Page 86 of John Eyre

“That was different. She was different.”

“How well I know it. Sainted Helen. Too good for this world.”

He shook his head, troubled by her tone. “Don’t.”

“Helen, up there on her pedestal. But you’re here with me now, John. Here in the dirt, among the living.” She turned to him, tears still clinging to her lashes. “You told me once that you were my subordinate in fact, but not in spirit. Do you remember?”

How could he forget? It had been that morning in the arbor, words he’d spoken in the taut seconds before she’d kissed him.

“It’s my spirit that now addresses your spirit,” she said, “as honestly as if we’d crossed through the veil. Do you hear me, John? I don’t want a lord and master. And I certainly don’t want a long-suffering admirer. I need a man who will pass through this life at my side. A man who will be my equal—my second self, and best earthly companion.”

His heart beat hard. He had the strangest sense that he was dreaming. That, at any moment, he’d wake up, alone in the darkness. “What about Eshton?”

“I’m not marrying George Eshton. I never was. I don’t love him.” Her mouth trembled. “The closest thing I’ve ever felt to love is what I feel for you.”

A swell of emotion tightened John’s throat. He knew what the declaration must have cost her. She wasn’t a woman who often made herself vulnerable. He took her in his arms. She came willingly, setting her hands flat against his waistcoat. “Do you mean that?” he asked, his voice gone gruff.

“Yes,” she said. And then again, more emphatically, “Yes. When I leave Thornfield, I must have you with me.”

“In what capacity?”

“Whatever you choose. Tutor. Friend.” She smoothed her palms over his chest. “Husband.”

He bent his head to hers. “I don’t want your money or property. I want only you, Bertha.” He was conscious of using her given name for the first time. A heady feeling. “I do love you.”

She pressed her cheek to his, her breath a soft, ragged whisper against his ear. “Then say you’ll come with me. That we can leave this place together, along with the boys.”

“Would that I could travel with you as your friend—or as their tutor—without damaging your good name.” His hand moved gently on the corseted curve of her back. “But people will talk. You know what they’re like. Your reputation would suffer for it.”

“I don’t care about my reputation.”

“I care. I won’t be the cause of your ruination.”

She gave a strange laugh. “My darling. One day you shall marvel that you said such a thing.” She pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. “Husband it is, then.”

He drew back sharply, his eyes searching hers. “Take care. I have nothing to offer you but myself.”

“You’re all I require,” she said.

“Are you certain?”

“As certain as the grave.”

He looked at her, deeply, every cell and sinew of his being yearning, yearning. Wanting her so very badly. A mighty surge of masculine emotion deafening him to the persistent flicker of warning that sounded deep within his brain. “Then marry me,” he said. “Say you’ll be my wife.”

A look of almost savage determination crossed over her face. “I will,” she said. “May God pardon me.”

John straightened Stephen’s and Peter’s portfolios before stacking them on one of the library shelves. He’d already dismissed the boys for an early luncheon and was about to seek out his own midday meal when Bertha entered the library.

“Good morning.” She was dressed in a black silk carriage dress, a black crepe-trimmed bonnet in her hand.

The sight of her never failed to make John’s heart turn over. “Good morning.” He crossed the room to meet her.

A week had passed since she’d accepted his proposal. During that time, he’d carried on much as he always had at Thornfield—teaching the boys and sharing dinners with Mr. Fairfax in the small parlor. The wedding was set for four weeks hence. In the meanwhile, John was taking no liberties.

But fair weather was upon them, and a fair mood along with it. In addition to summoning him for tea each evening, Bertha had begun visiting him in the schoolroom, often drawing him away for walks and picnics on the grounds. The boys always came along, providing a fig leaf of chaperonage.

As far as John was aware, no one at Thornfield yet knew that he and Bertha were to be married. And he had no intention of telling them. It was up to her to choose the time and manner of the announcement.