Page 90 of John Eyre

“Don’t fuss. I’m perfectly all right.”

“Have you dined?”

She shook her head.

“Take my arm, then, if you please. I’ll get you home and fed.” He waited for her to slip her hand back into the crook of his arm. When she’d done so, he continued back toward the house, albeit at a slower pace. “You see why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Yes. It’s all quite fanciful.” Her bell-shaped skirts swayed against his leg. “Are you sure you haven’t taken any laudanum?”

“Not a drop. Nothing but that herbal tonic of yours since February.”

“Strange. It should have put an end to bad dreams.”

“In addition to headaches?” He smiled slightly. “You have a lot of confidence in the mixture.”

“A guarded confidence. It’s a new recipe. I only discovered it earlier this year. An obliging chemist made it up for me in London.”

“You’ve never mentioned what it contains.”

She hesitated for an instant. “Various things. Wild rose. Garlic. Tincture of silver nitrate. An imprecise concoction. So much of this is trial and error.”

He looked at her with a start. “Silver nitrate?”

“Trace amounts. Not enough to harm anyone. Perhaps therein lies the difficulty.” She rubbed her temple, as if to stave off an impending headache. “Oh, why do we have to linger? Why can we not leave this place immediately?”

“For Italy?”

“Yes. For Rome or London. Anywhere but here. I don’t want to wait another night. But we must, mustn’t we? We can’t leave until we’re married.” She stared ahead, her gaze fixed on the house looming in the distance, swathed in its veil of mist. “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Will you spend tonight in the nursery with the boys? Sophie won’t mind it.” She paused before adding, “You’ll never sleep properly in your own room. Not after such a nightmare as you’ve described. And I want you to be well rested for our wedding.”

He frowned. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” she said. “And John? Be sure to bolt the door.”

Mrs. Bertha Rochester’s Journal.

26 April, morning. — After a fraught night, I am again alone in my chamber. Mr. Poole has gone, with promises to return to the courtyard today at noon. In the meanwhile, I’ve entreated him to hide himself as best he can. I believe he comprehends the danger. Indeed, when he saw me leaning out the barred window, he confessed that he’d thought me already dead.

Apparently, he was set upon when he was returning from accompanying Mrs. Wren to Varna. He routed his assailants and walked the rest of the way back to Senniskali. I don’t flatter myself that he’s loyal. He’s not even passing clever. But Mr. Poole is strong as an ox, and he knows who it is who pays his wages. I’ve promised to triple his salary if he assists me in escaping this place.

“Avoid the mist,” I called down to him as he departed yesterday. “Hide yourself at night as best you can. And on no account let my husband see you.”

The small key I’d found in Edward’s waistcoat pocket was still in the pocket of my skirt. I hadn’t the time to investigate what lock it might fit into. The sun was rapidly slipping beyond the horizon. Soon my husband would wake, and I dared not risk him catching me with my pilfered prize.

He rose at sunset, and much to my relief, seemed to have no idea that I’d spied him in his unnatural sleep. Neither did he seem to realize that his key was missing. He disappeared for the evening, returning at dawn with more foreign papers for me to sign. I did so without objection, even as my heart threatened to sink into despair. But what was the point in arguing with him? I was still his captive.

Only when the sun rose and he once again retired to his lair did I venture from my room to test the key I’d stolen. It was a daunting task. Most of the doors in Nosht-Vŭlk were locked. It would mean trying every one of them.

I first went to the front and side exterior doors—the doors that, if opened, would grant my freedom. There was little hope of success. The front door was barred with a heavy bolt, and the door from the kitchen was equally secured. Neither the key, nor persistent poking with my hairpins, produced any effect.

Discouraged but not defeated, I tried various doors off of the main hall before extending my search to the opposite side of the fortress. It was there I found the key’s natural home: my husband’s vault. When inserted, the key opened the lock with a decisive click.

Suddenly I understood why my husband had kept this key separately on his person. He valued the items in his vault more than anything else he possessed. I hadn’t much time before he realized his key was missing. After that, it wouldn’t take long for him to determine the likely culprit of the theft.

Swinging the door of the vault open, I cautiously entered, my footsteps silent on the rich Turkish carpet that covered the floor as I lit the two lanterns which gave light to the small room. I’d never before been inside on my own. Never had the leisure to thoroughly inspect the treasures within—what was left of them. It appeared he’d sold off even more since my last visit. All that remained were bits of pottery carved with odd words and symbols; figures of gods and goddesses; and a few delicately bound books and scrolls protected behind glass.