Page 99 of John Eyre

“As you see, he is mad,” Bertha said. “He has been so for some time. If you doubt it, ask Mr. Carter, the village surgeon in Hay. He’s heard many of my husband’s insane ravings and accusations—though he wasn’t aware at the time that his patient was my husband. No one was. Least of all this good gentleman.”

“Is that true, Mr. Eyre?” Mr. Taylor asked. “You had no knowledge that Mrs. Rochester had a husband now living?”

John’s mouth was dry. He shook his head. “No. I didn’t.”

At last Bertha released his hand. “Mr. Eyre is innocent in all of this. I deliberately kept it from him, and my servants were instructed not to let him into their confidence on the matter.”

John flexed his fingers. He felt like a boat, untethered from its moorings. She was letting him go. Releasing him from his commitment to her. He wasn’t certain he wanted to be released. Not until he understood the full picture.

But events moved quickly.

“Bigamy is a grave sin, madam,” Mr. Taylor said. “That you would contemplate such a course—”

“Can you blame me?” Bertha’s gaze came to rest on John’s face. “Look at this gentleman. Handsome, honest, and kind. A good man who loved me well and could have made me happy. And now look at my husband—if you can see him in the darkness. Look at the unnatural creature I am tied to for the remainder of my life.”

“You are his legal wife,” Mr. Briggs said.

“Wedding vows are not to be taken lightly,” Mr. Taylor agreed. “They cannot be cast aside when adversity strikes.”

“No?” Bertha cast Mr. Taylor an unreadable look. “Not even if one’s husband is a brute? A monster?”

“Marriage can be difficult, I’m aware,” Mr. Taylor said. “But as his wife, you are obligated by God to stand by him.”

“If that be the case, then let me exercise a wife’s control over this lunatic. Leave him with me, not with a sister who has no knowledge of how to manage him. And not in an asylum where he would be neglected and abused. Leave him here, and permit me to continue to care for him in the manner I see fit.”

“You don’t understand.” Mrs. Wren was becoming frantic. “It isn’t what it seems. She’s twisted the truth to suit her purpose. Her fortune belongs to my brother, and he must be set free—”

“Let us depart, madam.” Mr. Briggs took her arm. “We can discuss the possibility of any further legal action on the return journey. Nothing more can be done today.”

Mrs. Wren shrugged free of him. “I would stay a moment longer.”

“As you wish.” Mr. Briggs turned to go. “Mr. Taylor?”

“We will speak again on this subject, Mrs. Rochester,” Mr. Taylor said as he departed with the solicitor.

“Bolt the door, Mr. Poole,” Bertha commanded. Mr. Poole hastened to obey her. “Mr. Fairfax? You may show the gentlemen out.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The elderly butler followed after the two men. “This way, sirs.”

The moment they were gone, Mrs. Wren turned on Bertha with trembling anger. “You!”

Bertha faced her. “Have you something you wish to say to me?”

“You treacherous witch. All your talk of laws. Of treating Edward gently. But you and I both know the truth of it. What you’ve done is disgraceful. It’s outside the laws of man.”

“But I’m not a man, Felda. I am a woman, and your brother—if that’s who he is—was very foolish to meddle with me. Did you truly expect I’d go quietly? That I’d simply disappear and leave the pair of you to my money and property? Well”—Bertha’s expression was implacable— “you know better now.”

Mrs. Wren backed up. “I believe you are insane.”

“Believe what you will,” Bertha said. “But know this: if you ever set foot in this house again, I will show you no mercy. I will deal with you exactly as I dealt with him.” She loomed over Mrs. Wren, as righteous and beautiful as an avenging angel. “Now run back to London with your solicitor before I really lose my temper.”

At that, Mrs. Wren spun on her heel and fled the room.

John withdrew from the tapestried room in a fog. Bertha made no effort to detain him. He simply drifted away as she exchanged words with Mr. Poole. Something relating to Mr. Rochester’s care.

Mr. Rochester.

The full horror of it hadn’t sunk in yet. Indeed, as John retreated to his bedchamber, locking the door behind him, he felt a sense of preternatural calm settle over him. He sank down into a chair and rested his head in his hands. His forehead was warm to the touch. Perhaps he had a fever? Or some other encroaching malady?