Chapter One

I shall not weary my readers with an account of my early childhood, which was uneventful. Suffice it to say that my parents were poor but honest, and very loving. But when I was only eighteen years old they both died of the fever, and I was left homeless and with no means of support. Some distant relatives, of whom I knew nothing, offered to take me in. For this I was grateful, but not for long. The woman of the house encouraged me to call her “aunt”. However, she had none of the feelings for me that such a relationship would imply. Instead, she despised me for my poverty and acted towards me as if I were a burden. This would have been hard enough for a lonely and sensitive child to bear. Unfortunately she had a son, Desmond, some three or four years older than I, a spoiled and malicious boy who set out to make my life a misery.

At first he simply bullied me, twisting my hair and pinching me, and making up stories about my bad behavior which he told to his mother. But after I had been in that house for a year or so, my body was well advanced towards womanhood. I trust the reader will not think me indelicate if I say that my bosom was by that time fully formed and such as any woman might be proud of. But I could take no pleasure in this, seeing that my person proved irresistible to this hateful boy. He took to leering at me and making suggestive remarks whenever his mother’s back was turned. And then, emboldened by the fact that I had not complained (sensing that it would be useless; his mother believed him perfect in every way), he began to expose himself to me. Often I would be busy in the kitchen (his mother treated me as an unpaid servant, working me night and day) and he would enter silently. Then when I turned around I would be faced with the spectacle of him standing in a corner, his breeches unbuttoned, his member thrust out in a manner both crude and offensive.

“For shame,” I would cry. “I wonder that you have no better manners than to insult me in such a way.”

He would merely snigger, perhaps frigging himself a little before putting his organ away. Gradually, as I got older he got more daring, grabbing hold of me, attempting to kiss me or fondle me. Often he would pin me in a corner and force his hand up under my skirts, rummaging there in my drawers, seeking to penetrate his fingers into my most private parts. Or else he would try to feel down the front of my stays, squeezing my bosom, pinching my tender young nipples. Naturally I struggled, but I was reluctant to make representations to his mother, because I was sure that she would take his side and might accordingly banish me from her house. I had nowhere else to go, no one else I could turn to. But I knew that eventually things would come to breaking point. It was clear enough that Desmond was intent on having his way with me. It was only a matter of time.

One afternoon Mrs. Reid, his mother, had sent me down to the garden to gather some vegetables for the pot. It was a warm sunny day and I wore only a skirt and loose blouse over my shift and drawers. I worked bent over, digging in the earth for potatoes, when suddenly I was grabbed from behind. Immediately I began to scream. I knew it was Desmond, even before I twisted my head around. But we were some hundred yards from the house; I doubted that Mrs. Reid would hear my cries for help even if she were of a mind to.

Desmond was a strong boy. He threw me on the ground and lay on top. He managed to get one arm under my neck and take hold of one of my hands, pinning down my other arm under his body. He pushed his leg between mine, attempting to force them apart. I struggled with all my might. My resistance might be in vain, but I had no intention of making a present of my honor to this loathsome boy. Nevertheless I felt myself helpless when he put his free hand up under my skirt, pulling it up to my waist. I hoped that he might have difficulty removing my drawers, but this defense proved of no value, for he simply ripped them open, laying bare my belly.

The sight of it seemed to further inflame his lust. He managed to get one hand down to his breeches and pull them open. I could feel his member, hard and strong, pressing against my flesh, attempting to force itself in between my thighs. Surely I was lost. But just then he moved to afford himself better access. Seizing my opportunity, I brought my knee up into his groin with all the strength I could muster. He gave a scream of pain and let go of me, his hands clutching himself.

There was a hedge at the bottom of the garden, and on the other side a lane. As fortune would have it, two laboring men were passing at the time. Hearing the commotion, they scrambled up over the hedge.

“What’s this?” said one of them.

I sat up. The man could see my disheveled state. Desmond was still yelling in pain.

“This boy tried to dishonor me,” I said tearfully.

“It’s a lie,” said Desmond, still clutching himself.

“So,” the man said, “this poor maid has rent her own clothing?”

Desmond was silent. He knew there was little he could say.

“Where do you live, my dear?” the man asked kindly.

Tearfully, I pointed towards the house.

“Let’s take you home,” the other man said. Lifting me to my feet, they escorted me up the garden path and knocked on the door. Mrs. Reid answered it. Quickly she took in my distressed state and torn clothing. She could have no doubt about what had transpired. Desmond was hanging back, unwilling to let only my side of the story be heard, yet fearful of speaking while the two men were present.

Having ascertained that I did indeed live at this abode, the two men took their leave. Mrs. Reid pushed me roughly into the kitchen, Desmond looking on sheepishly.

‘So, little minx, you have been leading him on again? You are a shameless little hussy. This time you have gone too far!”

I was completely taken aback by the effrontery of her attack upon me. She must have known how false her accusations were. Disdainfully, I told her exactly what had happened. Desmond, of course, denied it. I was sent to my room, where I cleaned myself up as best I could. When I came back down again at supper-time Mrs. Reid called me into her parlor.

“I have decided to send you away,” she said. “You are an ungrateful child, who has presumed upon my generosity too long. In two days a carrier will call and transport you to Birchwood School. It is what is generally known as a finishing school, where you will be educated sufficiently to enable you to earn your living as a governess. You will be subjected to strict discipline and hard work, and perhaps that may reform your character, for I am sure that I cannot.”

She continued that when I had come to her, a sum of money had been paid from my father’s will (I had no idea that he had left any money), and that this was to be used to pay for my schooling, which, she said, was far better than I deserved, given how much I had cost her in board and lodging. My rage at this speech was considerable; leaving aside the predatory conduct of her son; I had slaved for this family night and day, with not a penny of wages, only meager food and a few scraps of clothing. However, I bit my tongue and kept silent, not wishing to be ejected from the house before the morrow, but determined that I should have my say before departing. Accordingly, I ate the meager supper that was provided for me and went to my room to pack up the few poor belongings that I possessed. Whatever Birchwood school may be like, I thought, it could not be worse than enduring Mrs. Reid’s ill-will and her son’s improper and repugnant attentions.

As I lay in bed that night, I reviewed my situation. I was fortunate, I concluded, to escape from this house with my virtue intact, albeit I had suffered indignity and emotional as well as physical abuse. But I was determined that my prospects would improve once I had left behind those who had been charged with the responsibility of sheltering a poor orphan and had so disgracefully failed in their task. As I lay comforting myself with thoughts of a better tomorrow, my hand crept up under my shift and lodged between my legs.

It is my intention in this memoir to hold back nothing from the reader, no matter how it may outrage. Too many books in this era, I believe, are reticent for fear of offending the delicate sensibilities of the reader. But it is my firm opinion that the educated and mature individual wishes to know the truth about modern life, and especially about the relationships between the sexes. What can be more important than to understand, from a full and frank account, how men and women conduct themselves in the privacy of the bedroom? Surely it cannot be anything but a public good to reveal the most intimate details, even at the risk of shocking those whose experience has not yet extended to actual enactment of the pleasures that may be found in carnal knowledge. Thus I trust the reader will wish me never to draw a veil across even those events which may seem the most shameful; this is life as it is, and we should not shrink from it.

Therefore, let me recount that, lying in my narrow bed that night, thinking back over the events of the day, and my entire history in this place, I sought with my hand to get physical comfort. In truth I was already well practiced in such habits. Perhaps some may doubt it, but it is my firm belief, buttressed by the exchange of information with others, that from a quite early age girls like to touch themselves, to probe and pry into those secret places, learning how best to find pleasure, and which caresses most quickly conduct towards an ecstatic climax.

Already by this time I had discovered that the maximum pleasure was obtained if I touched the little bud at the apex of my female organ. This was my clitoris, though I did not know its name at the time. Mine was too sensitive for me to stroke it directly on top. I found that I had, as it were, to sidle up to it, approaching from the side, gently at first but with increasing firmness as the bud swelled and I grew more excited. I discovered too that when aroused I grew wet inside, often extremely so. Frequently I would push my finger a little way up inside myself, sometimes using one hand to do this while with the other I rubbed my clit. On occasion I felt the need of something more substantial; the handle of my hairbrush, for example. I don’t think at that age that such objects were intended as a substitute for the male member; my thoughts were not yet focused on such a thing, as they later became. The only one I had seen was that belonging to Desmond, which did not dispose me favorably towards what men possessed. For the moment, I was content with what I could do for myself.

Thus comforted, I slept well. Somehow I passed the next two days without much contact either with Mrs. Reid or with her loathsome son. On the day of my departure I woke early, eager to be off. The carrier arrived on time and my box was stowed in the wagon. But before I mounted I turned to Mrs. Reid, who was standing beside her son with a sneer on her face.

“You have failed in your duty to a penniless orphan,” I said. “You have treated her with disdain, worked her like a common servant and failed to protect her from the depredations of a vile and vicious boy. I am glad to be going away, and hope never to set eyes on either of you again.”

I turned and climbed onto the wagon, neither expecting nor receiving a reply. As the carrier whipped up the horses, I did not turn back for a last sight of a house I was glad to leave.

The carrier was a man of about fifty, companionable, though rather too apt, as I increasingly found among men, to let his eyes wander from my face down to my bosom, or else surreptitiously sneak a look at my ankles. When seated, my skirt had ridden up a little, and they were now displayed to view, but though I think they were trim, I preferred that he keep his eyes on the road. But I have learned that if a woman be agreeable to look at, men will look at her, despite her own feelings about it.

Nevertheless I felt safe, fearing no insult from this gentleman, and eventually after a journey of several hours I was driven up to the front door of a large stone building of forbidding aspect. This was Birchwood School. The carrier set my box down and drove off. I rang the bell beside the door. Almost immediately it was opened by a stout, middle-aged woman dressed in a grey uniform. I gave her my name and she held the door open for me to enter. I turned towards my box.

“Leave it,” she said. “The boy will fetch it. Follow me.”

She led the way down the corridor. The place smelled of boiled cabbage and furniture polish; perhaps all such institutions have the same odor. She ushered me into a small room in which were a desk, three or four chairs and a filing cabinet. The walls were bare.

“Sit down,” she said. “I am the Matron of this establishment. Listen carefully.”

I took a seat and looked at her expectantly.

“You have been sent here because it is believed you will benefit from the strict discipline we observe. It seems that you have not yet learned the habit of respect for your elders and betters.”

I opened my mouth to protest at this unfair description of my character, but she held up her hand.

“Do not interrupt,” she said sternly. “The rules of this establishment are many, and are strictly enforced. Every girl is given a card in which infringements are recorded. There is an accounting at the end of the week.”

She paused and passed me over a folded piece of paper. I saw that my name was already written on the front.

“Most of the rules you will discover from your fellow pupils. Observe them carefully and do as they do. You will soon learn all the regulations about not talking at meals, not running in the corridor, not talking after lights out, and so forth. What I need to tell you now concerns other, more intimate matters. I know that girls of your age are frequently given to masturbation. This is strictly forbidden; indeed any kind of improper touching of your body is outlawed. And of course, the same is true concerning relations with other girls. No girl is allowed to touch another, not even to hold hands. Is this clear?”

I was taken aback that she should speak so openly of things which most ladies would be ashamed to hear mentioned. I merely nodded.

“I hardly need say that the same applies to the other sex. You will find that there are some male servants here, and also one or two male teachers. Needless to say, you will not entertain any advances from them; and should you be offered any, it is your duty, under pain of severe punishment, to inform me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. After my experience with Desmond I had not the least intention of encouraging any men to touch my person.

“Stand up and take your clothes off,” she said.

I was somewhat taken aback by this instruction, but a look at her face assured me that I should comply. I got to my feet and began slowly to unbutton my dress.

“Hurry up,” Matron said. “We don’t dawdle here. Everything is done in double-quick time.”

I removed my dress and stood there in my shift.

“And the rest,” Matron snapped. “All of it.”

I was not used to disrobing in front of another; no one had seen me naked since a very early age. I blushed as I felt the woman’s eyes upon me. I unfastened my stays, pulled off my shift and bent to untie the ribbons round my stockings. I was acutely aware that my breasts were now exposed to view, and I saw Matron looking at them with a keen eye. At that time I had not the least idea that one woman might feel desire for another, otherwise I might have mistrusted this look.

At this point in my story I should say something about my person, since any readers who have progressed this far, and can see what kind of story this is likely to be, are doubtless curious as to what manner of girl I am. I shall be modest. I do not think I have been blessed with great beauty; certainly I have seen many girls who would more conform to the general idea of beauty than I. But at the same time, I have never ceased to attract the eye of the male sex. I am of average height; my hair, thick and glossy, is dark, a kind of chestnut hue. My breasts, even at eighteen, were well-formed, not large but shapely and firm, with brown nipples that, if induced in the right way, became enlarged to about the size of gooseberries. My bottom (a part of the body which at that time I had no idea was pleasing to men) is round and smooth and well-proportioned. My face, which is supposed to be every woman’s fortune, I have been told is pleasing, an oval shape, with large green eyes and a wide mouth (perhaps in the view of perfectionists over-wide, but that did not stop men wishing to kiss it). If I could choose, perhaps I would have my nose just a little thinner, but on the whole I am content.

I stood with my arms crossed over my chest, hesitant to remove the final garment.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” Matron said.

Not looking at her, I slid my drawers down over my hips and let them fall to the ground.

“Come and bend over the desk,” she said.

Nervously I stepped forward and did as she said. She stood behind me and I felt her hands take hold of my buttocks and pull them apart. This was by far the most shameful thing anyone had ever done to me, worse even than the outrages of Desmond.

“Please,” I said, “I don’t think…”

“Be quiet,” Matron said.

There was silence. I imagined her staring at my posterior. But for what purpose? Her hands let go of me, but then she touched me again, this time between my legs. I could feel her fingers prizing me apart, and then she inserted a finger in me.

“No,” I cried out. “This is not right!”

For answer, she struck me hard on the bottom with the flat of her hand, not once but twice. Each blow stung me hard.

“I will have silence when I demand it,” she said. “If I hear any more, I shall fetch the cane. And then we’ll see what’s right, won’t we?”

I observed a sullen silence while her fingers probed and pried. I supposed that it was some sort of medical examination; later I realized that she was attempting to assess if I was still a virgin. Eventually she seemed to have seen enough and took her hands away.

“Stand up,” she said. She crossed to a cupboard in the corner and took out some clothes.

“This is your uniform,” she said. “Put it on.”

The garments were few, and very plain. There was a pair of cotton drawers, clean but no longer as white as they once were. There were coarse woolen stockings, held up with tape, and a shift, in the same condition as the drawers. And finally there was a dress, made of grey flannel, with a high neck, buttoning down the front.

I began to put the clothes on. “Are there no stays?” I asked. “Nothing to give me support?”

She eyed my keenly. “It’s true you are very well-developed in that department,” she said, looking directly at my bosom. “I will have to give that some thought. But you can do without in the meantime.”

The dress proved quite tight, which only served to emphasize my bosom and its freedom from constriction. But I said nothing. Matron looked again in the cupboard and brought out a pair of black leather shoes, heavy and ungainly. Fortunately when I put them on they fit well enough.

She handed me a length of black ribbon. “Tie your hair back,” she said. “Hair is to be worn tightly plaited to a single braid. Find a girl to help you.”

Matron picked up a large bell on her desk and rang it loudly. Shortly the door opened and a girl entered, dressed as I now was. She was about my age.

“Anne,” she said, “this is Jane Eyre. Take her under your wing and teach her what she needs to know.”

The girl curtseyed. “Yes, Matron,” she said respectfully.

I followed her out of the room, along the corridor and up some stairs into a dormitory which contained a dozen beds.

“This one is yours,” Anne said, indicating one at the far end of the room. I saw that my box was beside it. I unpacked. Anne showed me where to put my things, then she helped me braid my hair in the approved manner. As she did so, she told me some of the rules I would have to observe.

“No talking at meals,” she said. “No running in the corridor. No talking after lights out. Your dress is always to be neat and tidy. When you speak to one of the teachers, do not look them in the eye, but look modestly downwards. You address the women teachers as ‘Miss’ and the men as ‘Sir’. Marks for bad conduct are entered in your card. At the end of the week they are added up. If you have over thirty it’s a punishment, after which those marks are wiped off. But if there are less than thirty they are carried over into the following week. You can also get marks for bad schoolwork, for clumsiness, like breaking something, for causing trouble with other girls. Lots of things.” Anne sighed. “You are bound to get some punishments eventually.”

“What sort of punishments?” I asked.

“For thirty, it’s the slipper from Matron. But there are special punishments for more serious offences.”

“What sort of offences?” I asked.

“Talking to boys. Kissing other girls. Touching yourself improperly.” Anne blushed.

“So what do you get for that?”

Anne hesitated, as if she didn’t want to think about it.

“What?” I persisted.

“The headmaster will cane you. In public. On the bare.”

“On the bare?”

“The bare bottom,” Anne said.

“Have you ever had it? Is it bad?”

“Never mind about that,” Anne said quickly. “We must get to class.”

She took me into a classroom, where a young man was instructing the class in French. While at Mrs. Reid’s I had been able to give myself some rudimentary education. My reading and writing was quite well advanced, but though I had tried a little French, working on my own I naturally had no idea of the correct pronunciation. I could not make out much of what was going on in the class, but afterwards the teacher, Monsieur Poiret, took me on one side and spoke kindly to me, which encouraged me.

After more lessons, in history then in needlework, it was time for the evening meal. This proved to be a meager affair, little better than the fare I had been used to at Mrs. Reid’s. We sat in silence, supervised by a grim-faced woman whom I subsequently discovered was the mathematics teacher, Miss Williams.

As the meal was ending, there was a general stir. “There’s going to be a punishment,” Anne whispered to me. At one end of the dining hall was a raised platform. A girl, white-faced with fear, was led up onto it by Matron and one of her assistants. The two women pushed her down over a desk, then Matron raised up her dress and pulled her drawers down to her ankles, so that the poor girl’s buttocks were exposed for all to see. Whatever the pain, I thought; surely this humiliation must be just as bad.

The headmaster strode in. He was a thick-set man of about fifty, dressed all in black and wearing a university gown. In his hand he carried a long thin bamboo cane. He turned to us assembled girls and addressed us.

“Charlotte has been discovered performing a lewd act with one of the kitchen boys. The boy has of course been dismissed. Charlotte will now receive an exemplary punishment, which will be a lesson to you all that immorality in any form will not be tolerated here.”

That said, he swished the cane to and fro. There was a low murmur among the seated girls. The headmaster regarded us with a hostile glare, then turned to his task. He swished the cane a few more times, a sound that struck terror into my heart. I had a kind of sickening feeling, a knot in the base of my stomach unlike anything I had felt before. I thought about closing my eyes and ears to the spectacle that was about to be enacted before me, but somehow I could not tear my eyes away.

I could not help wondering exactly what act Charlotte was guilty of. She did not look like a girl given to wantonness. I tried to imagine what she might have done with this boy; touched him, perhaps? Allowed him to put his hand up her skirt? Or even worse? At that time I had such a limited idea of what things boys and girls could do together.

The girl’s hands were tightly held by Matron and her assistant. The headmaster tapped the cane lightly against her naked bottom, then his arm rose and descended with full force. There was a crack as the cane struck, followed immediately by a terrible cry from the poor victim, like some wounded animal. The headmaster’s arm rose again. And then again. I could see that red welts had been raised already upon the taut white skin of the girl’s behind. She was screaming and desperately trying to wriggle free, but was held fast over the table as the headmaster went about his cruel work. I glanced sideways at my companions. Some could scarcely bear to look, while others gazed on with a fascinated expression. I found that I was trembling. I imagined what the pain must be like; I felt my own bottom tingling as it were in sympathy.

The beating went on and on. I did not count the number of strokes, but there must have been a score. The poor girl’s bottom was criss-crossed with livid red marks, some already starting to turn purple. She would be badly bruised. At last the headmaster let his arm fall to his side, turned and strode out of the hall. The poor girl, weeping hysterically, was helped down from the platform by the two women who had held her, her skirt mercifully falling down to her ankles at last to preserve her modesty.

My heart was beating fast; I felt giddy. At the time I did not understand my response. Only later did I begin to grasp the manner in which the scene had affected me. After this it was time for bed. Lying in my narrow little bed in the dormitory with the other girls, I found my mind racing over the events I had just witnessed. I felt troubled in my mind, and in need of comfort, so I reached down under the bedcovers and began to pull up my nightdress, careful not to alert any of my neighbors. I slid my hand slowly between my legs, and was surprised to find that I was as wet as if I had been frigging myself for half an hour. I could not explain this, but as my fingers began to stroke the little bud above my cunt I found it was already excited, swollen and eager for stimulation. I pleasured myself, still careful not to arouse attention, and found that it soothed me and I was able to sleep.