Page 74 of John Eyre

“I understand,” he said. “I’ll be as quiet as I can.”

“I knew you would be.” Mrs. Rochester exchanged another brief, whispered word with Carter before departing the room as swiftly and silently as a cat.

John followed after her, Mr. Carter at his side.

The stairs were dark, as were the floors below. It must be five o’clock or thereabouts. Though it was light outside, there were no servants in the kitchen as yet. John was able to carry Mrs. Wren out the back door without arousing any attention.

Rain fell steadily, wetting his hair and coat. He bent his head against it, half hunching over Mrs. Wren in a pathetic attempt to protect her limp body from the elements.

As promised, a post-chaise waited in the yard. Mrs. Rochester stood next to it, holding the door open. “You may put her inside.”

John settled Mrs. Wren onto one of the padded seats. She slumped into a heap. Mr. Carter climbed in after her, shaking the raindrops from his tall beaver hat.

Mrs. Rochester shut the door of the post-chaise behind him. “Keep her with you for another day or two. I’ll ride over on Friday to see how she does. With any luck she’ll be fit to board a steamer.”

“I’ll look after her,” Carter said.

The coachman—a faceless figure in an oilskin greatcoat with a hat tipped low over his brow—gave the horses the office to start. With a rattle of wheels and a crunch of steel-shod hooves on gravel, the vehicle drove off, leaving John standing beside Mrs. Rochester in the yard, the rain beating down upon them.

She didn’t seem to heed it. Her thoughts were plainly elsewhere. “What a godless night!” she said at last.

“And a wet morning,” he replied.

Her gaze cut to his. A flare of wry humor flashed in her eyes. “You must think me mad.”

“Not mad. Only distracted.” He paused. “Who was she?”

The humor in Mrs. Rochester’s eyes vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “No one,” she said. “Only a shadow. An apparition from the past.”

“From your past?”

She gave a tense nod. “I’d never thought to see her again. Though I suppose I should have expected it.” She didn’t seem disposed to elaborate. Hoisting her skirts in her hands, she moved toward the path that led to the orchard. “Come, John. I know somewhere we can be dry.”

John followed Mrs. Rochester through the rain, down the muddy path that ran past the wood-fenced paddocks to the back of the Hall. The orchard lay ahead, and at its edge, half-hidden in the mist, a small arbor stood, twined with an overgrowth of ivy and clinging vines.

It was an old structure, composed of faded and splintered wood. The sagging steps creaked under Mrs. Rochester’s half-boots as she climbed up to shelter beneath its roof.

“Here, John.” She extended her hand.

He took it, holding it fast as he came to join her. It wasn’t entirely dry inside the arbor. Raindrops blew in on the storm, splashing lightly on seats already cluttered with broken twigs and windblown leaves.

Brushing aside some of the debris, Mrs. Rochester sat down, drawing him down next to her. She didn’t release his hand. “I know it isn’t very warm here, but I must have a moment of freshness before I return to that mausoleum.”

They sat, half turned to face each other, arms and knees almost touching. Her heavy skirts bunched against his legs, the hem pooling over his booted feet. It was intimate. Loverlike. Close enough to provoke a disconcerting simmer of heat low in his belly.

“Will you remain with me?” she asked.

“If that’s what you wish.”

“It is. Most assuredly.” Her fingers twined through his. “We’ve passed a strange night together.”

“The strangest.” He swallowed hard. Her bare skin was silken soft, her slender fingers sliding through his to settle in a sensual clasp. It sent a tremor through his vitals. Rather like a minor earthquake. He cleared his throat. “What was Mrs. Wren doing on the third floor? Had you invited her to stay?”

“I had. She was meant to retire to bed in a room near to where the servants sleep. She should never have ventured beyond its threshold.”

“She certainly suffered for her error. The poor woman looked as though she’d been mauled by a tiger. Or worse.”

“You weren’t afraid, were you? When I left you alone with her?”