It was this blasted headache. How was a man to think straight?
The innkeeper had placed John’s portmanteau on a bench at the end of the bed. John opened it, withdrawing a small, rigid leather case. Inside, arrayed in three neat rows, were more than two dozen glass phials of laudanum.
The village doctor had prescribed it for the worst of John’s headaches, but in the aftermath of Helen’s suicide, John found himself relying on the drug more and more.
On a good day, a single phial could be made to stretch to several doses.
Today was not a good day.
Relief wouldn’t be enough. He wanted—needed—oblivion, if only for a few brief moments.
Uncorking a phial, he swallowed the entirety of the contents in one grimacing gulp. It was sickly sweet. Increasingly familiar—as was the muzzy-headedness that followed.
He lay down upon the bed and closed his eyes.
And he must have fallen asleep, for when next he opened them, the candle at his bedside had guttered, and his room was swathed in darkness.
A knock sounded at the door.
John sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His mouth was dry as cotton wool. “Yes? What is it?”
“Coachman’s come from Thornfield, sir. Looking for a Mr. Eyre.”
“I won’t be a moment.” John swiftly put himself in order, gathered his things, and hastened downstairs.
The coachman stood at the open door, droplets of rain clinging to his oilskin coat. He eyed John’s trunk, which the innkeeper had left in the passage. “Is this all of your luggage?”
“Only that and my portmanteau.” John followed the coachman outside. A one-horse conveyance awaited. The coachman hoisted John’s trunk onto the roof and secured it with a length of rope.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle, the air redolent with the fragrance of wet earth. John saw no evidence of stars in the night sky nor any sign of a moon to light their way. A lamp hung at the front of the carriage, on the right of the coachman’s box, but all else lay in darkness.
“How far is it to Thornfield?” he asked.
“Ten miles.” The coachman opened the door of the carriage and waited while John climbed inside. When he was settled, the coachman fastened the door. Seconds later, the carriage shook as he took his place on the box and gave the horse the office to start.
John leaned back into his seat as the carriage lurched into motion. Their progress, over the course of the next hour, was leisurely. Necessarily so given the darkness, and the evident age of the carriage. The vehicle was neither dashing nor well-sprung. Which suited John very well. He had no desire to be employed by a person of fashion. A simple country life, that was what he required. Someplace quiet and orderly where he could teach his new pupils in peace.
In his letter, Mr. Fairfax had described the two boys as being shy but eager to learn. They were ages six and seven. A bit younger than the children John had taught at the village school in Lowton.
He prayed he was up to the task.
Older boys were more trouble, but one could talk with them. Reason with them. They weren’t babies just out of the nursery.
But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Mr. Fairfax’s letter had been the only reply to John’s advertisement. He hadn’t held out much hope of receiving another offer of employment. Certainly not one that would take him so far away from Lowton.
He rested his head against the rain-streaked window as the carriage rolled through the mud. The laudanum had left him with a dull headache, and a familiar sense of queasy malaise that wasn’t likely to leave him until he’d properly eaten and rested. It was going on midnight. Would the housekeeper at Thornfield have something prepared for his arrival? A cold collation, perhaps? Or a slice of leftover kidney pie?
The thought of food did nothing to settle his stomach. Rather the opposite. A surge of nausea rose in his throat. He let down the window and thrust out his head. Damp night air filled his lungs.
“You all right, sir?” the coachman called down.
“Quite well. Just needed a bit of air.” John’s answer appeared to satisfy the fellow. He made no attempt to stop the carriage. Indeed, he gave the plodding horse a brisk smack with the reins as if to speed the creature’s pace.
John kept the window down. The fresh air was welcome, and he could see better without the barrier of