Page 69 of John Eyre

“I remember everything,” she said. “Everything.”

“There you are, then. All that’s left is for you to tell me what’s wrong. What I can do to make this better.”

She was quiet for a long moment as she visibly brought herself under control. “You can fetch me a glass of wine,” she said at last.

“Done.” When she released his hand, he rose and went at once to the dining room. It was empty, the table and sideboard still partially cluttered with the leavings from dinner. As he poured out a glass of wine from the decanter, Alfred entered to finish clearing. On seeing John with the wine, he frowned but made no remark. No doubt he thought John was taking it for himself.

Much that John cared for his opinion at the moment.

He returned to Mrs. Rochester. She was still seated in the hall, just as he’d left her. He offered her the glass of wine and she took it and drained it in one swallow. The ashen whiteness of her pallor slowly dissipated.

“I told you once that in matters of good and evil, I stand firmly on the side of good,” she said. “Did you believe me?”

“I had no reason not to.”

Her expression was grim. Remote. As if meditating on an unsolvable dilemma. “And what if someone were to tell you different? To say that it was, in fact, the opposite?”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

She leveled her gaze at him. “What would you do, John, if all of those fine people in the drawing room scorned me? If they accused me of some great evil?”

Under other circumstances, he might have been alarmed by the question. But not now. Now, she was plainly distraught and in need of comforting. “What evil?” he asked.

“Of being a cold, unfeeling creature, undeserving of the name of woman. Would you tender your resignation and abandon this house right along with them?”

“I care nothing for this house. But you…” His voice sank to a gruff undertone. “I wouldn’t abandon you or the boys. No matter what the denizens of Yorkshire society had to say about it. What care I for their good opinion?”

She smiled slightly. “That loyal, are you?”

“To those who deserve it.”

“Well then, I am on my mettle.” Handing him the empty wineglass, she stood and straightened her skirts. “Enough dramatics. I’m fortified now. Another moment, and I shall venture into the dragon’s lair.”

John’s brows lowered. “Is this Mrs. Wren a dangerous person?”

“Perhaps.” Mrs. Rochester’s mouth curved into another smile. This time it didn’t quite meet her eyes. “But don’t worry for me, sir. I can be quite dangerous myself when the occasion calls for it.”

Later that night, John retired to his bed, unable to sleep. His thoughts were in disarray, his emotions confused. He worried over what might have happened with Mrs. Rochester and her mysterious guest. And he wondered if, when she’d concluded her meeting, she’d returned to the drawing room—and thereby to George Eshton.

The moon was full, a luminous silver disc shining through the slim cracks in his chintz window curtains. He stared at it, mulling over the way he’d kissed Mrs. Rochester’s hand, and the way he’d vowed to stand by her, whatever the consequences. It had been all but a declaration. One he’d never made to any other lady before.

One he’d never made to Helen.

Why not? Had it only been because Helen was married? She’d been appealing in every other respect. Beautiful, sweet, and gentle. The epitome of feminine delicacy and grace. He’d admired her, certainly. Had been ready to stand her friend. But he hadn’t been willing to brave public scorn to remain at her side. Hadn’t been prepared to risk his heart—or endanger his soul.

How was Mrs. Rochester any different?

He may as well have attempted to enumerate the differences between sun and shadow. Between a tigress and a house cat.

Which was more puzzling still, come to think of it. Mrs. Rochester didn’t need him to fight her battles. She was capable enough on her own. Why, then, did he feel a greater sense of protectiveness toward her than he’d ever felt toward Helen?

John couldn’t fathom the why of it. All he knew was that he felt it. That it was real. It was no infatuation. No airy thread of romantic poetry. It was as earthy and fundamental as the blood coursing through his veins.

As the clock struck midnight, the guests at last made their way to their rooms. Voices sounded in the hall, doors clicked open and shut, and then all was once again in silence.

John slept briefly, awakening as the clock chimed three. It was the dratted moonlight shining in his eyes. He’d either have to rise and draw the window curtains more firmly or he’d have to shut the panel of his box bed. Given his previous experience, the latter option was distinctly unappealing.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed, and then—