The library looked tranquil as I entered it and the gipsy was seated snugly enough in an easy-chair at the chimney-corner. She had on a red cloak and a broad-brimmed gipsy hat tied down with a striped handkerchief under her chin. I stood on the rug before her and warmed my hands at the fire. I felt now as composed as ever I did in my life as there was nothing indeed in the gipsy’s appearance to trouble one’s calm. She shut her book and slowly looked up. Her hat-brim partially shaded her face, yet I could see as she raised it that it was a strange one. It looked all brown and black and elf-locks bristled out from beneath a white band which passed under her chin.
“Well, and you want your fortune told?” she said, in a voice as decided as her glance and as harsh as her features.
“I don’t care about it, you may please yourself.”
“It’s like your impudence to say so, I expected it of you. Why don’t you tremble?”
“I’m not cold.”
“Why don’t you turn pale?”
“I am not sick.”
“Why don’t you consult my art?”
“I’m not silly.”
The old crone laughed and then drew out a short black pipe and lighting it, began to smoke. Having indulged a while in this sedative, she raised her bent body, took the pipe from her lips, and said very deliberately, “You are very near happiness, yes, within reach of it. The materials are all prepared, there only wants a movement to combine them.”
“I don’t understand enigmas. I never could guess a riddle in my life.”
“If you wish me to speak more plainly, show me your palm.”
“And I must cross it with silver, I suppose?”
“To be sure.”
I gave her a shilling and she put it into an old stocking-foot which she took out of her pocket. She then arched her face to my palm and poured over it without touching it.
“It is too fine,” said she. “I can make nothing of such a hand as that. Besides, what is in a palm? Destiny is not written there.”
“I believe you.”
“I wonder what thoughts are busy in your heart during all the hours you sit in that window-seat. You see I know your habits,” said she, changing track.
“You have learned them from the servants,” I replied, unconvinced.
“Ah! You think yourself sharp. Well, perhaps I have. I have an acquaintance with one of them, Mrs. Poole—” I started when I heard the name.
“Don’t be alarmed,” continued the strange being, “she’s a safe hand, is Mrs. Poole. But, as I was saying, sitting in that window-seat, do you have no present interest in any of the company who occupy the sofas and chairs before you? Is there not one face you study? One figure whose movements you follow with at least curiosity?”
“I like to observe all the faces and all the figures.”
“But do you never single one from the rest? Or two?”
“I do frequently when the gestures or looks of a pair seem telling a tale. It amuses me to watch them.”
“What tale do you like best to hear?”
“Oh, I have not much choice! They generally run on the same theme: courtship and promise to end in the same catastrophe—marriage.”
“And do you like that monotonous theme?”
“It is nothing to me.”
“Nothing to you? When a lady, young and full of life and health, charming with beauty and endowed with the gifts of rank and fortune, sits and smiles in the eyes of a gentleman you—”
“I what?”
“—you know and perhaps think well of.”
“I don’t know the gentlemen here. I have scarcely interchanged a syllable with one of them.”
“Will you say that of the master of the house?” I felt my cheeks flush, but I tried desperately not to give myself away and I answered calmly, “He is not at home.”
“A profound remark! A most ingenious quibble! He went to Millcote this morning and will be back here tonight or tomorrow. Does that circumstance exclude him from the list of your acquaintance?”
“No, but I can scarcely see what Mr. Rochester has to do with the theme you had introduced.”
“I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen and, of late, so many smiles have been shed into Mr. Rochester’s eyes.”
“Mr. Rochester has a right to enjoy the society of his guests.”
“True. He is so willing to receive them and looks so grateful for the pastime given him, you have noticed this?”
“Grateful! I cannot remember detecting gratitude in his face.”
“Detecting! You have analysed, then. And what did you detect, if not gratitude?”
I said nothing.
“You have seen love, have you not? And looking forward you have seen him married and beheld his bride happy?”
“Humph! Not exactly. Your witch’s skill is rather at fault sometimes.”
“What the devil have you seen, then?”
“Never mind. I came here to inquire, not to confess. Is it known that Mr. Rochester is to be married?” I asked.
“Yes, and to the beautiful Miss Ingram.”
“Shortly?”
“Appearances would warrant that conclusion and no doubt they will be a happy pair. He must love such a handsome, noble, witty, accomplished lady, and probably she loves him or if not his person, at least his purse. I know she considers the Rochester estate eligible to the last degree, though I told her something on that point about an hour ago which made her look wondrous grave—the corners of her mouth fell half an inch.”
Such thoughts of their marriage made my heart sink and I could not help but look very grave as well.
“I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester’s fortune. I came to hear my own and you have told me nothing of it.”
“Your fortune is yet doubtful. Chance has meted you a measure of happiness, but it depends on yourself to stretch out your hand and take it up. Whether you will do so, is the problem I study. Kneel on the rug.”
I knelt and she did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in her chair. I looked into her eyes and they were dark, mysterious, and familiar.
“Rise, Miss Eyre and leave me. The play is played out.”
Where was I? Had I been dreaming? Did I dream still? The old woman’s voice had changed and her accent and her gesture were all familiar to me now. I got up, but did not go.
“Well, Jane, do you know me?” asked a gruff voice.
“Only take off the red cloak, sir.”
Mr. Rochester stepped out of his disguise and I gasped.
“Now, sir, what a strange idea!” I said, flushing and wondering if I had revealed too much in our conversation.
“It was a mere folly. Do you forgive me for it, Jane?”
“I cannot tell till I have thought it all over.”
He stood abruptly and moved closer to me, his eyes boring into mine. “I will make it up to you,” he breathed. “I believe I owe you a favour.”
My blood rushed to my head and my abdominal muscles clenched with excitement. My head told me not to adhere to the wishes of this man that treated me so inconsistently and was practically the bridegroom of Miss Ingram, but I could not help it. I wanted every last moment I could snatch with my master before he was completely lost to me.
“And what favour would that be?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.
His eyes blackened with desire and burnt into mine with such blistering heat that I had never before known. I was gasping although he was not touching me and yearning pumped through my whole body, filling me with desperate need.
“Come to me, Jane,” he whispered, holding out his hand.
I shook my head. “No, you come to me,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise but the corners of his mouth tugged up in a devilish smile and he obediently crossed the distance between us, wrapping his great arms around me swiftly and slamming his lips against mine. My breath hitching in my throat, I surrendered myself to his violent passion and let his hands run the length of my body, caressing my breasts through my dress and tearing at my hair.
I let out a yelp of pleasure as he bit down hard on my lip and sucked and smoothed it better with his tongue. Then suddenly, he bent down and scooped me into his arms, his lips still fiercely pressing against mine, his tongue darting in and out of my mouth. He carried me over to the table and laid me down upon it.
“Stay still,” he instructed, leaning over me and delicately brushing my hair back from my face.
Then slowly, he peeled back my dress and petticoat. I lay against the cold, hard table wishing that I were completely bare and he too so that I could finally run my hands across the skin and dark hair on his broad chest. We had never been completely bare with each other before and I suddenly wanted it like nothing else.
I tried to move my hands back to unlace my dress, but he stopped me.
“Not now, Jane,” he said with a wicked grin. “Later. Right now, this is you only.”
I gently sank back against the table in sweet rapture as he trailed kisses across my neck and chest, tenderly kissing, sucking, and nipping the skin so that my senses quaked and shivered with longing. He ran his hands down the length of my body and slid them beneath my skirts. Then he pulled down my stockings ever so slowly, kissing each bare piece of skin as it exposed itself and licking the length of my thighs.
I moaned softly and convulsed, quivering.
He began kissing my ankle and then gliding his lips up my calf before pausing and doing the same on the other foot, teasing me.
“Please,” I begged.
Without responding, he kissed up my calf again and then carried on across my inner thigh, pushing my legs apart. I gasped, desire strong in me and my whole body tingling with coiled anticipation.
He took each of my legs and hooked them over his shoulders, pushing them even farther apart and I writhed. Softly he pressed his lips between them and then very gently, he ran them up and down as I shuddered and groped with delight. He waited calmly for me to pause and then, locking his eyes with mine, he plunged his tongue inside me.
My body sung from the deep touch and bowed uncontrollably with pleasure. He circled his tongue, grating against me and building up a steady, torturous rhythm. I found that I could no longer regulate myself. I gave myself up to him completely. Every part of me was solely concentrated on the scorching heat between my legs and my body was ridged with ecstasy.
He dipped his tongue back inside me and I panted and whimpered. His tongue flexed in wide circles, pulling me luxuriously apart and sending ripples of heat shooting through me. It was too much and my body begged for relief. Letting go, everything slipped away and I was lost in lust and the strength of my intense euphoria. My insides clenched to a climax and I cried out before they released blissfully.
Mr. Rochester stepped away from me and grinned. I could barely respond except to sigh a satisfied sigh. “That will do for now,” he said.
I gingerly sat up and began rolling my stockings on. Mr. Rochester watched me, deep in thought.
“Tell me,” he said suddenly. “What do you believe the people in the drawing-room yonder are doing?”
“Discussing the gipsy, I daresay,” I responded still a little breathless, “and speaking to . . . oh, are you aware Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here since you left this morning?”
“A stranger! I expected no one. Is he gone?”
“No, he said he had known you long and that he could take the liberty of installing himself here till you returned.”
“The devil he did! Did he give his name?”
“His name is Mason, sir, and he comes from the West Indies.”
The smile on his lips froze and apparently a spasm caught his breath. The mood in the library quickly altered and I wished I had said nothing.
“Mason! The West Indies!” he gasped. “. . . Mason! The West Indies!” he reiterated and he went over the syllables three times, growing whiter than ashes.
“Go back now into the room,” he said, his voice cold. “Step quietly up to Mason and whisper in his ear that Mr. Rochester is come and wishes to see him. Show him in here and then leave me.”
We were master and servant once more and I lowered my head meekly.
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Jane,” he called, just as I was departing. I paused.
“We will resume this later—I have not forgotten.”