Good God! What a cry! Awakening in the dead of the night, I opened my eyes. The night’s silence was rent in twain by a savage, sharp, shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall.
My pulse stopped and my heart stood still. The cry died and was not renewed. It came out of the third storey for it passed overhead, and overhead in the room just above my chamber-ceiling, I now heard a struggle, a deadly one it seemed from the noise. A half-smothered voice shouted, “Help! Help! Help!” three times rapidly.
“Will no one come?” it cried, and then, while the staggering and stamping went on wildly, I distinguished through plank and plaster, “Rochester! Rochester! For God’s sake, come!”
A chamber-door opened and someone ran along the gallery. Another step stamped on the flooring above and something fell. Then there was silence.
I put on some clothes, though horror shook all my limbs, and issued from my apartment. The sleepers were all aroused and terrified murmurs sounded in every room. Door after door unclosed and one looked out and another looked out and the gallery filled. Gentlemen and ladies alike had quitted their beds saying, “Oh! What is it?”—”Who is hurt?”— “What has happened?” The confusion was inextricable.
“Where the devil is Rochester?” cried Colonel Dent. “I cannot find him in his bed.”
“Here!” was shouted in return. “Be composed, all of you. I’m coming.”
And the door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a candle. One of the ladies ran to him directly, seizing his arm: it was Miss Ingram.
“What awful event has taken place?” said she. “Speak! Let us know the worst at once!”
“All’s right!” he cried, as the other ladies began to cry shrilly. “A servant has had a nightmare, that is all. I must see you all back into your rooms for, till the house is settled, she cannot be looked after. Gentlemen, have the goodness to set the ladies the example.”
And so, by dint of alternate coaxing and commanding, he contrived to get them all once more enclosed in their separate dormitories. I did not wait to be ordered back to mine, but retreated unnoticed, as unnoticed I had left it. Not to go to bed, on the contrary, I dressed myself carefully. The sounds I had heard after the scream, and the words that had been uttered had probably been heard only by me for they had proceeded from the room above mine, but they assured me that it was not a servant’s dream which had thus struck horror through the house.
When dressed, I sat a long time by the window looking out over the silent grounds and silvered fields and waiting for I knew not what. It seemed to me that some event must follow the strange cry, struggle, and call.
No. Stillness returned and each murmur and movement ceased gradually. In about an hour, Thornfield Hall was again as hushed as a desert. It seemed that sleep and night had resumed their empire. Suddenly, a cautious hand tapped low at the door.
“Am I wanted?” I asked.
“Are you up?” asked a familiar voice.
I felt a lusty thrill rush through me.
“Yes, sir.”
“And dressed?”
“Yes.”
Although I almost wished I was not.
“Come out, then, quietly.”
I obeyed and found Mr. Rochester standing in the gallery, holding a light.
“I want you,” he said. “Come this way, take your time and make no noise.”
We glided up the gallery and up the stairs, then stopped in the dark, low corridor of the fateful third storey. I was a little confused for I had assumed that we would be retiring to his room.
“Have you a sponge in your room?” he asked in a whisper.
My puzzlement mounted for I could not see why our love making might need a sponge.
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
“Have you any salts—volatile salts?”
“Yes.”
“Go back and fetch both.”
I did as he asked, now sure that he had not brought me here for love’s purposes and though I was intrigued as well, I was overridden with disappointment.
“You don’t turn sick at the sight of blood?” he asked, as I returned.
“I think not.”
“Just give me your hand,” he said, “it will not do to risk a fainting fit.”
I put my fingers into his and felt their scorching heat. I dearly wished to lace mine into his and kiss his knuckles but I sensed that his mind was elsewhere.
We entered a room I had been in once before, when Mrs. Fairfax showed me over the house. It was hung with tapestry, but the tapestry was now looped up in one part and there was a door apparent, which had then been concealed. This door was open and a light shone out of the room within. I heard thence a snarling, snatching sound, almost like a dog quarrelling. Mr. Rochester put down his candle and said to me, “Wait a minute.”
He went forward to the inner apartment and a shout of laughter greeted his entrance; noisy at first, then terminating in Grace Poole’s own goblin ha! ha! She then was there. All quelling of desire left me in an instant and I was afraid. Mr. Rochester made some sort of arrangement without speaking, though I heard a low voice address him and he came out and closed the door behind him.
“Here, Jane!” he said, and I walked round to the other side of a large bed, which with its drawn curtains concealed a considerable portion of the chamber. An easy-chair was near the bed-head and a man sat in it, his head leant back, his eyes closed. Mr. Rochester held the candle over him and I recognised in his pale and seemingly lifeless face the stranger, Mason. I saw too that his linen on one side, and one arm, was almost soaked in blood.
“Hold the candle,” said Mr. Rochester, and taking my smelling-bottle, he held it under Mason’s nose.
He shortly unclosed his eyes and groaned. Then Mr. Rochester opened the shirt of the wounded man, and began to sponge away blood, trickling fast down.
“Is there immediate danger?” murmured Mr. Mason.
“No, a mere scratch. Don’t be so overcome, man, bear up! I’ll fetch a surgeon for you now, myself. Jane?”
“Sir?”
“I shall have to leave you in this room with this gentleman, for an hour, or perhaps two hours. You will sponge the blood as I do when it returns and if he feels faint, you will put the glass of water on that stand to his lips. You will not speak to him on any pretext and Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her.”
Again the poor man groaned and he looked as if he dared not move. Fear, either of death or of something else appeared almost to paralyse him. Mr. Rochester put the now bloody sponge into my hand and I proceeded to use it as he had done. He watched me a second, then saying, “Remember! No conversation,” he left the room. I experienced a strange feeling as the key grated in the lock, and the sound of his retreating step ceased to be heard.
Then my own thoughts worried me. What crime was this that lived incarnate in this sequestered mansion, and could neither be expelled nor subdued by the owner? And this man I bent over, how had he become involved in the web of horror? In the darkened room, all sorts of fiendish thoughts troubled me.
“When will Mr. Rochester come? When will he come?” I cried inwardly, as the night lingered and lingered, as my bleeding patient drooped, moaned, sickened, and neither day nor aid arrived. I had again and again held the water to Mason’s white lips and again and again offered him the stimulating salts, but my efforts seemed ineffectual. He moaned so and looked so weak, wild, and lost that I feared he was dying. However, still we said not a word to each other.
At last, I heard Pilot bark far below and hope was revived. In five minutes more the grating key and the yielding lock warned me my watch was relieved. It could not have lasted more than two hours, but many a week has seemed shorter.
Mr. Rochester entered, and with him the surgeon he had been to fetch.
“Now, Carter, be on the alert,” he said to this last: “I give you but half-an-hour for dressing the wound, fastening the bandages, getting the patient downstairs and all.”
“But is he fit to move, sir?”
“No doubt of it. Come, set to work.”
Carter undid the bandages saying, “I wish I could have got here sooner, he would not have bled so much. But how is this? The flesh on the shoulder is torn as well as cut. This wound was not done with a knife: there have been teeth here!”
“She bit me,” murmured the patient. “She worried me like a tigress, when Rochester got the knife from her.”
“I warned you,” was his friend’s answer. “Carter, hurry! The sun will soon rise and I must have him off.”
“Directly, sir. But I must look to this other wound in the arm for she has had her teeth here too, I think.”
“She sucked the blood. She said she’d drain my heart,” murmured Mason.
I saw Mr. Rochester shudder and a singularly marked expression of disgust, horror, and hatred, warped his countenance almost to distortion, but he only said, “Be silent, Richard and never mind her gibberish. Don’t repeat it.”
There was silence as Carter worked on his patient. After a few minutes he was finished and all breathed a sigh of relief for Mason looked markedly better, although still weak. Then plans were made for him to be taken to the surgeon’s house until complete recovery when he would return to Jamaica.
“Take care of him,” said Mr. Rochester, as Carter supported Mason and both walked to the door. “I shall ride over in a day or two to see how he gets on. Richard, how is it with you?”
Mason sighed. “Let her be taken care of, friend, and let her be treated as tenderly as may be. Let her—” he stopped and burst into tears.
“I’ll do my best,” was the answer.
The two men left the room to travel down to a coach that was waiting for them at the back door of the kitchen.
For the first time since reentering the room, Mr. Rochester looked in my direction. I had been standing in the corner through all of this, watching and listening in fear. “You have passed a strange night, Jane.”
“Yes, sir.”
In some inexplicable way, when he looked at me, I did not feel so afraid.
“You look pale—were you afraid when I left you alone with Mason?”
“I was afraid of someone coming out of the inner room.”
“But I had fastened the door and I had the key in my pocket. You were safe.”
I did not reply, instead I was caught by the change in his dark eyes; the way they seemed to pull me towards them and glitter in the low candlelight. Leisurely, he took a key from his pocket and walked over to the door. He slotted it into the lock and turned it with a flick of his wrist.
“We need not be disturbed,” he said.
It was remarkable how quickly all the horrors of the night slid from my mind and I became aware that I was standing before him in just my nightdress and shawl. My breath became shallow and I found I could not move.
He too was wearing his white nightshirt and breeches and I longed to finally pull them off and see him completely unclothed; our bare skin pressing hot and warm against each other.
“Before that commotion set about, I am aware that I promised we would resume our meeting later,” he said, walking steadily towards me.
I clenched my fingers in rich anticipation and felt my heart beat rapidly in my chest. For once I was not burdened by my corset and my breasts heaved with excited, hurried breaths.
Still he moved closer to me, taking his time and enjoying my obvious, violent lust. I wanted to step forward and quickly remove the distance between us, but I found I could not. His dark eyes hypnotized me to the spot. Instead I felt my nerve endings quiver and a throb tore through my groin, tingling and deep.
“You look different without your stiff dresses, Jane,” he said huskily, reaching out a hand with his last step and tracing the curve of my cheek.
I started with pleasure at his warm touch and a wave of desire burst through me.
Gently, he undid my plait and worked my hair out with his fingers, locking his eyes on mine as he did so, until it was completely free and I was gasping quietly. He brushed it over my shoulder and let it hang down my back.
“I think it would look better against your bare skin,” he said darkly.
In quick, fervent movements, he tore off my nightdress and undergarments and threw them to the floor. Then he stood back and his inky black eyes darted to every part of my naked body, drinking me in. Lust flamed in the redness of his cheeks and he slid his hand around the arch of my hip to the warm dip in my lower back.
I took his hand away and he frowned in confusion, but then I tugged on his nightshirt.
“It is your turn, sir,” I whispered quietly and seductively in his ear.
He shivered slightly and grinned. “As you wish, Jane,” he said.
He undid his breeches and let them fall to the floor, unleashing his large erection and then he whipped his shirt over his head, revealing his great, broad chest. I sucked my breath in upon seeing his carved, firm pack of muscles and could not help but reach out and run my fingers through the tufts of dark hair, down the humped skin of his stomach to the flat, smoothness of his hips.
“Lower, Jane,” he breathed.
Obediently, I let my fingers glide lower and taking him in both hands, I slowly tugged. He grunted and convulsed, running his hands up and down my spine in tickling, sweeping motions in return and wrapping my locks of hair around his wrists.
I let my hands move faster, feeling him harden and pulse beneath my fingers and feeling his breathing get heavier against my neck. Abruptly I stopped and my hands went back to caressing his toned chest. I giggled softly at his disgruntled expression.
Suddenly, he pulled my hair sharply, throwing my head back and then pressed his mouth to mine. His tongue gently pried my teeth apart and tasted the walls of my mouth, teasing my wanting from me. As he did so, I felt his hands drift down my sides leaving a trail of scorching heat, to my hips, where he reached around and clasped my buttocks, cupping the soft cheeks and fingering the crease between my thighs. Putting each of his hands on the backs of my legs, he pulled me up against him with a grunt, thrusting his tongue further down my throat and pressing his throbbing erection to me.
I returned his kisses eagerly, taking his bottom lip between my teeth and biting down gently. This produced another groan and his fingers clenched my bare skin. He hoisted me up further and I wrapped my legs around his torso, returning his kisses with an even greater fever. He carried me over to the bed and threw me down, standing over me. I looked up at him gasping against the soft, clean sheets.
Holding my gaze, he removed a curtain tie from one of the bedsteads. I was confused when he uttered huskily, “Put your hands out in front of you.”
I obeyed. Quickly he wrapped the golden curtain tie around my wrists and pulled the knot tight, then he pushed my hands up over my head, pinning me in place. He took my nightgown from the floor and folded it into a long strip, then bending over me, he placed it over my eyes and secured it at the back of my head so that I was unable to see anything.
“Relax and enjoy this, Jane,” he whispered in my ear as arousal coursed through me.
Beginning at my hips, he ran his hands up my body and paused at my breasts. He fingered the smooth skin of my nipples, letting them harden under his touch, and ran his thumb down the deep well between my breasts. I could not see any of this and each caress was unexpected and erotically heightened.
Suddenly I felt him lick my right nipple while his free hand pinched and flicked the other. I gasped as he let his tongue circle my breast and then blew gently on it, making me shudder with delight. Then I felt him sucking hard and flicking his tongue backwards and forwards and it was all that I could do to stop myself from crying out. He gently and carefully took my nipple between his teeth and bit it.
He paused and allowed me to recover a little before shifting slightly and suddenly, I felt him doing the same to my left breast; licking, sucking and nipping it until I was in a frenzy of passion. I clawed at the bed sheets above my head and tried to bring my hands in front of me so that I could touch and clutch him back, but I could not.
As my lust began building, I flexed my hips against him, aching for him to be inside me.
“Please . . .” I heard myself beg.
I could not see, but I felt that he grinned back at me wickedly.
He left my breasts and his fingers traced languidly across my belly and lower abdominal instead. I began to pant as slowly, he let them creep over my hips and between my legs.
I could not see and so each touch was magnified and a deep, extreme pleasure raged through my body. He gently ran his finger up and down before suddenly dipping two fingers inside me.
I convulsed and my body bowed with pleasure, my wrists straining against the curtain tie. As he moved his fingers in and out of me, I pushed against him, lifting my hips up, begging. His fingers moved faster before stopping completely and leaving me in a hazy, hungry state, gasping and wriggling with desire.
“All right, Jane,” I heard him say softly.
I felt him shifting and suddenly, he plunged himself inside me. I cried out from the suddenness of it and came instantly and then again and again as he pounded deliciously into me, hooking my legs over his back and pulling him deeper.
I could barely believe it as I felt something new building with each thrust. A hot spasm pooled in my groin and I clenched my teeth as it coiled into more. It tightened and tightened before I climaxed luxuriously and shattered into tiny fragments, collapsing back onto the sheets, exhausted. My senses were wrung raw and my body tingled with the aftermath of pleasure, my head light and dizzy.
I felt him pull out of me and I heard him grunt as he came.
After a moment, my vision was restored and my wrists freed. I glanced around the room with weak, delirious eyes and felt my chaffed wrists which were imprinted with the pattern of the curtain tie.
“Thank you, Jane,” said Mr. Rochester, lying beside me.
“Thank you, sir,” I replied and we were quiet for a few minutes.
“Little friend,” said he in quite a changed tone. His face changed too, losing all its softness and gravity and becoming harsh and sarcastic. “You have noticed my tender penchant for Miss Ingram, don’t you think if I married her she would regenerate me with a vengeance?”
I stared at him, aghast. I felt my cheeks redden and a bitter stab of hurt swept through my body, wiping away all desire.
“Well?” he probed.
“Yes, sir.”
“She’s a rare one, is she not, Jane?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A strapper, a real strapper. Big, brown, and buxom with hair just such as the ladies of Carthage must have had.”
I felt sick. I snatched at my nightgown which was nearby and hurried into it, while he remained lying on the bed, silent. I was foolish to believe that Mr. Rochester harbored any tender feelings for me. To him I was a means of satisfaction only. He could not possibly conceive that I could be anything more. I should hand in my resignation and find a position elsewhere, but I could not for I loved him.
“Good-night, sir,” I said in a small voice before leaving the room.
I am not even sure that he replied.