Page 58 of John Eyre

“Then you believe—”

“Lord, no. There are no wolves in Hay, or anywhere in the vicinity. That much is certain. But I confess, I’ve sometimes feared that—” He stopped.

“What?”

“It’s nonsense, really. No one has reported any cases of hydrophobia. But since Miss Ingram’s death, I’ve often wondered if there might be an afflicted dog hereabouts. You see…when they found her body, it hadn’t fallen victim to the usual depredations. It was a bit more serious than that.”

John’s hesitated to ask. “How serious?”

Mr. Taylor gave an ashen-faced grimace. “Her throat had been ripped out.”

John arrived back at Thornfield well before sunset, a book of German folklore under his arm, and his thoughts consumed with images of black dogs, wolves, and gruesome deaths. Entering through a side door, he divested himself of his damp hat and overcoat. The rain had started again just as he’d passed through Thornfield’s gates, a light but steady patter, hurrying him the remainder of the way to the house.

Straightening his coat, he crossed the hall to the stairs, only to stop short at the sight of Mr. Fairfax.

The elderly butler was descending the steps, one trembling hand clutching the banister. “Mr. Eyre. Back already?”

“Only just. Is everything well with the boys?”

“They had an agreeable afternoon with Sophie. She has them in the nursery at present, helping them to wash and change for dinner.”

“I think I’ll dine with them this evening,” John said. “If you don’t mind it? It might help to make up for my absence.”

“As you wish.” Mr. Fairfax came to a halt on the step above John. “Did you enjoy your tea with the vicar?”

“I did. He’s very amiable.”

“I expect he asked after the mistress?”

He had eventually. “He enquired about her health, and the health of Stephen and Peter.” John paused before adding, “He regrets it isn’t possible to call on them.”

“I have every confidence that Mrs. Rochester will permit him to visit when the boys are well enough to receive him.”

“She’s unwilling to receive him herself?”

“Is that what he said?”

“He mentioned that he called here last summer. That he was turned away.”

Mr. Fairfax’s lips pursed. “Mr. Taylor is an amiable enough man, as you say, but like all vicars, he’s prone to meddling. Mrs. Rochester had enough to contend with at the time. She was in no mood to indulge him.” He resumed his descent, passing John with a nod. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my duties.”

“Of course.” Inclining his head, John continued up the stairs.

It was none of his business if Mrs. Rochester preferred not to see the vicar. None of his business if she never attended Sunday services, or never spoke of the death of her friend, Miss Ingram. She owed him no explanations, no confidences.

Nevertheless, he chafed at the mystery of it all. And he wished—stupidly, he wished—that she’d want to share her burdens with him. She had seemed to do so that night in his room.

But perhaps he’d imagined that brief moment of intimacy, just as he’d imagined so many other things of late.

Dining with the boys that evening in the nursery, it took an effort to redirect his thoughts to more productive subjects. By the time they finished their soup, he’d somehow managed to reignite some of the excitement he’d felt earlier when the boys had vocalized along with the piano. It had been, on the whole, a successful day, and John was determined to view it as such.

They were in the midst of eating their pudding when Stephen laid down his spoon with a clatter, and rising from his chair, went to the window. He drew back the curtain and peered out through the rain-streaked glass.

“What is it, Stephen?” John came to join him, with Peter close behind. “Did you hear something?”

John needn’t have asked. Within seconds, he heard it himself. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves in the distance, and the rattle of carriage wheels on gravel. It drew closer by the moment.

The nursery window looked out over the drive. It was lit by two lanterns, their glowing flame managing to push back the heavy mist that enshrouded it. Visibility was generally poor in the evenings, especially when it was raining, but John was able to make out the arrival of an elegant black-lacquered carriage. Pulled by a set of matched bays, it rolled up the drive, coming to a halt in front of the door. Another carriage arrived soon after, this one pulled by a set of four gray horses.