Page 25 of John Eyre

“That’s all well and good, but what about the rest of it? I arrived expecting to tutor two lads who could speak and understand English. Not two sickly boys, effectively mute, who cringed away from me every time I moved in their direction.”

Her lips compressed. “You find yourself not up to the task? Well, then, perhaps it’s best if you—”

“I didn’t say that. I only meant that I’ve been working at a disadvantage since I got here. Fumbling around in the dark. Trying to learn things on my own that could have more easily been conveyed to me in a letter or a—”

“Were there so many replies to your advertisement?” she asked. “Another post you could have taken that would have been more agreeable to you?”

John’s temper sputtered out, her question extinguishing it as effectively as water on a coal fire. He couldn’t bring himself to lie to her. “No. There wasn’t.”

“Then I can’t see what difference it makes.”

“It makes all the difference in the world if you’re going to dismiss me.”

“You want full credit for what you’ve accomplished, is that it? All that you’ve achieved at the expense of my rules? You have it, sir. But in future—if you’re to have a future here—you must abide by those rules. Do you feel yourself capable of doing so? Or must you and I part ways?”

“That depends. Do your rules include forcing that patent medicine down the boys’ throats?”

Her face hardened. She didn’t reply.

It was answer enough.

John stood abruptly. There was no more reason to remain. If he must go, then go he would—and without subjecting himself to any more of her barbed remarks. “In that case,” he said gravely, “I will bid you good day, ma’am.”

With a stiff nod, he turned to leave. In that same instant, the winter sun blinked through the clouds, its rays shining into his eyes.

Mrs. Rochester was on her feet in a flash. “Stop,” she commanded. “Don’t move.”

He was startled enough by her tone to obey her.

She came to stand in front of him, her skirts pressed against his legs. Reaching up, she brought her hand to cup his cheek.

And John may as well have been turned to stone.

His breath stopped in his chest, even as his pulse throbbed at her touch. Her hand was warm and soft, the feminine curve of her palm an intimate brand on his skin. But this was no caress. This was physical restraint. She held him still, forcing him to look at her as her eyes bored into his.

“Are you an opium taker?” she demanded.

His heart slammed against his ribs. “What?”

“I believe you heard the question.” Her fingers tightened on his cheek. “Are you an opium taker?”

His mouth went dry. “Mrs. Rochester—”

“Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your eyes. The way your pupils react to the sunlight. Damn me that I didn’t notice it before.”

“It’s not what you think.”

All at once, she let him go. He staggered back a step, his heart racing. She scarcely seemed to notice him. Turning away, she paced to the stone bench and back again, hands clenched at her sides. He thought he heard her say something to herself—muffled words whispered under her breath.

“I have a legitimate use for it,” he said lamely. “The drug—the laudanum—it was given to me by a doctor. A remedy for headaches. It’s had no effect on the performance of my duties.”

She didn’t reply, merely continued pacing, a deep line of worry etching itself across her brow. “How long?” she asked at last.

How long had he been using it? John cast his mind back to his first appointment with the village doctor in Lowton. His headaches had commenced not long after arriving to teach at the school. Not long after meeting Helen. “Just over a year.”

She folded her arms. “Then you were taking it before you came here. Before you ever knew of this place.”

“Only when needed to combat my headaches. I’ve never abused the drug.” It wasn’t entirely true. His laudanum usage had increased fivefold after Helen’s death. It was only lately that he’d been able to successfully reduce his dosage. And even now, there were nights when he struggled to restrict himself to one teaspoon.