Page 61 of John Eyre

John wondered that any degree of poor weather could be enough to force Mrs. Rochester to submit to having overnight guests. After all, there were the boys to consider. She valued their privacy, didn’t she? And what about Mr. Poole’s erratic behavior? Surely it wasn’t ideal to have people to stay with him creeping about?

“The poor weather might clear, given another hour or two,” John said.

“Poor weather?” Mr. Fairfax stared at him as if he’d lost his wits. “Have you looked outside?” A clap of thunder shook the windows, bringing forth another torrent of rain. “It’s the storm, Mr. Eyre. It’s finally come.”

The following day, the storm showed no sign of relenting. John was obliged to remain in the nursery with the boys. It was impossible to continue their lessons in the library. The house was too busy. Too merry, in spite of the foul weather. Around every corner, he heard voices raised in laughter and conversation.

Stephen and Peter heard them, too.

It was enough to bring back a shadow of the reticence they’d shown when John had first arrived at Thornfield. Worse than that, when a deep male voice echoed through the hall, John was certain he saw Stephen flinch.

“Guests can be disruptive,” Mr. Fairfax said, passing John in the hall later that afternoon. “Trust that they’ll be leaving as soon as the weather allows.”

“Yes, quite,” John replied with a touch of impatience. “But in the meanwhile, it might help if the boys were introduced to the Eshtons. It would show them that they have nothing to fear.”

Mr. Fairfax appeared doubtful. “I don’t think it wise myself, but I’ll mention your suggestion to Mrs. Rochester.”

John had no expectation that Mrs. Rochester would heed his advice. As the evening approached, he nevertheless made certain the boys were neatly clad, and that their hair was combed into meticulous order.

His efforts were not in vain.

At half past five, he received word from Mr. Fairfax that Stephen and Peter were to be brought to the drawing room after dinner, and that Mrs. Rochester had requested that John accompany them.

“She’ll brook no refusal,” Mr. Fairfax said.

John scarcely had time to shave and to change into a fresh coat and cravat before the appointed hour came. Collecting Stephen and Peter from their nurse, he descended to the drawing room.

It was presently empty, the party still lingering at dinner. But all was in readiness for them. The room was brilliant with light, a fire blazing in the hearth and candles flickering atop every available surface.

John drew the boys to a window seat, out of the way of the sofas and chairs that the guests would soon occupy. Sitting down, he was grateful for the brief moment of privacy so that they could get their bearings.

And not only them.

John felt a measure of apprehension as well. He hadn’t encountered Mrs. Rochester since the night of the fire. And now he would see her again at last, not from an upstairs window but face-to-face. Close enough to hear her voice and to register the subtle changes in her expression.

Stephen and Peter seemed equally anxious for her arrival. They sat solemnly beside him, watchful and waiting, their little frames taut with tension.

John laid a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. The boy looked up at him, a frightened question in his dark eyes. “You’re quite safe with me,” John assured him. “I won’t let anyone harm you.”

A soft sound emanated from the hall, drawing their attention. It preceded the arrival of the ladies: Mrs. Rochester, Mrs. Eshton, and another woman—quite young. They entered the drawing room together midconversation and at once sat down, making themselves comfortable in front of the fire.

Mrs. Rochester was wearing her usual black. A gown of silk and lace, with a fashionably low neckline. Her hair was drawn up in an elegant roll, secured with jet combs. At her throat, her silver locket glistened.

Her eyes briefly touched on John and the boys, half-hidden in their window seat, but no sign of particular warmth or recognition registered in her gaze. She resumed her conversation with the other ladies as if they had the room entirely to themselves.

John hadn’t expected her to introduce him to her guests. To do so would have been borderline scandalous. He was only a tutor. A paid employee. He knew that. Nevertheless, he hadn’t been prepared for her indifference.

Looking at her, he was painfully reminded of their last encounter. The way her voice had trembled as she clasped his bare hand in hers. So warm. So urgent. Her bronze-and-green-flecked eyes hadn’t been indifferent to him then. They’d been brimming with unspoken emotion.

“Those are your wards, I suppose,” Mrs. Eshton said, casting a cool look their way. “They’re quite dark, aren’t they?”

“Not at all English,” the other lady added under her breath.

Mrs. Rochester leaned back against the sofa in that queenly way of hers. As if she were mistress of all she surveyed. A Bengal tiger might have lounged thus. A fearsome predator, thoroughly at home in her lair. “Stephen and Peter are from Bulgaria,” she said. “I should be surprised if there was anything English about them.”

John observed the three ladies as they talked. Mrs. Eshton was a large woman, aged somewhere between fifty and sixty, by his guess. Her hair was liberally peppered with gray, and she had a rather impressive double chin that was partially camouflaged by an enormous pearl necklace. Her smallest movement evoked haughtiness. A sense of superiority so innate that her upper lip was permanently curled.

The other lady—whom he soon learned was an Eshton cousin by the name of Miss Lynn—appeared just as haughty. Thin and sallow, she sat primly beside Mrs. Eshton, her aristocratically beaked nose lifted high in the air as she spoke.