Page 84 of John Eyre

Yet there was no sign of George Eshton. He never came to call. And Mrs. Rochester hadn’t journeyed to visit him at the Leas. The only evidence John could glean of their fast-approaching nuptials was in the constant correspondence with which Mrs. Rochester was engaged.

Letters arrived at Thornfield with regularity, and replies were sent out again, often the same day. Letters from London, Cairo, and—earlier this morning—even one from a town called Argeș in Wallachia. John had never heard of the place.

Still standing at the globe, he spun it back to Bulgaria. Wallachia was a vast region on its northern border, and one with which he wasn’t very familiar. He skimmed the names of the cities and countries. Bucharest. Argeș. Transylvania.

Mrs. Rochester had once accused him of being a neophyte. A man who had never left the safety of the British Isles. It wasn’t for lack of interest. He only regretted he hadn’t made a greater effort to see more of the world. His lack of fortune and family weighed against him in that regard, but his profession was a mobile one. Many teachers removed to more exotic locales, usually in the guise of missionaries.

Collecting his sketchbook, John left the library. It was another fine day—odd at Thornfield. He was determined to take advantage of it. Climbing the stairs, he made his way to the third floor. Once there, he couldn’t help staring at the closed door at the end of the darkened corridor.

The door to Mr. Poole’s room.

A faint chill shivered down John’s spine as he passed it. A memory of Mrs. Wren’s ashen face and ravaged neck. Of her words, spoken in such desperate tones: “He said he would drain my heart.”

When coupled with the book of German folklore that John had lately been reading, it was enough to sicken his stomach. He supposed he could blame Mr. Taylor for that. What did the vicar mean by lending out such disturbing fiction? Tales of bloodsucking creatures feeding on people while they slept. Of sharp-fanged sprites, sullen dwarves, and sinister changelings.

Did the people of Hay really believe such superstitious nonsense? John wondered.

He climbed the narrow flight of stairs that led to the attics. There, he found the trapdoor already open. Was Mr. Fairfax up on the battlements? Or someone else?

Pray God it wasn’t Mr. Poole.

John hesitated at the ladder before steeling his nerves and quietly climbing up the rungs. Emerging onto the roof of the Hall, he saw someone seated in the distance, back propped against one of the chimney stacks. It wasn’t Mr. Fairfax. Nor was it Mr. Poole.

It was Mrs. Rochester. She was weeping silently.

At the sight of him, she hastily wiped her cheeks with her hands. “What are you doing here?”

He lifted his sketchbook in silent explanation.

“Oh.” There was a letter on her lap, the sheets of paper spread out over the folds of her black silk mourning dress. Gathering them up, she folded them back together and moved to rise. “Don’t let me stop you.”

His interest in drawing had disappeared the moment he saw her. He went to her and helped her to her feet. “What’s wrong?”

She released his hand to brush off her skirts. “Everything.”

“You’ve had bad news?”

“Nothing I didn’t expect.” She thrust the letter into the pocket of her gown. “You’d think I’d have been prepared for it, but I—” She broke off, eyes glistening.

His voice deepened with concern. “What is it?”

She walked to the battlements, turning her face to dash away another stray tear. “Only that I’ve reached an impasse. This problem I’ve been trying to solve. I thought I could conquer it. That I could win. Indeed, at times, I thought I was winning. But not losing isn’t the same as winning. It’s only a stalemate. And now I understand that I can’t win. The best I can hope for is to maintain things as they are.”

He stood beside her, his back against the battlements, facing her as she leaned over them. “Is that so terrible?”

“Yes. But…perhaps, if I went away. If I managed things so that I was no longer needed here save once or twice a year…”

A leaden weight settled in his midsection. “You want to leave again?”

“I do.”

“For where?”

“Somewhere bright and happy. Paris or Rome or—” She broke off again. “Which would you recommend?”

A mild breeze whispered over them, bringing the sweet fragrance of newly cut hay and early spring flowers. It was strikingly at odds with the remnants of mist that still lingered about the grounds.

“You know I’ve never been anywhere,” he said.