Page 4 of John Eyre

He rested his head against the rain-streaked window as the carriage rolled through the mud. The laudanum had left him with a dull headache, and a familiar sense of queasy malaise that wasn’t likely to leave him until he’d properly eaten and rested. It was going on midnight. Would the housekeeper at Thornfield have something prepared for his arrival? A cold collation, perhaps? Or a slice of leftover kidney pie?

The thought of food did nothing to settle his stomach. Rather the opposite. A surge of nausea rose in his throat. He let down the window and thrust out his head. Damp night air filled his lungs.

“You all right, sir?” the coachman called down.

“Quite well. Just needed a bit of air.” John’s answer appeared to satisfy the fellow. He made no attempt to stop the carriage. Indeed, he gave the plodding horse a brisk smack with the reins as if to speed the creature’s pace.

John kept the window down. The fresh air was welcome, and he could see better without the barrier of the streaked glass. A halo of light shone from the swinging carriage lamp. Enough for him to get an impression of the passing scenery. Trees and shrubs and twining brambles. It wasn’t a welcoming landscape. Less so at this time of year, as autumn marched inexorably toward winter.

There didn’t appear to be any houses hereabouts. The scattered fences and pitched roofs he’d spied as they left the George Inn were long behind them. Only emptiness lay ahead. A vast stretch of countryside engulfed in a silvery mist that clung to the branches and swirled along the edge of the road.

Thornfield Hall must reside in a valley, for as the carriage rolled on, the mist appeared to grow heavier, settling over the ground and partially obscuring the way in front of them.

In time, they approached a crossroads. The stone edifice of a crumbling old church loomed to their right, its tower rising defiantly against the night sky. Its bell tolled the hour as they passed. One chime. Two chimes. And on and on, all the way to midnight.

The sound faded behind them as the carriage turned down the left branch of the road. It was still echoing softly in the night when John saw her.

And it was a her, however noncorporeal. She seemed to materialize from the mist ahead of them, a mere shimmer of vapor coalesced into the form and figure of a woman. A lady. A beautiful, beribboned wisp of one in a full-skirted gown.

John blinked hard to clear his eyes, but the figure remained. White and ethereal. She stood in front of the oncoming carriage, one hand held out in front of her. The gesture was unmistakable. Halt, it said. Don’t come any farther.

The horse plodded on, no change in its gate.

John’s pulse leapt in his throat. “Stop!” he called out to the coachman. “There’s someone ahead!”

The coachman slowed the horse. “What’s that?”

“There! A woman in the road! Can you not see her?”

“Ain’t no one in the road, sir.”

John blinked again. This time, when he opened his eyes, the lady was gone. Only the mist remained. His heart pounded. “She was there. I saw her.”

The coachman gave a low chuckle. “That’d be the Millcote mists, sir. Always do play tricks on folks. Reckon you’ll get used to them.” He clucked and the horse walked on, forward and through the very mist where the lady had been standing seconds before.

John sank into his seat, his forehead beaded with perspiration. His pulse beat an erratic rhythm at his throat. Perhaps it was the Millcote mists, whatever those were. Either that or the dose of laudanum he’d taken at the inn. He didn’t know which. All he knew was that he had seen a lady in the road. He knew because he’d recognized her.

It had been Helen.

Thornfield Hall

Yorkshire, England

October 1843

John was half asleep inside the carriage when it finally came to a rattling halt. The coachman jumped down from the box to open a pair of sagging iron gates. Resuming his seat, he drove the carriage through, the gates swinging shut behind them with a resounding crash.

They ascended a long drive, and at length, came to the front of an enormous stone house. Mist rolled about it, above and below, obscuring the architecture from view. What windows John could make out were dark. All but one—a small curtained window from which a glow of candlelight weakly flickered.

The carriage stopped in front of a tall wooden front door. It creaked open on hinges desperately in need of oiling. A white-haired gentleman garbed in a worn black suit emerged, his eyes cloudy and his back slightly hunched with age. He held a branch of candles aloft in one gnarled hand.

“Mr. Eyre?” he queried as John disembarked from the carriage. “Welcome to Thornfield Hall. Do come in and make yourself warm.”

Clutching his portmanteau, John followed the manservant into the house. The butler, he presumed, or some sort of steward. The fellow led him across a square marble-tiled hall and through one darkened room and then another, before ushering him into a much smaller chamber. A fire blazed in the hearth, and candles flickered from atop tables both high and low.

John’s eyes were briefly dazzled by the light. It took a moment for them to adjust. When they did, he was at once put at ease by the picture before him.

It was a cozy room, with walls covered in figured silk paper, a floor carpeted in a thick floral Aubusson, and a polished brass carriage clock that quietly ticked the passing seconds.