Page 72 of John Eyre

He examined her more closely. Good lord, she hadn’t fainted, had she? But no. Her hands were clenched at her sides, half-trembling with the effort. She breathed in shallow, shaking gasps, every exhalation prompting another pulse of blood from her wound.

What had Mr. Poole done to her? Had he attacked her with a knife? And why?

As if there could be a reason!

John cast a brief look at the small door in the wall. It was made of thick, light-colored wood, studded with large silver nails. A new door—newer, at least, than others he’d seen in the house. Its frame and hardware appeared new as well, as if the whole of it had been quite recently reinforced.

Was this where Mr. Poole was confined during one of his episodes? For what else could they be termed but episodes of madness? The man certainly wasn’t out of his head the entirety of the time. Whenever John saw him in the kitchen or down at the stables, he appeared as unremarkable as any other servant.

And yet he’d attacked a woman who was easily half his size. Attacked and nearly killed her.

Mrs. Wren moaned as John swabbed her neck. The pad of cloth in his hand was hardly useful anymore. It had grown soaked with her blood. Rising, he went to the basin and rinsed it out.

When he returned, her eyes were open. Brown eyes, glazed with horror. They wandered around the room—to the small door and to the window—and then to John’s face, searching, searching.

He wiped her brow again before cleansing the blood from her wound, all the while listening for sounds of stirring within the room behind the wall. He heard nothing now. Nothing save the steady downpour of rain, and the occasional rumble of thunder.

How would Mrs. Rochester manage in such conditions? Heavy fog and heavier rain would surely hinder her progress. She’d said she would ride like the very devil, but how swiftly could one travel on horseback when one was incapable of seeing more than a few feet in front of them at any given moment?

And what if her horse should slip in the lane as it had the day they’d met? What if she should be injured?

Or worse.

What if she were to fall and break her neck just as Blanche Ingram had? Her body left to lie until the following day, doomed to fall victim to ravening animals?

John was tormented by the imagery. As the minutes ticked by, it was all he could do to focus on Mrs. Wren. To swab her wound, and to rinse his cloth again, and then again, in water that was now clouded with her blood.

He passed an hour in this manner, all the while worrying for the safety of Mrs. Rochester—and for his own safety, near as he was to the menace lurking behind the door.

And he wondered how it was that Mrs. Wren had fallen victim to that menace. She was a stranger here, wasn’t she? An unannounced visitor who had, only hours ago, been waiting in the small parlor to speak with the mistress of Thornfield Hall.

News of her arrival had struck Mrs. Rochester a blow. Indeed, on hearing of it from Mr. Fairfax, she’d seemed almost to be afraid. But in this room—the two ladies face to face—John had observed that it was Mrs. Wren who was stricken with fear. She looked on Mrs. Rochester with an expression of dread. But no. Not dread. It was more even than that. She looked on her with something approaching awe.

How was it that Mrs. Wren had found her way to the third floor? What was she doing here in the dead of night while everyone else in the house was abed?

Her eyes fell closed once more, and she seemed to drift into unconsciousness. John brought her a glass of water to revive her. She sipped it, whimpering.

He prayed that Mrs. Rochester would hurry. That she’d bring the surgeon, and that he would take over John’s grim duties.

It was nearly another hour before he heard the sound of the key in the lock. Outside, the first cold glimmer of dawn threatened, its gray light streaking through the cracks in the heavy curtains as the door opened and Mrs. Rochester entered the room with Mr. Carter.

“Mind the time, Carter,” she said. “The servants will be up shortly. I give you but half an hour to dress her wound and to get her downstairs and into the carriage.”

Mr. Carter approached the bed. He was an older gentleman with a thick beard and side-whiskers. “Is she fit to travel, ma’am?”

“Of course. It’s not a serious injury. Not but that you’d know it from the way she carries on.” Mrs. Rochester opened the curtains, letting in as much of the early morning light as existed. “She’s a nervous woman. Keeping her calm during the journey will be your main concern. You may well have to administer a sedative.”

John withdrew from his place by the bed to make room for the surgeon. Neither Mrs. Rochester nor Mr. Carter had acknowledged him as yet. Neither by word, nor deed. There was an air of haste about them.

Mr. Carter bent to examine Mrs. Wren. His hands moved gently, but purposefully, to remove the blood-soaked bandage from her throat.

Mrs. Rochester joined him at the head of the bed. She regarded Mrs. Wren with an expression that was impossible to read. “How do you do this morning?”

Mrs. Wren gave a little cry as one of the bandages was pulled away. “He’s done for me.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Rochester said. “You’re not dead, are you? You’ve plenty of blood yet still pumping through your veins.”

“She’s lost a great deal of it,” Mr. Carter remarked. “I wish I could have got here sooner.”