Page 96 of John Eyre

And he was awake now. Fully conscious of what it was that mattered in life. Love mattered. Love for the lady sitting across from him, and for the two lads waiting back at the house. Stephen and Peter. The first martyrs, Bertha had called them. Sophie was to have them ready to depart the instant John and his new bride returned. And then they would leave Thornfield Hall, and their new life together could begin.

Jenkins opened the door of the carriage and lowered the steps. John climbed out first to assist Bertha down. She gripped tight to his hand.

He sank his voice. “Are you sure—”

“Yes, yes. Let us go in,” she said. “Mr. Taylor will be waiting.”

They passed through the iron gate and down the path through the graveyard. At the end of the path was the church, its front doors standing open. Garbed in his white surplice, Mr. Taylor was positioned in front of them. His posture wasn’t one of welcome. Quite the reverse. He appeared to be barring them entry.

A black-suited gentleman was at his side—a sober-looking fellow of passing middle age. The two men wore twin expressions of gravity.

Bertha’s grip tightened on John’s hand with a convulsive strength.

“Mrs. Rochester. Mr. Eyre,” Mr. Taylor said. “Forgive me. This gentleman has only just informed me that there is an impediment to your marriage.”

“An insuperable impediment.” The stranger was as somber as an undertaker. “This woman has a husband now living.”

John’s breath stopped, right along with his heart. He absorbed the words like a blow.

But it couldn’t be, could it? It must be a mistake. Some confusion over Mr. Rochester having died abroad.

Turning to Bertha for reassurance, he found her countenance as hard as chiseled marble.

“Who are you?” she demanded of the stranger.

“My name is Briggs, madam. I’m a solicitor from London, hired to investigate the matter. I have certain documents in my possession proving the truth of what I say.”

Bertha’s eyes kindled. “Hired by whom?”

“What documents?” Mr. Taylor asked at the same time. “I’d like to see them.”

Mr. Briggs withdrew a folded paper from his coat pocket and read it out to them:

“‘I affirm that on the 11th of November 1843, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, of Thornfield Hall, in the county of Yorkshire, England, was married to my brother, Edward Rochester of Senniskali, Bulgaria, at the Villa Striges in Athens, Greece in a civil ceremony. I was witness to the union and have a copy of the marriage record in my possession. Signed, Mrs. F. Wren.’”

Bertha scoffed. “That proves I’ve been married before—a fact of which I’ve made no secret. But it doesn’t prove that my first husband is still living.”

“He was but two months ago,” Mr. Briggs replied. “I have a witness who can swear to having seen him.” He turned to the open door. “Mrs. Wren? Come and join us, if you please.”

A lady in a voluminous gown and feathered bonnet emerged from the dark interior of the church. John recognized her at once. It was indeed Mrs. Wren.

What little color Bertha had left drained from her face. “Good God, you dare to show your face here? And inside a church no less!”

Mrs. Wren crept into the doorway, coming no closer. Her words issued in an unsteady undertone. “On my brother’s behalf—”

“Speak up, worm!” Bertha commanded. “If you would accuse me, I’d have you do it with some conviction!”

“Please, ma’am, I beg you,” Mr. Taylor said severely. “Remember where you are.”

“Did you hear him?” Bertha asked Mrs. Wren. “Are you aware this is a house of God?”

Mrs. Wren trembled but she did not back down. “I know my duty.”

“Go on, madam,” Mr. Briggs encouraged her. “Tell the vicar what you have seen.”

“Mr. Edward Rochester is now living at Thornfield Hall. I saw him there in April. I am his sister.”

“You’re a liar,” Bertha said.