look.
“It was last summer. Mrs. Rochester had just arrived home from the Continent and Miss Ingram had gone to call on her. The two of them were childhood friends, you know. As close as sisters. I’d have thought Mrs. Rochester might have said something.”
“Not at all. I’ve never heard Miss Ingram’s name spoken before. Not by anyone.” John frowned. “She fell from her horse?”
“She was thrown, I believe, on the journey back to Millcote. Her horse arrived at the Ingrams’ stables without her. She was found the next day, her neck broken from the fall. I pray she died instantly.” Mr. Taylor’s expression tightened. “She was badly mauled about. The wild animals must have got to her in the night.”
John winced. He wondered that Mrs. Rochester had never mentioned the loss of her friend. Then again, why would she? She wasn’t obliged to confide in him.
Still, the manner of Miss Ingram’s death was surely of note. Mr. Fairfax, at least, might have said something. The most John could remember him having communicated was that the Ingram family was lately in mourning, but he’d revealed nothing of the reason why, and John hadn’t thought to ask. It hadn’t seemed relevant.
Now, however…
John recalled Mrs. Rochester’s words to him the day they’d walked together along the snow-covered lawn.
My dear Mr. Eyre, what makes you think that it’s my husband for whom I wear mourning clothes?
Was it possible that she was wearing black for Miss Ingram?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I expect you knew her well.”
Mr. Taylor’s mouth twisted. “I was betrothed to her.”
John took an involuntary step back from the grave. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize.”
“How could you if no one told you? You’re new to the vicinity, aren’t you?” Mr. Taylor turned back up the path to the church doors. He motioned for John to accompany him. “I’m glad you finally had time to spare for a visit. I regret I was unable to call on you myself.”
“Not at all.”
“We’re a busy parish, here. And I haven’t a curate to lighten my load. I confess it would be a relief if one were assigned to me. Especially, as now…” He gave a sad, self-conscious smile. “I haven’t any official right to be in mourning for Miss Ingram. We weren’t married. Even so, I feel as though I’ve lost my wife.”
An image of Helen sprang into John’s brain. Fair and beautiful and pleading with him not to leave her. He made an effort to dispel it. To remind himself that the guilt and the sorrow weren’t his to bear. It was becoming easier to do so. Nevertheless…
“I understand,” he said. “I’ve recently lost someone myself.”
Mr. Taylor looked at him. “Not your wife, I trust?”
“No. She was a…a friend.”
“My condolences. Loss is never easy.”
“No,” John agreed. “It isn’t.”
Mr. Taylor led him into the church. It was warmer inside, and brighter, too. The high windows angled the sun directly into the nave, illuminating the wooden pews on either side of the aisle, and the raised pulpit ahead.
A door at the back of the church opened onto a small garden, shared with an equally small house. “The vicarage,” Mr. Taylor said, ushering John into the parlor. “You’ll excuse the mess.”
Books and papers were scattered on every available surface. Mr. Taylor swept up a stack from an overstuffed chair, clearing the way for John to sit down.
“My housekeeper’s daughter is nearing her confinement. I gave her leave to take the month off. It seemed reasonable enough at the time, but as you can see, I’ve rather let things get out of hand.” He caught a stray paper as it fluttered from his arms. “Do have a seat, Mr. Eyre. I’ll be back in a moment with some refreshment. It’s already prepared.”
With that, the vicar disappeared into what was presumably the kitchen.
Sitting down, John looked about the cluttered parlor with frank curiosity. On a table nearby was another stack of books. They appeared to be of some antiquity, their covers worn and frayed with use. His gaze drifted over the spines, surprised by some of the titles he found there—and the language he found them in.
“Folklore,” Mr. Taylor said, emerging from the kitchen with the tea tray in his hands. “I’ve been reading a good deal of it lately.”
“In German?”
“I find it best to go to the source. It saves me from worrying whether certain points have been lost in a poor translation.” He cleared another chair and took a seat. “Do you speak the language?”
“Not enough