even a lady’s hat, the velvet ribbons long-devoured by some insect.

  It must be storage. Old clothes and luggage. The sort of thing usually found in an attic. Why on earth would it be stored here? Left to the vermin and the damp? Raising my lamp, I ventured on, rapidly losing hope that I’d find an exit from my prison. But there must be some way out. Where else would my husband go when he came this way? He didn’t remain down here in the darkness, surely. No human being would be foolish enough to do so. Not with all this stink and rot.

  I advanced a little farther, my attention again arrested by the detritus in the dirt. There was nothing frightening about the remnants in and of themselves. Nevertheless, I found the sight of them to be exceedingly unnerving. Even more so, for as my gaze drifted over a piece of luggage, I was alarmed to find that I recognized it. It was a portmanteau of green morocco leather. The very kind my maid, Agnes, had been carrying when first we arrived here.

  Crouching down, I opened it, expecting I knew not what. What I found was worse—far worse than I could hav
e imagined. The clothing within had been hastily packed. Agnes’s clothes. A pile of petticoats, crumpled dresses, and the new pair of gloves I’d given her last Christmas. And thrown atop the carelessly discarded heap: my Nock percussion pistol.

  A numbness settled in my veins. Mrs. Wren had said that Agnes had hired a calèche and departed for Varna. That she’d had enough of exotic climes. But I understood now—as, perhaps, I should have understood then—that my maid had not left Nosht-Vŭlk at all.

  25 April, morning. — Having found Agnes’s belongings, I retreated back to my bedroom, too terrified to go farther. I cursed myself for being weak and afraid. Who knew what else the underground chamber might have held? If only I’d had the courage to continue on. But nothing is served by these recriminations. I must find a way to master my fear and carry on, lest I meet the same unfortunate fate as my maid.

  At least I can congratulate myself on having the presence of mind to retrieve my still-loaded pistol. It houses only a single shot, which I’ve vowed not to waste. I’ve tucked it away in my wardrobe, along with what coin I have, my travel documents, letter of credit, and the two remaining vials of laudanum, leftover from Mr. Poole’s injury. Which leads me to wonder: was the injury he suffered on the way to Varna truly an accident? Or was it a failed attempt at getting rid of him, just as my husband and Mrs. Wren got rid of my maid?

  I would that Mr. Poole was here now. I could use his strength. But I must believe that, when their first attempt at disposing of him failed, a second attempt was made. He’s likely as dead now as Agnes. Indeed, who is to say that their bodies aren’t hidden under Nosht-Vŭlk along with the other detritus? It would explain the godawful smell of decay.

  These thoughts and worse have plagued my mind since ascending the hidden stairway and returning to my room. When Edward emerged from his own chamber at sunset, he came to me, looking as suave and unruffled as ever. One wouldn’t guess at the evil that lay beneath his elegant façade, but I sensed it now—emanating from him as surely as the mist had done.