Page 77 of John Eyre

She walked to the edge of the arbor, her skirts brushing over the wet leaves on the ground. “You’re familiar with Mr. George Eshton?”

A knot formed in John’s stomach. “Quite familiar.”

“He’s handsome, wealthy, and amusing. A fine partner in a duet. Do you not think that he would make me a creditable husband?”

“You can answer that better than I,” John said stiffly. “You’ve known him since you were a child.”

“Who told you so? Mr. Fairfax?” She frowned. “It’s true enough. There was a time, many years ago, I might have married George. It was the dearest wish of my parents—and of his.” She shot him another look. “But perhaps you think it too late for me to find happiness.”

“Not at all. I wish you every happiness in the world.” He meant it, though it pained him to say it. “I pray that you’ll find it. If not with Mr. Eshton, then with someone equally worthy.”

“A worthy suitor. An estimable ideal, and one that George Eshton fits to a certainty. Would that my parents were here to see it. Had I been a more dutiful daughter, I’d have wed him while they were still alive.” Her brow contracted. “Perhaps it is too late to try for happiness.”

“I don’t believe that. Not for you or anyone.” Bitterness colored his words, but it didn’t suppress them. “Love deferred is still love.”

She made a scoffing sound. “What has love ever had to do with anything? Marriage, least of all.”

John’s gaze drifted over her riding dress. It was as black as every other garment he’d seen her wear. Mourning clothes, to the smallest detail. But not for her husband, she’d said. “Did Mr. Fairfax happen to mention to you that I finally visited the vicar in Hay?”

Her eyes narrowed. “No, indeed. When did this inauspicious event take place?”

“Two days ago.” He hesitated before adding, “Mr. Taylor told me about the death of Miss Ingram.”

She turned away from him to look out at the orchard, but not before he saw her flinch. “Did he.”

“I saw her grave in the churchyard. I’d no idea you’d recently lost a friend.”

“The vicar has given you an earful, I see. He’s worse than any village tabby.”

“He seems a pleasant enough fellow.”

“Pleasant enough to you.” Mrs. Rochester flashed him a humorless look from over her shoulder. “He’s halfway to suspecting me of being a witch. Afterward…he all but accused me of being responsible.”

“After Miss Ingram’s death? I daresay he was distraught. She’d come to visit you, hadn’t she? On the day you returned from the Continent? If she met her death upon leaving—”

“It wasn’t the day I returned.” Mrs. Rochester resumed looking out at the orchard. “That is, she had come on the day I arrived back at Thornfield. We had tea together. Talked for hours. But she came again the next day. Her return visit was…unexpected.”

“It was then she had her accident? Riding home in the fog?”

“Her accident. Yes.” Mrs. Rochester set both of her hands on the railing of the arbor.

“Is she the reason you’re still in mourning?” he asked.

“I suppose she is, though our relationship hardly merits it.”

“Mr. Taylor said you were as close as sisters.”

“Not in the end.” Her fingers tightened around the railing. “You think you know a person. All your life. But in the single moment you need them most…” She bowed her head. “May I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If you heard a story from a friend—as outlandish as it seemed impossible—would you believe them?”

“I suspect that would depend on the degree of friendship. And on how outlandish the story.”

“You’d sooner think your friend a liar?”

“No, but—”