John from saving Helen. They bound him up tight, suffocating his baser instincts into inaction.
As if he would ever strike a man of God. Or anyone, come to that.
He wasn’t a man of violence. He was a man of letters and learning.
“I’ve taken a position as tutor in a private household,” he said.
He’d placed the advertisement over a month ago. And then he’d waited.
And waited.
He’d begun to despair of ever receiving a response when the letter of enquiry had arrived from Mr. Fairfax of Thornfield Hall in Yorkshire. It was a brief missive, penned in spidery handwriting, offering a situation with two pupils, at a salary of forty pounds per annum.
It was precisely what John required. A remote locale, far away from Lowton. A place where he could focus anew on his teaching. It was more than work to him. It was his vocation. Given time and space, he hoped he could rekindle his passion for it.
“And Sir William has seen fit to give you a reference?”
“Not he,” John said. “It was her ladyship.”
“She knew you were leaving, then.”
John made no reply.
Of course Helen had known he wished to go. She’d known he found the situation untenable. He’d told himself it was for the best. That in his absence, she might resume the normal course of her life. Not in happiness—for John was aware that such an emotion was impossible when married to the likes of Sir William—but with a spirit resigned to doing her duty as a wife. The same spirit with which she’d endured her situation before John had come to the village and taken up his post as schoolmaster.
He hadn’t reckoned she would find it too much to bear.
“She has gone to God now,” Mr. Brocklehurst said.
John’s head jerked up. Anger flared in his breast. “You can say that? Yet you have consigned her here, to this piece of land, where God does not exist.”
“God exists everywhere.”
“I no longer believe that.”
Mr. Brocklehurst murmured a rebuke. “You are grieving, sir. But you mustn’t question God’s plan. You mustn’t lose your faith.”
John bent to retrieve the portmanteau that sat at his feet, his hand gripping tight around the leather handle. His trunk had already been corded and sent on ahead. All that remained was to get himself on the stage.
His gaze raked over Helen’s grave one last time before he turned away. “I already have.”
Three days later, John arrived in the village of Millcote at half past seven in the evening, his headache in full force. The George Inn was but a ramshackle building near the Yorkshire coast. Nothing much to speak of. A mere stop on the stage. John removed his hat and gloves as he entered. The door slammed behind him, shutting out the rain that had followed him all the way from Lowton.
“Evening, sir.” A grizzled gentleman in his shirtsleeves approached, hastily donning his coat. The innkeeper, John presumed.
“Good evening.” John glanced around the common area. A pendant oil lamp hung from the ceiling. It cast a shifting pattern of shadows on the empty tables and chairs. “Is there no one else here?”
“No, sir. None save the wife and me, and yon coachman. Will you be wanting a room?”
“I shouldn’t think so. That is, I was expecting to be met by someone from Thornfield Hall.”
The innkeeper gave him a blank look.
“Do you know of the place?” John asked.
“Aye. I know of it.”
John waited for the innkeeper to elaborate, but the man said nothing more. John suppressed a flicker of impatience. “Has no one been here today from Thornfield?”
“No, sir. We’ve not had anyone here today excepting the stage. Not with the storm coming.”
John’s new employer, Mr. Fairfax, might be reluctant to send a carriage out in such miserable weather. If that was the case, John had little choice but to remain here awhile.
He requested to be taken to a private room. Once there, he removed his frock coat and cravat, and bathed his face with cool water from the pitcher at the washstand.
There was no mirror available. He didn’t require one. He knew the limits of what could be achieved with his appearance.
He’d never been considered handsome. Not in the traditional sense. Though tall enough, he was too slight of frame and too plain of feature. His black hair, high forehead, and dark eyes spoke of book learning and quiet contemplation. A man who was all interior thought and emotion. Not a man of action. Not a hero who could have ridden to Helen’s rescue and