Page 23 of John Eyre

He leaned forward in his seat to get a better view. “I was wondering that myself. Stephen sketched it the first day I provided him with paper and pencils.”

Mrs. Rochester stared down at the drawing, an expression in her eyes that was hard to read. “Did he.”

“It’s a subject of his own devising. Something he imagined. Or perhaps that he’s seen before. A window, I thought. Do you recognize it, ma’am?”

“No. Of course not.” Her face had gone pale in the firelight. “It’s nothing. A child’s nightmare. You shouldn’t indulge them in sketching such grim scenes.” And then, before John could discern her intention, she crumpled the drawing in her fist and tossed it into the fireplace. It immediately caught flame.

“Wait!” He lunged to retrieve it. “You shouldn’t have—”

She turned on him in a fury. “How dare you?” Her voice was low and fierce, sending him back into his seat as Stephen’s drawing burned to cinders. “You know nothing of those boys, and nothing of my reasons for keeping them the way I do. You think to dictate to me? To override my decisions as if I were some silly woman with no notion of what I’m about?”

He drew back at the heat of her words. Confused. Speechless. He’d been scolded by employers before—shouted at and reprimanded. And he’d borne it, always. There was little choice when one was in a subordinate position. But this time—this time—his temper rose within him at the injustice of her anger. Hadn’t he helped the boys? Hadn’t he made progress?

It was all he could do to respond in a civilized manner.

“When I arrived here,” he said, “the children were in a terrible state.”

“The children were being looked after! According to my orders. And here I find out that you’ve countermanded those orders. That you’ve—”

“Their tonic—”

“Yes, yes. So I understand. You think it useless. A patent medicine bought by witless fools to treat imaginary ailments. Tell me, sir, do I look like a fool?”

He answered grudgingly. “No, ma’am.”

“No, indeed. There are rules in this house, laid down for the protection of those children, and for everyone else hereabouts. I owe you no explanation for anything. Even less, for after meeting you this evening, I’m hard-pressed to decide whether I wish you to remain here.” At that, she closed his portfolio and thrust it back at him.

He took it from her, his heart racing. Good lord. Had he just been given the sack? He looked at Mrs. Rochester. She was, once again, half reclined on her sofa, her expression drawn inward. She appeared to have already mentally dismissed him.

“I’m sorry if I’ve given offense,” he said. “It wasn’t my—”

“That will be all, Mr. Eyre. I grow weary.”

“Yes, ma’am. But if you would—”

“Enough.” She waved him away.

There was nothing John could do but withdraw. Relinquishing his seat, he walked stiffly to the door and opened it. He’d no sooner done so than Mrs. Rochester spoke again, her words echoing at his back as he exited the room.

“We shall revisit the subject of your employment tomorrow,” she said. “You may depend upon it.”

After a restless night, John rose at dawn resolved to face the consequences of his actions. If he lost his position, so be it. He’d done what was right—what he still believed was right. The boys were visible proof of that.

He felt a twinge of regret at the prospect of leaving them. Or perhaps more than a twinge. His emotions had been half dead when he came to Thornfield, but working with Stephen and Peter had gone a long way toward resurrecting them. His life was beginning to have meaning again. A purpose. And now, to have it all jerked away from him… It hardly seemed fair.

It wasn’t fair.

But such was the fate of a man in his position, existing at the whims of his betters. Which was precisely why he shouldn’t have permitted himself to become attached.

Descending the stairs to the hall, he let himself out through a side door and crossed the frost-covered lawn to the adjacent meadow where the thorn trees clustered. He often walked there in the early hours before breakfast. It gave him a chance to clear his head. To rid himself of the lingering effects of the laudanum he’d inevitably taken the night before.

Only a teaspoonful last evening. A brimming one. Enough to dull the pain, and to ease him into sleep.

Head bent, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he strode through the meadow and into the trees. A crumbling stone bench stood within the canopy of branches. He liked to sit there of a morning. To mentally prepare himself for the day ahead.

Today would require more preparation than usual. With Mrs. Rochester in residence, he had no notion how best to proceed. He didn’t even know if he’d have a job by this time tomorrow.

“Good morning, Mr. Eyre.”