Page 60 of John Eyre

“Bless him.” The scullery maid added the items to the tray. “He gets good wages for it, I expect.”

“The best,” Cook replied. “And he has enough of it put by at the bank, he could retire if he wished.”

“Why would he? He’s a dab hand at his job, and strong enough for anything.”

“He knows his business, I’ll give him that much,” Cook said. “’Tis not everyone could do what he does, not for any amount of money.”

“Does the mistress not worry—”

The scullery maid might have said more, but at that moment, Cook’s gaze lit on John. She silenced the maid with a nudge of her elbow.

John regarded the pair of them with wary interest. It seemed there was a further dimension to the mystery surrounding Mr. Poole. Not only did Mrs. Rochester keep him on, despite his tendency for malicious mischief, she also rewarded his dubious services with an exorbitant wage.

Were the man’s skills at metalwork and furniture mending so valuable?

“Do you require something, sir?” Cook asked.

John came the rest of the way into the kitchen. “Mr. Fairfax thought I might be of use to you.”

Cook’s brows shot up. “You?”

Alfred took hold of the tray. “Is this ready?”

“Go on and take it up then,” Cook said. “And don’t dally.” And then to John: “I don’t know what Mr. Fairfax expects you can do, Mr. Eyre. You’re no footman, and you know naught about trussing game or boiling a pudding.” She squinted her eyes. “Do you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. But I can tote and carry if you need.”

“Well…I suppose, if you want to make yourself useful, you can bring in more wood for the stove. It’ll be burning all night at this rate.”

John was glad to have something to do. A back door from the kitchen led out into the yard where the wood was kept. He raised the collar of his coat up over his neck as he ventured forth. The rain was coming in sheets now, a downpour unlike any he’d seen since his arrival in Yorkshire.

As he gathered an armful of firewood, a flash of lightning streaked across the sky, briefly illuminating the darkness. He scarcely needed the light. The small kitchen yard was easy enough to navigate. It housed only the woodshed, water pump, and privy. At the moment they were shrouded in mist.

But not mist.

It had become heavier at some point. Almost impenetrable. A proper fog.

Bending his head against the driving rain, John carried the firewood into the kitchen, and then turned to make another trip to the woodshed, and then another. The weather seemed to worsen with every passing minute. By the time he finished, he was wet through.

“That’ll be enough,” Cook said, shutting the door after him. “You sit down, Mr. Eyre. Take off your coat before you catch your death. I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

John stripped off his rain-sodden coat and hung it by the door before taking a seat at the old plank table. He ran a hand over his wet hair. It was hard to believe that only this afternoon the conditions had been mild enough to walk to Hay and back.

Where had the bad weather come from? There’d been mist, as always, and a light patter of rain upon his return, but nothing to compare with this maelstrom.

The scullery maid put a steaming mug of tea in front of him. “Listen to that wind howling, sir.”

“I reckon the Eshtons won’t like to drive back to Millcote in such a downpour,” Cook remarked, stirring a pot on the stove.

“You reckon right.” Mr. Fairfax entered the kitchen holding a tray on which stood an empty decanter of madeira and a plate of biscuit crumbs. He set it down on the counter. “Mr. Eyre? I’m afraid I must press you into service once more.”

“Only tell me what you require,” John said.

Mr. Fairfax half-leaned against the counter. He’d never looked wearier. “We haven’t time to properly air the spare bedrooms, but there’s fires to be lit and the beds will need fresh linens. It will take every set of hands in the house to make things ready.”

John slowly stood, unable to conceal his dismay. “Mrs. Rochester has invited the Eshtons to stay?”

“She had little choice in the matter, given the conditions on the road.” Mr. Fairfax straightened. His bones creaked at the joints. “Would that we’d had proper notice. We might have hired extra help for the occasion. But we must make do as best we can.”