Page 85 of John Eyre

“But you’ve dreamed, haven’t you? Where would you go if you were at your leisure?”

“Italy, I suppose. To tour the monuments and museums.” He smiled at the impossibility of it. “It would be nice to see the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

“Nice,” she repeated. “You think it would be nice.”

“Glorious, then. Wasn’t that your word for Egypt?”

She gave him a look—such a look. “Do you like me, John?”

His pulse briefly lost its rhythm. “Of course I do.”

“Why?”

He studied her face, wishing he could read her as easily as he did the books in the library. That he could understand what it was that tormented her so. If he did, he might be able to help her. “Because you’re strong. Intelligent and capable.”

Her face crumpled. She looked out at the view again, visibly struggling to suppress another fall of tears.

“And because you’re a good person,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I’ve seen it in how you care for the boys. In how you look after those you employ here at Thornfield.” He brushed her silk-clad arm with the back of his fingers. The smallest stroke of comfort. “Please don’t cry.”

She turned away from him.

He withdrew his handkerchief and offered it to her. She took it without a word. “Miss Ingram’s death wasn’t your fault,” he said.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know about guilt. The way it can weigh upon you. Eat you up from the inside. I know what I felt when Lady Helen took her own life. Afterward…I didn’t believe I could ever find peace again. But I have found it, here at Thornfield. And I want the same for you. I want you to be happy.” He set aside his feelings. His love for her. And it was love, he recognized that now. But he wouldn’t lay it upon her as another burden. “If Eshton makes you so, then I think you had better marry him.”

“How magnanimous of you.” She blotted her eyes. “He’ll be relieved to know we have your blessing.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Yes.” Her gaze cut to his, damp eyes brilliant in the sunlight. “I wonder what will become of you when I marry?”

He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. The truth was, he’d rather been wondering that himself. Indeed, during the past month, the thought of what he’d do when she wed George Eshton had kept him up at night far more than he’d once been kept awake by guilt over the death of Helen Burns.

“The boys are young yet,” he said, a little hoarsely. “I’d hoped you would allow me to remain as their tutor until they’re older.”

It would be enough to be here with them at Thornfield. To see her, even if it was only once a year. He could make it enough if he had to.

At least, that was what he’d been telling himself. That her marriage didn’t have to change anything. That a part of her, however small, could still be his.

“I mean to take the boys with me when I leave here,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you?”

He stilled. Whatever fragile hope he’d cherished in his breast fractured and cracked like so much glass. It was a feeling very close to physical pain. “No. You didn’t.”

“Well. Now you know.” She crumpled his handkerchief. “What do you mean to do about it?”

He stared at her. “What can I do?”

She looked steadily back at him. “Am I not worth fighting for?”

“Is that what you what me to do? Fight for you?” He was incredulous. “To what end?”

“Do you only fight for things that are easy? Things that require no fight at all? I know you didn’t exert yourself for Lady Helen, but—”