Page 17 of John Eyre

The horse was nearby, idly cropping a tuft of weeds. Approaching slowly, John caught the hanging leather reins and used them to lead the horse to its mistress. The creature didn’t go quietly. It was a spirited beast, tossing its head and stamping its hooves.

“Calm down, you great idiot,” the lady commanded. She looked at John. “I must impose on you again.”

“I’m at your service.”

“Can you manage to lift me up into the saddle? Or would such familiarity put you to the blush?”

John refrained from pointing out that though he may look the part of an ascetic, he most certainly wasn’t one. “I believe I’m up to the task.”

“Excellent.” She reached out to him with an imperious hand.

He took it without hesitation. Gloved in fine black leather, it fit rather well in his own. He helped her to her feet. She released him almost at once in order to gather her horse’s reins.

John came to stand behind her. “Forgive me,” he said as his hands closed about her waist. She was right up against him, soft tendrils of her hair brushing his cheek. So close he could smell the elusive fragrance of her perfume. Some heady combination of sandalwood, vanilla, and spices.

Heat rose up his neck. It had been a very long while since he’d taken a woman in his arms. And this lady was no Helen Burns. No clinging vine of femininity. She was vibrant and alive. A veritable force of charismatic energy. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, but be quick about it before he takes it into his head to bolt again.”

John lifted her easily and tossed her up into her sidesaddle.

She landed with practiced skill, at once taking charge of her mount, even as she found her stirrup and swiftly arranged the skirts of her fashionable black habit. “You’re very strong,” she said. “You will need to be.”

With that enigmatic statement, the lady kicked her horse into a canter and was gone.

John stood at the top of the lane, watching as she disappeared into the mist.

Letters from Miss Bertha Mason to Miss Blanche Ingram.

Hôtel d’Angleterre

Athens, Greece

Thursday, 11 August 1842

My Dear Blanche, —

Thank you for your sweet letter! I was delighted to hear about the arrival of a new vicar in Hay, and doubly glad to hear that he’s so very amiable. You must tell me more about this promising gentleman at your earliest convenience. Not that I have any right to press you to write more often. I daresay you’ve long since given up on receiving timely reports of my own adventures. But I have an excuse, dearest, for you see, I have spent the past weeks on a ship traveling to Athens.

Yes, I’ve at last given up Egypt. The sweltering temperatures were simply too much to bear, and when Mrs. Wren and her brother invited me to accompany them to Greece, I fairly jumped at the chance. The three of us have become fast friends, and have been spending ever so much time in each other’s company.

You will be pleased to hear that Mr. Rochester is every bit as charming and agreeable as his sister. Like her, his English is, for the most part, excellent (albeit with a strange intonation), and he has a command of many other languages as well. He’s never been to England as yet, but he often speaks of his desire to return to the “land of his father’s ancestors,” as he calls it.

How else to describe him? Words seem wholly inadequate. He’s neither a dandy, nor a scholar. Not a young man, nor one of middle age. He is, in fact, rather a riddle to me, though I have been traveling with him these many weeks.

I daresay my confusion owes more to my own reaction to him than to any objective fact. And yes—in answer to your question—he’s tall and handsome and all that sort of thing. But the same might be said for dozens of men, and none of their kind has ever captivated me to such a degree before. I suppose it’s that Mr. Rochester has taken such an interest in me. He solicits my opinions on a range of topics and has even heeded my advice on occasion.

And you’re not to think it’s because of my fortune, for Mr. Rochester has a fortune in his own right. He owns property in the West Indies, as well as in Europe, from which he derives a sizable income. It is enough to fund his various pursuits—one of which, I’ve lately discovered, was the dig I visited in Thebes. Mr. Rochester has a particular passion for antiquities, and not only of the Egyptian variety. He’s collected ancient artifacts from all over the world and keeps them in a special vault at his estate.

As to Greece, there isn’t much I can say. I imagined ancient wonders, honey-covered sweets, and warm waters of sapphire blue, but the heat has played havoc with Mr. Rochester’s health. To accommodate him, Mrs. Wren and I restrict our outings to the evening, just as we did in Cairo. We’re up all hours of the night, talking and dining and wandering about the city. As a result, I sleep through much of the day. Agnes and Mr. Poole do not approve. But you know how very unromantic British servants can be. They love nothing more than tradition and routine. Anything that diverges from such is looked on with the gravest suspicion.

I shall have more time to write in the coming days. We plan to remain in Greece for the month. Mrs. Wren is looking into taking a villa. It will be more comfortable than staying at a hotel.

Goodbye for now, my dear. I promise to write again before the month is out.

I remain, your always loving,

Bertha