Page 5 of John Eyre

Two velvet-upholstered armchairs, backs draped in crocheted antimacassars, resided in front of the fire. An inlaid mahogany table stood between them. A tea tray sat atop it, holding a painted porcelain teapot, two cups, and a plate of sandwiches.

The butler set the branch of candles down upon the mantel. “Do sit down.”

John took the chair nearest the door. It wasn’t, he suspected, the butler’s favorite. It had an unrumpled look about it.

“Your journey was rather dreary, I fear.” The butler sank down in the chair opposite. He poured out a cup of tea and offered it to John. “Jenkins will take his time.”

John thanked the butler as he took the teacup. “The horse was obliged to walk. There was a great deal of fog about.” He sipped his tea. It was scalding hot, as though it had just been prepared. “Mr. Fairfax has retired, I presume.”

“I am Mr. Fairfax, sir.”

“You?” John couldn’t conceal his surprise. The gentleman in front of him must be in his late sixties at least. “Forgive me. I assumed the boys were your sons.”

Mr. Fairfax gave a hoarse laugh. “Heavens, no.”

“Your wards, then?”

“They are the wards of Mrs. Rochester, sir.”

John went still. Slowly, he returned his teacup to the tea tray. “You have me at a disadvantage. I was under the impression that you were my employer.”

Another laugh. “Bless me, is that what you thought? Goodness no, Mr. Eyre. Thornfield Hall is the home of Mrs. Rochester. Her ancestral home. I am only the butler—the manager. Mrs. Rochester commissioned me to find a tutor for the boys.” He gestured to the plate of sandwiches. “Eat, please. You look slightly ill, if I may say so.”

“A trifling headache. It’s plagued me since I left Surrey.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Do you require anything for your comfort? A headache powder, or—”

“Thank you, no. Food and rest will be sufficient.” John helped himself to a sandwich. “I shall be well enough in the morning.” He paused. “Is there a Mr. Rochester?”

“No, indeed. Mrs. Rochester is a widow.”

John considered the matter as he finished his sandwich and drank his tea. He’d never before been employed by a lady. Even Helen had been subservient to the wishes of her husband. It was he who had paid John’s wages and seen to the needs of the students at the village school—albeit begrudgingly.

What sort of lady was this Mrs. Rochester? A wealthy one to be sure. Thornfield Hall was a formidable structure, and the interior—what John had seen of it—appeared well appointed. Yet there was a smell of neglect about the place. Of damp and disuse.

“I am glad you are come,” Mr. Fairfax said. “It will be pleasant to have a companion. The winters can feel quite lonely here with no one but the servants for company. They’re agreeable enough, but one can’t converse with them on terms of equality.”

John began to warm to the old man. He knew what it was to want for companionship. In Lowton, he’d had no real friends. No one to talk with, save Helen.

His tired mind formed a hazy image of her. But not of her. Of the creature he’d seen from the window of the carriage. An apparition, silvery white, standing in the center of the road. The memory of it sent a faint shiver down his spine.

He should never have taken that last dose of laudanum at the inn. Not when he was already exhausted and in a lingering state of grief. It was foolish. Self-indulgent. He downed another swallow of tea. “I hope you will find my company as agreeable as you’ve anticipated.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will, Mr. Eyre. Already I begin to feel my spirits lift, just to have you here in my parlor, taking tea with me. But I won’t keep you sitting up all night for my own amusement. If you’ve finished eating, I’ll show you to your bedroom.” Mr. Fairfax rose and retrieved the branch of candles. “It stands between mine and that of the boys. You will want to be near them, I think.”

“Thank you, yes.” John followed Mr. Fairfax from the room. The butler first stopped in the hall to bolt the front door, and then, having removed the key from the lock, he led the way upstairs.

The staircase was made of dark oak, with a wide, curving banister and steps that seemed to go on forever. A high stained-glass window rose above it. The sort of window that appeared more suited to a church than to a stately country house. Rain fell steadily against the glass.

“We haven’t yet escaped the storm,” John said.

“That is no storm, sir. It’s just a wee bit of rain and wind.” Mr. Fairfax guided John down a long gallery lined with closed doors. An unsettling chill pervaded the darkness. “The real storm has not yet come.”

“You expect it soon?”

“Undoubtedly.” Opening one of the bedroom doors, Mr. Fairfax gestured for John to precede him inside. He came after him with the branch of candles. “I shall light a fire for you.”

John was grateful for it. In the room he’d rented at the boarding house in Lowton, he’d never been allowed to have a fire. The proprietress had been stingy with coals, refusing to permit anything more than a single small fire in the parlor each evening by which her boarders had huddled to warm their frozen hands and feet.