Page 56 of John Eyre

My dear Mr. Eyre, what makes you think that it’s my husband for whom I wear mourning clothes?

Was it possible that she was wearing black for Miss Ingram?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I expect you knew her well.”

Mr. Taylor’s mouth twisted. “I was betrothed to her.”

John took an involuntary step back from the grave. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize.”

“How could you if no one told you? You’re new to the vicinity, aren’t you?” Mr. Taylor turned back up the path to the church doors. He motioned for John to accompany him. “I’m glad you finally had time to spare for a visit. I regret I was unable to call on you myself.”

“Not at all.”

“We’re a busy parish, here. And I haven’t a curate to lighten my load. I confess it would be a relief if one were assigned to me. Especially, as now…” He gave a sad, self-conscious smile. “I haven’t any official right to be in mourning for Miss Ingram. We weren’t married. Even so, I feel as though I’ve lost my wife.”

An image of Helen sprang into John’s brain. Fair and beautiful and pleading with him not to leave her. He made an effort to dispel it. To remind himself that the guilt and the sorrow weren’t his to bear. It was becoming easier to do so. Nevertheless…

“I understand,” he said. “I’ve recently lost someone myself.”

Mr. Taylor looked at him. “Not your wife, I trust?”

“No. She was a…a friend.”

“My condolences. Loss is never easy.”

“No,” John agreed. “It isn’t.”

Mr. Taylor led him into the church. It was warmer inside, and brighter, too. The high windows angled the sun directly into the nave, illuminating the wooden pews on either side of the aisle, and the raised pulpit ahead.

A door at the back of the church opened onto a small garden, shared with an equally small house. “The vicarage,” Mr. Taylor said, ushering John into the parlor. “You’ll excuse the mess.”

Books and papers were scattered on every available surface. Mr. Taylor swept up a stack from an overstuffed chair, clearing the way for John to sit down.

“My housekeeper’s daughter is nearing her confinement. I gave her leave to take the month off. It seemed reasonable enough at the time, but as you can see, I’ve rather let things get out of hand.” He caught a stray paper as it fluttered from his arms. “Do have a seat, Mr. Eyre. I’ll be back in a moment with some refreshment. It’s already prepared.”

With that, the vicar disappeared into what was presumably the kitchen.

Sitting down, John looked about the cluttered parlor with frank curiosity. On a table nearby was another stack of books. They appeared to be of some antiquity, their covers worn and frayed with use. His gaze drifted over the spines, surprised by some of the titles he found there—and the language he found them in.

“Folklore,” Mr. Taylor said, emerging from the kitchen with the tea tray in his hands. “I’ve been reading a good deal of it lately.”

“In German?”

“I find it best to go to the source. It saves me from worrying whether certain points have been lost in a poor translation.” He cleared another chair and took a seat. “Do you speak the language?”

“Not enough to mention.”

Mr. Taylor poured out their tea, extending a cup to John. “But you must be familiar with their folklore?”

“A very little. Not as much as I’d like.” John took the cup. It was chipped at one corner. “Most of what I know on the subject, I owe to the superstitions of my childhood nurse. We hadn’t any books of fairy stories or folklore where I grew up, and there are none at Thornfield that I’m aware of, save an old copy of Aesop’s Fables.”

“Then you must take leave to borrow one of these.” Mr. Taylor selected a volume and passed it to him. “This one is in English. You’ll find it a riveting read.”

“Thank you.” John gave the book an appreciative glance before slipping it next to him in his seat. “I’ll have a look at it this evening.”

Mr. Taylor settled back into his chair. “As I was saying earlier, I regret that we haven’t met sooner. You’ve been in residence at Thornfield since November?”

“October, actually.”