Page 32 of John Eyre

“Quite out of the question.”

He broke off. “Why?”

“The boys have no need to be reminded of the past. They have a new life here. And if I can manage their health, and see that they have a proper education, they’ll soon forget what happened before.”

“What happened?” he asked. “I would dearly like to know.”

She didn’t answer him. Not directly. She squinted into the distance. At what, John couldn’t tell. It was impossible to make out the orchard. Impossible to see much of anything in these conditions. He wasn’t even certain they were going in the right direction.

“I’d assumed they were orphans,” he said. “Mr. Fairfax told me that you’d adopted them during your travels. That you’d named them yourself.”

“I did. Stephen and Peter. The first martyrs.”

A shiver went through him. It was cold as the devil outside. “What happened to their parents?”

“They’re dead, I expect. Likely from the same blood disease that the boys contracted. It took the lives of a great many people in the region. You might think of it in terms of a plague.”

“You don’t mean to say it’s fatal? Surely anemia isn’t—”

“A sort of anemia, I said. Something more insidious. It leaches a person of all of their strength—of all of their will. If left untreated, they wither away to nothing.” Mrs. Rochester glanced briefly in his direction. “Don’t look so alarmed, Mr. Eyre. The disease hasn’t consumed the children yet.”

“No indeed, but it sounds dreadful.”

“It is dreadful. But not to worry. I’ve had luck in combating its encroachment. And I shall continue to do so, provided no one countermands my instructions.” Her expression sobered. “You realize, of course, that I shall have to replace their tonic.”

His spirits slowly sank. Naturally, she would. She was one of those ladies who had a belief in patent medicines. If one didn’t work, another would be tried, and then another—each of them with nothing more to recommend them than the last. “I see.”

“I mean to replace yours, as well.”

“You…what?” He came to an abrupt halt. “Do you mean…my laudanum? But I’m no longer taking it. I have no need—”

“Headaches, you said. Isn’t that right?” She stopped to face him. The mist rose at her back, swirling around the pair of them. “You were speaking the truth, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but I don’t see how—”

“It’s quite simple.” She took a step closer to him. The faint fragrance of her perfume drifted to his nose. “I have a solution for your pain, Mr. Eyre. The same solution I mean to employ for the children.”

His pulse skipped. He cleared his throat. “Another patent medicine? Really Mrs. Rochester, I—”

“No. It’s something altogether more wholesome. A decoction of herbs, vegetables, and minerals, from an old recipe that’s recently come into my possession. It contains no opiates, and will cause you no harm. But I believe it will answer.”

He stared at her. “Answer to what?”

“The impasse we find ourselves at.” She looked steadily back at him. “Will you promise to take it? And to not interfere when Sophie gives it to the boys?”

“An herbal tonic.” He huffed. Was this the cost of securing his position? To saving himself from being cast out onto the streets in the dead of winter? If so, surely it was a small price to pay. “You’re confident it will serve its purpose?”

“As to that, only time will tell. But…yes.” Her eyes glittered with a strange resolve. “When administered correctly, I have great hope it will do precisely what it’s meant to do.”

Letters from Mrs. Bertha Rochester to Miss Blanche Ingram

Hotel d’ Orient

Varna, Bulgaria

Saturday, 19 November 1842

My Dear Blanche, —