Page 108 of John Eyre

From his bed, Stephen made a sound of protest.

“Very well, we’ll turn it down, but not off.” John lowered the wick until the flame was reduced to a tiny glow. “How’s that?”

Stephen and Peter were silent.

John supposed that was answer enough. Lying down on his pallet between their two narrow beds, he rested his head on his arm. He was still in his trousers and shirt. It was a concession to Sophie being abed in the connecting room. He daren’t offend her sensibilities.

An odd consideration given the reality of the situation.

His thoughts were consumed by that reality. By everything that Bertha had told him. So much so that it seemed he would never find any rest. Sleep was, indeed, elusive, but it came eventually—though not a deep sleep. He drifted in and out of it for several hours, tossing and turning on his pillow.

Sometime after midnight, he was vaguely conscious of the creak of bedsprings, and the light tread of footsteps on the carpeted floor. There was a clink and a scratch somewhere near the fireplace. And then the sound of the nursery door opening and closing again.

John sat up, at once wide awake. The light of the oil lamp still glowed faintly from the bedside table. He turned up the wick and the glow brightened to illuminate the room.

His eyes went first to Peter’s bed. His small form was outlined there beneath the blankets. John then looked to Stephen’s bed. It was empty.

Stephen was gone.

John leaped up and quickly tugged on his boots. He caught hold of the lamp by the handle and raised it high, giving a cursory look around the room as he strode to the door.

There was no sign of Stephen hiding anywhere. No sign of anything. And yet John had the distinct sense that there was something else he should have noticed. Something important.

As he exited the room, his gaze moved swiftly over the nursery one last time, only to land on the mantelpiece with a gut-wrenching jolt. Realization struck him like a thunderbolt.

Good God.

Stephen had taken the tinderbox.

It took no more than a few minutes to rouse Sophie and Peter and urge them to get dressed, but they were crucial minutes. Advancing into the hall, John caught the acrid scent of smoke.

Bertha’s bedroom door opened. She came out to join him, still tying the belt of her chintz dressing gown. “What’s going on?”

“A fire. And a real one this time.” He quickly relayed the particulars. “Dress and wake the others. Get everyone out of the house.”

“Can’t it be put out?”

“I don’t know. I’ll try. But I want you safe.” He bent his head and kissed her, hard and brief, before striding away down the hall.

“Where are you going?”

“To the third floor. To find Stephen.” John took the stairs two at a time. Smoke billowed through the corridor, accompanied by the crackling of flame. It was coming from one of the storage rooms next to the room where Mr. Rochester was held. The old furnishings within had provided ready kindling. Stephen appeared to have set their holland covers alight.

John shielded his nose with his arm. “Stephen?” he called. “Stephen, where are you?”

The door to the tapestried room opened. Mr. Poole stepped outside, looking about in confusion. “Sir? What the devil—”

“It’s a fire, Mr. Poole!” John shouted. “Get out of there!”

Mr. Poole appeared to hear him—to register the smoke and the flames—but he didn’t flee. Instead, leaving the door open behind him, he ducked back into the room.

The blasted fool.

John hadn’t a moment to spare for the man’s idiocy. Making his way through the smoke, he continued calling for Stephen. And he prayed—prayed like he hadn’t done since before Helen had died. Since before he’d lost his faith. He prayed that Stephen would be all right. That he was safe somewhere, clear of the flames.

God, please protect him.

But prayers didn’t exist in isolation. They must be accompanied by intent. By action. He sprinted up the stairs to the attic. He even climbed the ladder that led to the trap door. “Stephen!”