Page 26 of John Eyre

“But you’re still taking it?” She searched his face. “How often?”

John’s pulse pounded in his ears.

“How often?”

“Daily,” he admitted.

She exhaled a harsh breath. And then she turned her back on him again and walked to the bench.

His muscles trembled with the effort it took to remain calm. For God’s sake, he had no substantial savings. Nowhere he could possibly go. And if word got out that he was an opium taker, as Mrs. Rochester had so damningly put it, he’d be ruined. No one would ever hire him again. And then what? The workhouse? Death from exposure? Starvation?

He swallowed hard. “You’ll wish me gone today, of course. Understandably so. But I would beg an hour or two to pack my things, and permission to say goodbye to the boys. I shouldn’t like them to think that I abandoned them.”

“What’s that?” Her gaze jerked briefly to his. “No. No, indeed, Mr. Eyre. You’re not going anywhere today. And as for tomorrow… Well.” She bent her head. “An opium taker. This changes the complexion of things.”

He couldn’t tell if she was talking to him or to herself. Her words made no sense at all. “Do you mean that you wish me to stay?”

She shot him another distracted glance. “For the time being, yes.”

“But what about our disagreements? The boys’ tonic, and the—”

“I can give you no definitive answers. Not now. I need time to think.” She waved him away. “Trust that we’ll revisit the subject later. Until then, you may resume your duties.”

He stood there a moment longer, watching her restless perambulations. And then, like a prisoner with a last-minute reprieve from the hangman’s noose, he swiftly quit her presence.

For the next several days, John saw nothing of Mrs. Rochester. Mr. Fairfax claimed she was busy tending to estate business, but John never once encountered her as he walked over the grounds. Even those clear afternoons when he ventured up to the battlements with his sketchpad provided no view of Thornfield’s elusive mistress. It was as if she’d simply disappeared.

At the end of the fourth day, John withdrew to his bedroom in a miserable state. Mrs. Rochester’s absence was anything but reassuring. He’d begun to anticipate her reappearance—and his inevitable dismissal—with a greater and greater sense of foreboding.

It was affecting his nights as well as his days.

In such cases, he would have typically found peace in a phial of laudanum, but his ill-fated encounter with Mrs. Rochester had alarmed him. He hadn’t understood her at all. Didn’t know why it was she’d consented to keep him on, even if only for a little while. All he knew was that her words had shaken the very foundations of his self-respect.

Are you an opium taker?

The harsh question had replayed itself over and over again in his mind as he tutored Stephen and Peter, and in the evenings as he dined with Mr. Fairfax. It had followed him on all of his walks and rambles, haunting his footsteps like an accusing specter.

Are you an opium taker?

John had begun to wonder if anyone else in the household had ever suspected him of using laudanum. If they’d ever, like Mrs. Rochester, espied the signs of drug use in his eyes or on his face.

The very idea was enough to make him sick to his stomach—and to spur him into action.

Retiring to bed on that first evening, he’d foregone his usual dose of laudanum. And then again, each evening thereafter.

But tonight…

Tonight, his head was throbbing. Worse than that, he’d been in a cold sweat for most of the day, droplets of perspiration clinging to his brow as he’d helped the boys with their watercolors, and as he’d shared an after-dinner cup of tea with Mr. Fairfax.

Stripping off his coat and cravat, John went to the wash basin in the corner of his bedroom and filled it from the pitcher. He shrugged out of his waistcoat and tugged his linen shirt off over his head. Bare to the waist, he plunged his head into the ice-cold water.

Before the village doctor had prescribed laudanum for John’s headaches, cold water baths and compresses had been his only line of defense against the pain.

Lifting his head from the basin, he dried his face and hair with a scrap of rough toweling. The cold water wasn’t as effective as it once had been, but it provided a little relief. It would have to be enough.

By the time he finished readying for bed, the fire had died in the grate. Two half-melted tallow candles standing on a low chest near the door were the only source of light. John extinguished one of them and retrieved the other to guide his way across the room.

Shadows danced on the walls of the box bed as he approached. Time had passed when the claustrophobic contraption had caused him apprehension. But as the winter progressed, he’d begun to feel a measure of gratitude for the bed. It kept him snug and warm when the wind was whistling down the chimney.