John Eyre

by Mimi Matthews

  “Is that true, Mr. Eyre?” Mr. Taylor asked. “You had no knowledge that Mrs. Rochester had a husband now living?”

  John’s mouth was dry. He shook his head. “No. I didn’t.”

  At last Bertha released his hand. “Mr. Eyre is innocent in all of this. I deliberately kept it from him, and my servants were instructed not to let him into their confidence on the matter.”

  John flexed his fingers. He felt like a boat, untethered from its moorings. She was letting him go. Releasing him from his commitment to her. He wasn’t certain he wanted to be released. Not until he understood the full picture.

  But events moved quickly.

  “Bigamy is a grave sin, madam,” Mr. Taylor said. “That you would contemplate such a course—”

  “Can you blame me?” Bertha’s gaze came to rest on John’s face. “Look at this gentleman. Handsome, honest, and kind. A good man who loved me well and could have made me happy. And now look at my husband—if you can see him in the darkness. Look at the unnatural creature I am tied to for the remainder of my life.”

  “You are his legal wife,” Mr. Briggs said.

  “Wedding vows are not to be taken lightly,” Mr. Taylor agreed. “They cannot be cast aside when adversity strikes.”

  “No?” Bertha cast Mr. Taylor an unreadable look. “Not even if one’s husband is a brute? A monster?”

  “Marriage can be difficult, I’m aware,” Mr. Taylor said. “But as his wife, you are obligated by God to stand by him.”

  “If that be the case, then let me exercise a wife’s control over this lunatic. Leave him with me, not with a sister who has no knowledge of how to manage him. And not in an asylum where he would be neglected and abused. Leave him here, and permit me to continue to care for him in the manner I see fit.”

  “You don’t understand.” Mrs. Wren was becoming frantic. “It isn’t what it seems. She’s twisted the truth to suit her purpose. Her fortune belongs to my brother, and he must be set free—”

  “Let us depart, madam.” Mr. Briggs took her arm. “We can discuss the possibility of any further legal action on the return journey. Nothing more can be done today.”

  Mrs. Wren shrugged free of him. “I would stay a moment longer.”

  “As you wish.” Mr. Briggs turned to go. “Mr. Taylor?”

  “We will speak again on this subject, Mrs. Rochester,” Mr. Taylor said as he departed with the solicitor.

  “Bolt the door, Mr. Poole,” Bertha commanded. Mr. Poole hastened to obey her. “Mr. Fairfax? You may show the gentlemen out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The elderly butler followed after the two men. “This way, sirs.”

  The moment they were gone, Mrs. Wren turned on Bertha with trembling anger. “You!”

  Bertha faced her. “Have you something you wish to say to me?”

  “You treacherous witch. All your talk of laws. Of treating Edward gently. But you and I both know the truth of it. What you’ve done is disgraceful. It’s outside the laws of man.”

  “But I’m not a man, Felda. I am a woman, and your brother—if that’s who he is—was very foolish to meddle with me. Did you truly expect I’d go quietly? That I’d simply disappear and leave the pair of you to my money and property? Well”—Bertha’s expression was implacable— “you know better now.”

  Mrs. Wren backed up. “I believe you are insane.”

  “Believe what you will,” Bertha said. “But know this: if you ever set foot in this house again, I will show you no mercy. I will deal with you exactly as I dealt with him.” She loomed over Mrs. Wren, as righteous and beautiful as an avenging angel. “Now run back to London with your solicitor before I really lose my temper.”

  At that, Mrs. Wren spun on her heel and fled the room.

  John withdrew from the tapestried room in a fog. Bertha made no effort to detain him. He simply drifted away as she exchanged words with Mr. Poole. Something relating to Mr. Rochester’s care.

  Mr. Rochester.

  The full horror of it hadn’t sunk in yet. Indeed, as John retreated to his bedchamber, locking the door behind him, he felt a sense of preternatural calm settle over him. He sank down into a chair and rested his head in his hands. His forehead was warm to the touch. Perhaps he had a fever? Or some other encroaching malady?

  It was impossible to tell what was wrong with him. A broken heart? A fractured soul? He was overheated and yet odd chills racked his frame. It was the shock of it, surely. The painful sharpness of the loss of her. Of happiness, so nearly his, only to be snatched from his grasp at the final moment.

  In time, he rose and stripped off his new frock coat, waistcoat, and cravat. He changed into the plain clothing he’d worn when he’d first arrived at Thornfield. The humble garb of a village schoolmaster. Like it or not, he must accept that his time in the sun was over. There would be no more thoughts of love and romance. No more possibility of marriage. Of family.

  He’d have to visit the boys’ nursery soon, if only to temporarily reassure them. And after that…

  Good God, what was he to do?

  One thing was certain: he must leave Thornfield Hall. His love for the boys—his love for her—notwithstanding, he could no longer remain. Not after having come so close to marrying her. Not after learning that her husband still lived.

  She’d lied to him from the beginning. Had led him to believe—

  But no. He wouldn’t think poorly of her. Not when she’d found herself wed to such a man. A violent lunatic with a thirst for human blood.

  John shuddered to think of it. Of Mr. Rochester hiding in the shadows of that small room behind the tapestry. Of the sound of his voice, beckoning and threatening by turns.

  Knowledge of his presence in the house cast the events of the previous months in a new light. The sounds John had heard—the laughter, the rattle of chains, and scratch of fingers.

  And worse.

  Had Mr. Rochester been responsible for setting Bertha’s room alight? He must have been, for John knew now that Mr. Poole was no villain.

  What else had Mr. Rochester been responsible for? How often had he escaped from his prison to wreak havoc among the household? It was a miracle that no one had been killed.

  John sat back down in front of the cold hearth, letting his aching head rest against the back of his chair. He needed to think, but he was too weary in spirit to do more than accept that he must leave this place. After a long while spent staring into the empty fireplace, he closed his eyes.

  And he must have drifted off, for when next he opened them, the clock on the mantel was striking two o’clock.

  No one had come for him. Not Mr. Fairfax with a cup of tea or a tray for John’s luncheon. Not Bertha. She hadn’t followed after him. Hadn’t stopped at the door to enquire if he was all right.

  In the space of so many hours, he’d become a secondary concern to her. Or, very probably, no concern at all. He’d been right to feel that she’d let him go. The moment she’d released his hand—a hand she’d clutched like a lifeline all the way from the church to the room on the third floor—their romance had ended. Their friendship, too, by the look of it.

  Rising, he went to the door and unbolted it. He’d make himself a cup of tea and some toast, and then he’d go to the boys and offer some form of explanation. It wasn’t ideal. But what choice did he have?

  He opened the door and passed through it, only to stop short. His heart leapt in his chest.

  Bertha was there.

  She was seated in a chair in the hall, a small leather-bound book on her lap. At the sight of him, she stood. “At last. I feared you would stay inside until nightfall.”

  He swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m waiting for you.” She surveyed him with a frown. “Why did you not remain in the room with me upstairs? Shout at me or demand some kind of explan
ation?”

  “I’ve had my explanation. You told Mr. Taylor and Mr. Briggs about your marriage to Mr. Rochester. About his madness. And I understand.”

  “Then why—” She broke off, her gaze dropping to his clothing. “I see. You’ve already made up your mind.” Her mouth trembled. “You’re leaving me.”

  He wanted desperately to reach out to her. To offer her some form of reassurance. But there was nothing he could do to make this any easier for her, or for himself. “You must see that I can’t stay here. Not after what we’ve been to each other.”

  “You speak in the past tense.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t know the whole of it…” She came closer to him. “What I told those gentlemen about my husband…it wasn’t the truth.”

  John’s brows snapped together. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Not entirely the truth. Just a version of it. One they were most likely to believe. The real truth is here.” She held the small book out to him. “Take it.”

  He reluctantly obliged her. “What is it?”

  “It’s the journal I kept during my imprisonment.”

  John stilled. “Your what?”

  “In the months after my marriage, my husband made me his prisoner. He rid me of all of my servants. Soon, all of his were gone as well. It was only the two of us alone inside his fortress on the cliffs overlooking the Black Sea—he in his madness, and I in my captivity.” She pressed his fingers closed over the book. “It’s all there, John—to a point. The unvarnished truth. Will you read it?”

  “Bertha…” He shook his head. “It won’t change anything.”

  “Please. If you ever loved me—”

  “I still love you.”

  Her face spasmed with emotion. She visibly brought herself under control. “Then read it,” she said. “And when you’ve done, come and find me.”

  The branch of candles in John’s bedroom guttered as he read the final lines of Bertha’s journal for a second, and then a third time.

  There was a door in the floor. A simple square with a bolt set into it.

  The description conjured an image in his mind. A long-ago charcoal sketch that had made little sense to him. A sketch that had upset Bertha so much that she’d thrown it into the fire.

  Unfastening the latch, I lifted open the door.

  There, the journal entry ended with a blotch of smeared black ink. As if Bertha had been interrupted before she could finish. The truth to a point, she’d said. It wasn’t enough truth for John’s taste. He was beginning to suspect what had happened next, but he needed to know for certain.

  Taking hold of the branch of candles, he exited his bedchamber and made his way to the drawing room. It was ablaze with light—a multitude of candles and lanterns holding back the encroaching darkness of evening.

  Bertha was seated on the settee. She’d changed back into her widow’s black. Her countenance was solemn, her eyes faraway as she gazed into the embers of a dying fire.

  It reminded him of the first evening she’d called him to join her there. The way she’d looked—so queenly and remote. So utterly invulnerable.

  “Was it the boys?” he asked.

  Her gaze lifted to his. “You’ve finished reading?”

  “I have.” He placed the branch of candles on a table by the door before coming to sit down across from her. “Was it?”

  “Yes.” Her bosom rose and fell on a deep breath. “When I opened the door in the floor, I found them there, half-drained of blood. Village orphans, I assume. Romani children, not from Senniskali, but from somewhere else. They were weak and frightened. Scared to muteness. I still don’t know how long they’d been down there.”

  “You’d heard a child’s cry some days before.”

  She gave a terse nod. “I suspect it was one of them, but it may have been a different child. One I was unable to save.”

  “Earlier, in the hall, the boys seemed to recognize Mrs. Wren.”

  “I daresay they did. She was gone from the fortress during the time I found them, but I assume they knew who she was, just as the rest of those in the region did. She was recognizable, if not by her face then by the ruby ring on her finger.” Bertha’s thumb stroked the base of her own third finger, absent any wedding band. “She isn’t his sister, you know. He’s far too old to have a sibling still living. I’d be amazed if the two of them were related at all.”

  “Then who—”

  “She’s his creature. His procurer. He requires a loyal servant to do his bidding by day. Someone to assure his safety while he sleeps, especially when he’s traveling as he was when I met him in Egypt.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “How can I? You ended the journal so abruptly.”

  “Yes, well…there wasn’t a great deal of time to write after that. I had much to do in order to save us all, and not many hours of daylight in which to do it.”

  “Will you tell me the rest?”

  “I don’t know.” A weary sadness glimmered in her eyes. “Is there a chance you’ll believe me?”

  John’s heart clenched. She’d asked him something similar once. A hypothetical question posed in the arbor, in the stormy, early morning hours after a wounded Mrs. Wren had been sent off with Mr. Carter. “Did you tell Blanche Ingram?”

  “I did.”

  “And she didn’t believe you?”

  “No. She did not.” Bertha’s mouth curved in a bitter smile. “More’s the pity.”

  “I’m not Miss Ingram,” he said.

  “No. But your reaction will be the same. You’ll think me insane. Either that or a fantasist. Some soft-headed fool obsessed with otherworldly claptrap.”

  He gave a humorless laugh. “Good lord, Bertha. Do you have any notion of the things I’ve seen since I’ve come to Thornfield? That I’ve imagined I’ve seen?”

  Her eyes met his. “Such as?”

  “The wolf you describe in your journal. I encountered him once myself on the road to Hay. It was the day you fell from your horse.”

  She frowned. “The wild dog you mentioned?”

  “I wasn’t likely to admit to having seen a wolf, was I?”

  “But you did see one?”

  “As plain as day. A great black creature, with glistening fangs. He was coming through the mist. And that’s not all I’ve seen.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “Go on.”

  John told her about the night he’d arrived at Thornfield, seeing Helen standing at the crossroads with her hand raised in warning. He told her about the sounds he’d heard—the fingers scraping on the panels of his box bed, and the rattle of chains from the floors above. He even told her about those bleak sleepless nights in the weeks after his arrival when his guilt had conjured Helen’s image, kneeling at the foot of his bed in silent accusation.

  “And you know about the face I saw in my shaving mirror,” he said. “I didn’t imagine it.”

  “No. I don’t suppose you did.” Her brow furrowed. “I’ve seen strange things myself. Though nothing too terrifying since I’ve come home to Yorkshire. He’s too afraid of me to toy with me overmuch. After what I did to him in Bulgaria—”

  “What did you do?” John asked. “What happened after you found the boys?”

  She stood abruptly and walked to a nearby table. A tray reposed upon it, containing a decanter of wine and several cut-crystal glasses. She poured herself a measure and took a long drink. “It smelled of death, that chamber where he kept them. Just like the lair where he slept. I believe there may have been bodies there, too. Other victims. Other children.”

  John’s stomach tightened. “In there with Stephen and Peter?”

  “Yes.” She lowered her glass. “They didn’t want to come to me. I had to coax them out one by one, with whispered words and
empty promises. How they clung to me, then! It broke my heart. But I hadn’t the luxury of tears. I had to be strong for them, and for myself.” She took another drink. “At sunrise, I emerged from the vault, knowing that I took my very life in my hands, and theirs along with it. If Edward had been awake—if he’d dared to brave the sunlight to capture me—I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance. He was too strong.”

  “But he wasn’t there,” John said.

  She shook her head. “I took the boys to my room. They were so weak after climbing the stairs, I had to let them lie down upon my bed. While they rested, I went to the chamber with the window overlooking the courtyard and waited for Mr. Poole.”

  “In your journal, you said you’d given him coin the previous day and sent him on an errand.”

  “I had. I sent him to buy a horse at the twice-monthly market outside the village—two horses if he could find them—and to procure as much rope as he could. And he did, God bless him. He came back midmorning in a cart pulled by two enormous Bulgarian drafts. He used them, along with the rope, to tear the front door of Nosht-Vŭlk straight off its hinges.” She stared into her empty wineglass, her expression meditative. “That’s when the real difficulty began.”

  “Tell me,” he urged her. “Please.”

  “I went back through the wardrobe and down the secret stair. But first I retrieved the two phials of laudanum from my room. I gave a few drops each to the boys and Mr. Poole, then took a few drops myself.”

  John recalled the patent medicine the boys had been taking. How angry Bertha had been when she learned John had put a stop to it. And what of her reaction to his own laudanum use? She’d been relieved to hear of it. As if the knowledge of it had assured her of him somehow. “Did you believe it would repel him?”

  “It had seemed to work before. What did I know but that it might work again? After dosing everyone, I collected some rope and a lantern—and Mr. Poole, of course. He was obliged to accompany me, poor devil. He despises small spaces. And there was a chance it would all be for nothing. That we’d find my husband’s lair empty. But he was there, much to my astonishment. Asleep, just as he’d been when last I dared enter. He hadn’t taken any precautions at all. Hadn’t been afraid in the least.” She refilled her glass. “It was his fatal mistake, underestimating me.”