Page 63 of John Eyre

George grinned, flashing a set of strong white teeth. “She’s right. We’ve teased her long enough.” He called out to his brother: “Play something cheerful for us, Louis.”

“And sing, won’t you?” Miss Lynn asked Mrs. Rochester. “You have such a lovely voice.”

“Pity Miss Ingram isn’t here to accompany you,” Mrs. Eshton said. “How well the pair of you sounded together.”

George cast a measuring glance at Mrs. Rochester. “We won’t speak of Miss Ingram. The recollection is yet too painful, I think.”

Mrs. Rochester’s face was void of expression as she finished her coffee.

John studied her in the moments when he was unobserved. She seemed animated enough in the company of her friends. As if she was enjoying herself. But there was something wrong. Something…off. He couldn’t put his finger on it. It was merely an impression. A feeling derived from the unspoken energy generated by her and her guests.

It didn’t help that the storm had worsened. Rain hammered against the drawing room windows and battered down on the roof in a relentless, and rather unnerving, assault. To hear it, one might fear they were about to fall victim to a return of Noah’s flood.

“Dear Miss Ingram,” Mrs. Eshton said on a sigh. “Such a tragedy.”

“Will you sing in her stead?” George asked Mrs. Rochester. “I’ve always found your voice to be superior, even to hers.”

“Oh, yes.” Miss Lynn clapped her hands. “The pair of you must perform a duet.”

“Will you?” George asked again, his deep voice gone silky and persuasive. “It would please me greatly.”

“If you insist.” Setting aside her coffee cup, Mrs. Rochester stood. “But I’ll have no tepid love songs. If we sing it must be con spirito.”

“As you command.” George followed her to the piano, and taking his brother’s place at the keys, commenced pounding out a boisterous tune.

Mrs. Rochester stood beside him, one hand resting on the piano. Her black silk skirts swelled out in a wide bell shape from her slim waist, the candlelight shimmering on her bare shoulders and throat.

The attention of the entire company was fixed upon her and George Eshton.

Now was the time for John to quietly slip away with the boys. They’d had enough. He’d had enough. And surely no one would notice if they withdrew. But just as he made to stand, Mrs. Rochester began to sing.

John found himself fixed to his place. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. She had a fine voice. Stirring and powerful. A rich contralto that seeped into his veins, and thereby, to his heart. With every beat he felt it resonating within him. Not the music or the song, but her.

It was a pleasure that swiftly turned to pain.

Taking Stephen and Peter by the hand, John exited the drawing room through a side door, the final notes of the duet sounding at his heels. A short passageway led into the hall and thence to the stairs.

Sophie was sitting on the bottom step, waiting. When she saw them, she jumped up.

“You see?” John said to the boys as he handed them off to her. “Nothing at all to be afraid of. Only people. They can’t hurt you.”

Stephen gave him a long look. If John didn’t know better, he’d think the boy could read his thoughts. Children could be alarmingly intuitive.

“Go with Nurse,” John said, urging them up the stairs. “I’ll stop in to see you both before bedtime.” He remained on the landing as Stephen and Peter ascended to the nursery, Sophie following close behind them.

A throbbing tension threatened at his temples and behind his eyes. The beginnings of a megrim. It had been nearly two months since his last one. He supposed the long reprieve was owing to the herbal tonic. Either that or a consequence of the happiness he felt in his new position. Thornfield was becoming a home to him; the boys his family. And Mrs. Rochester…

His throat tightened.

Behind him, the door to the drawing room opened and closed. Light footsteps sounded in the hall, accompanied by the rustle of silken skirts. A lady approached.

Steeling himself, John turned to face her.

It was Mrs. Rochester.

“Good evening, John,” she said.

He caught the subtle fragrance of her perfume. Dizzyingly exotic. It did nothing to calm the erratic rhythm of his pulse. “Good evening, ma’am.”