Page 104 of John Eyre

“The rain and the mist…they’re a manifestation of some sort. A projection of his very essence. So, too, the black wolf, and the feeling that he’s there with you in your room. Even the image you saw in your shaving mirror. The stronger he is, the stronger, and more real, the projection. And he is strong, John. It’s why, even at his weakest, the mist stretches all the way to Millcote.”

John endeavored not to sound as skeptical as he felt. “And yet you were able to subdue him? To manage him the whole of the journey home?”

“We traveled by day, exposing him to the sun as much as possible. It was cruel, I know, but it kept him weak and pliable. At night we took turns sleeping, while one of us watched over him—bound in his silver manacles.” She set down her glass, leaving the remainder of her wine untouched. “From Greece, we conveyed him to England by ship. What a fearful voyage I had, with such a monster in the vessel! Mr. Poole knew only that my husband was a madman. A dangerous lunatic. He knew nothing of Edward’s true nature. But I—I knew what he might be capable of if he got free of us. I was ever on my guard.”

“Mr. Poole has no notion of what Mr. Rochester is? What you believe he is?”

“None whatsoever. Nor has Mr. Carter, or any of my servants. Before you, the only one to whom I ever told the truth was Blanche Ingram.”

A sinister chill traced down the back of John’s neck. “Did Mr. Rochester kill her?”

Tears glistened in Bertha’s eyes. She blinked them away. “Yes.”

“But…how? You’re not saying he got free of you?”

She shook her head. “Blanche came the day I arrived home. I told her all. She was doubtful but wouldn’t outright call me a liar. She said she must think on it, and that we would talk again. But I knew when she rode away that she wouldn’t come to any conclusions in my favor. She hadn’t seen the things I’d seen. Couldn’t bring herself to believe me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was my own fault for confiding in her. I put everyone at risk, her most of all. She came back the next day, unannounced. I was engaged with the boys, and Mr. Poole had stepped away from the third-floor room for a moment. I’d told Blanche where my husband was kept. She crept upstairs to speak with him. I presume she wanted to hear his side of the story.

“It was the space of minutes. Less, probably. He must have beckoned her inside. Convinced her to try to release him. It was enough time for him to snap her neck and tear out her throat. He was starving, you see. Insensible with want. We were able to get to her before he drained her dry, but not soon enough to save her.”

John’s stomach roiled. “Good lord.”

“Yes, it wasn’t very pleasant. That night Mr. Poole took her body from the house and left it on the road to Millcote. Later, I released her horse to run home on its own. Everyone believes she broke her neck in a riding accident. But Mr. Poole and I know—and now you know—that my husband was to blame.”

He looked at her in dismay. “How could you bear it? She was your dearest friend.”

“How could I bear anything? One does what one must. Besides, I hadn’t time to grieve. There was much to be done to make Edward secure. Mr. Poole fashioned stronger silver chains and manacles at his forge. And I had workmen out straightaway to replace the door to my husband’s cell with one of ash wood reinforced with silver.”

“Why ash?”

“Folklore and legends.” She toyed with her locket. “I’ve been learning these many months, writing letters and traveling everywhere I could, trying to find answers. It hasn’t been easy. There were peasants along the way from Varna, and later, gentlemen at universities and museums who have tried to help me in the abstract. Have told me stories of men cursed to walk in darkness. Men who must drink the blood of humans in order to maintain their vigor.”

“Vampyres.”

“Yes, very like. I must assume my husband is one of them. But not the kind from folklore and legend. Not entirely. He’s not immune to troubles. Indeed, most of his problems are very human. At the time I met him, he was suffering pecuniary difficulties—a result of spending too much on his collection of antiquities. And he had no way to recoup his losses. The abolition of slavery impacted the income generated from his sugar plantations in the West Indies. And the wars with Russia made his homeland unstable. He needed to get out. A wealthy English wife was just what he required.”

“In your journal, you mention a book at the British Museum. Something he claims to have been searching for all of his life.”

“The Book of Going Forth By Day.”

John blinked. “Is that what it’s called?”

“It’s an Egyptian funerary text. The Book of the Dead, some call it.” She grimaced. “Yes, I found it. Mr. Birch, the gentleman from the antiquities department at the museum, has been translating it for me. It contains spells and so forth. Incantations that will allow the dead to walk among the living. To endure the sunlight. My husband seems to think one of them might heal him of his affliction.”

“What do you think?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. I’m not searching for ways to render him more human. I’ve been searching for answers to the opposite question.”

John went still. “You’re trying to find a way to kill him.”

“You needn’t look so appalled. No such method exists. No spells or incantations. No magic potions. Edward Rochester will outlive us all. God only knows how old he already is. One hundred years? Two hundred? Such a creature cannot be killed.”

“You can’t know that.”

“But I do. The sun hasn’t managed to put an end to him, nor has the silver. My last hope was in an old book kept at a monastery in Argeș. But even that proved disappointing.”