Page 87 of John Eyre

Apparently, today was that day.

“I’ve just informed Mr. Fairfax of our engagement,” she said.

John failed to suppress a wince. He’d come to respect Mr. Fairfax. To look on him as something like a friend. The elderly butler’s good opinion shouldn’t matter—not in terms of whether or not John ultimately wed Bertha. Yet somehow it did. “How did he take the news?”

“He was surprised, naturally. But he soon came around.” She smoothed John’s waistcoat. “Don’t look so worried. We’ll need his help with the plans for the wedding. We’ll never manage it so quickly on our own. Not if we mean to leave for Italy directly afterward.”

“No. You’re right. We can’t keep it secret forever, can we?”

She gazed up at him, frowning. “You’re afraid people will think you’re marrying me for my fortune.”

“Among other things.”

“Let them. Who cares what anyone says? All that matters is our own happiness. Yours and mine, and that of the boys.” Her hand lifted to cradle his cheek. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“Not about you.” He bent his head to hers. “Never about you.”

“Good. Because we haven’t time for doubts. If you have a free moment, spend it as I am, on preparing to leave this place.”

His gaze dropped briefly to her carriage dress. She was devoid of ornament, save for the ever-present silver locket at her throat. He knew now that it contained two small portraits of her parents. A dour couple who bore little resemblance to their daughter. It also functioned as a timepiece. There was a delicate clock set inside, which she often consulted. “Where are you off to today?”

“To Millcote to buy my wedding clothes. I’ve done with all of this black. It’s time to shed my widow’s weeds.”

After glancing at the door to make sure no one observed them, John gathered her in an embrace. How well she fit in his arms. He could almost imagine that she’d been fashioned just for him. “How will I recognize you without them?”

“Foolish.” She encircled his neck. “Wait until you see how smart I look in pastel-printed muslin. You’ll fall in love with me all the more.”

He kissed her fiercely. “Impossible.”

After she’d gone, he made his way to the parlor where he often shared a midday meal with Mr. Fairfax. His footsteps slowed as he entered. The elderly butler was there, seated silently in his chair. A tray of tea and sandwiches stood untouched on the table beside him. He looked pale and grave, staring blankly ahead of him. Almost as if he was in shock.

A floorboard creaked under John’s boot, announcing his presence.

Mr. Fairfax roused himself. “Mr. Eyre. Do come in. It seems that congratulations are in order. Though one can hardly believe it. Is it true, then? Do you really mean to marry the mistress?”

John took a seat in the velvet-upholstered armchair on the opposite side of the tea table. “I’ve asked her and she has accepted me.”

“And you believe her?”

John frowned. “Shouldn’t I?”

Mr. Fairfax regarded John with a troubled expression. “I couldn’t say. That is, I expect you can believe it since she’s told you so. But how will it answer? Mrs. Rochester is a proud and independent woman. Her marrying Mr. Eshton would have been surprise enough. But to marry you?” He surveyed the whole of John’s person. “I can’t understand it.”

John supposed he should be offended. “Am I such a sad specimen?”

“No, indeed, sir. And Mrs. Rochester is fond of you, I daresay. I’ve noticed it myself. Many a time I’ve wanted to warn you to remain on your guard. Not everything at Thornfield is quite what it seems.”

“I know that much,” John said grimly, thinking of Mr. Poole.

How often since the man’s attack on Mrs. Wren had John heard that blood-chilling chuckle of his? The rattling of chains and the scraping of wood coming from the third floor?

Bertha had said she was confident that Mr. Poole wouldn’t hurt anyone again. John suspected that that confidence owed to some advanced level of confinement in the small room behind the tapestry. A place Mr. Poole was consigned during his moments of madness. Was he chained up now? Cuffed and collared like an animal, in addition to being locked in?

This was the same man John saw working diligently at his forge, or carrying a pint of porter and plate of cold pork pie up from the kitchen. A stolid, steady fellow, with no glimmer of insanity in his gaze.

It beggared belief.

“We shall be glad to leave for Italy next month,” John said. “The climate will be better for the boys.”