Chapter Five

I spent another year at the school. By this time I was acting as an assistant to the teachers, rather than attending classes myself. At the end of the year I was called into the headmaster’s study. Apprehensive as always in this place, I sat down full of trepidation. Had something come to light about the activities in which I had participated with Helen and Pierre?

To my relief, the headmaster said that the school was pleased with my work. It was now time for me to leave and make my way in the world. A position had been secured for me as a governess to a little girl whose parents lived in Clapham in London. I was to travel there next week. The headmaster went through some details of what my duties would be, and what allowance I should receive, but I was scarcely listening, so excited was I by the prospect of going out into the world. Little did I know how much wickedness the world contained. I did not imagine that I should find the wheel come full circle from the days of my time with Mrs. Reid.

The following week I was conveyed up to London and welcomed into her house by Mrs. Birtles. She was a small, frail-looking woman with a timid air. She presented me to her daughter, a child of six who curtseyed politely. The child proved amiable enough, and I had hopes that things might go well. But later that evening I was summoned into the front parlor to meet Mr. Birtles. He was a stout man with a florid complexion, about forty years old. He spoke in a loud booming voice, standing in front of the fire with his hands under his frock coat. He looked me up and down in a manner that I did not care for. He interrogated me on my accomplishments, speaking in what I felt was a bullying manner. Mrs. Birtles said not a word. At the end of the interview Mr. Birtles said, “Very well,” in a manner that suggested he was not impressed.

I saw no more of him for the next couple of days. I busied myself with lesson plans and schemes of study. The child proved docile, though not particularly quick to learn. It was on the third day in the evening that I was once more summoned into Mr. Birtles’s presence. He was alone in the parlor. He announced that Mrs. Birtles had gone to bed with a headache.

His manner this time was more ingratiating. He enquired whether I was settling in all right. Then he offered me a glass of sherry, which I accepted. He drew up a chair close to the one on which I was sitting. Immediately I began to feel uncomfortable. I had, even at this tender age, a sense of what was in men’s thoughts, and indeed it was not difficult to see what kind of a relationship he proposed to form with me. After a few words about his daughter, he made a couple of comments on my physical appearance. I told him that this was out of place, that I hoped we could keep things on a professional basis. At this point he tried to take my hand, but I snatched it away.

“Come,” he said, “surely we can be friends.”

“Not in that manner, sir,” I said firmly.

He laughed, not in a pleasant way. “You’ll come round,” he said. “At least, it will be in your interest to do so.”

With that he rose and left the room. I was deeply troubled. During the next week I did my best not to find myself alone with Mr. Birtles, but it was difficult to avoid him. He seemed to me at home a lot, conducting his business, whatever it was, in his study. Mrs. Birtles was a peripheral figure, completely under his thumb, as it appeared.

One evening Mr. Birtles summoned me to his study under the guise of discussing his daughter’s progress. It appeared that Mrs. Birtles had once again gone to bed early. Even from where I stood, on the other side of his desk, Mr. Birtles smelled of whisky. I feared the worst. After a few remarks about his daughter, he rose from his chair and came round to my side of the desk. I eyed him warily. He stood behind me and suddenly I felt his hands on my shoulders, turning me round. He bent his head to kiss me. I managed to wriggle away from him but he got between me and the door.

“Don’t be a silly girl,” he said. His voice was harsh. “Things will go so much better for you here if you are nice to me.”

“This is improper, sir,” I said.

“You aren’t the prim young miss you pretend to be,” he said. “I can tell you know all about men.”

I didn’t see how he could possibly know such a thing, even if were true. But I wondered for a moment if he could have heard anything about my activities with Pierre and Helen. I dismissed it from my mind; it was not possible. Instead, I was faced with a lecherous man who thought his position as my employer gave him the right to my body. Even if I had thought him attractive, which I certainly did not, I should not have accepted any advances on that basis.

“Let me leave the room, sir,” I said coldly. “If you do not I shall scream.”

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he said menacingly. I knew he was stronger than me. I looked around for a weapon. Suddenly he rushed at me and grabbed me round the waist with one arm, while with the other he tried to lift my skirt. Instead of screaming, I fastened my teeth around his ear and bit it as hard as I could. He was the one who screamed; I hung onto his ear until he tore himself away. I could see blood pouring from his ear.

‘You damned bitch,” he cried. “You have wounded me.”

He put a handkerchief to his ear and dabbed at it, making a whimpering noise as he did so. While he was distracted I made a lunge for the door and got out of the room. I rushed upstairs to my bedroom. Unfortunately there was no lock; doubtless that was deliberate on Mr. Birtles’s part. Desperate, I maneuvered a chair under the door handle and waited for what I felt sure would be another assault. Sure enough, after half an hour I heard him outside, trying to push the door open. I resisted as best I could, but I was no match for his strength and feared that eventually he must break the door down.

“I have told you, sir, I shall scream if you touch me. I shall open the window and scream into the street.”

“I’m not going to lay a finger on you, you stupid little slut,” he said from the other side of the door. “You’re nothing but an animal. I want you out of my house, in half an hour. If you don’t go of your own accord I shall throw you out. Literally.”

With that he turned and went downstairs. In twenty minutes I had packed my bag and descended the stairs. In the hall Mr. Birtles was waiting, his ear bandaged. His wife stood beside him looking pale and saying nothing. Mr. Birtles handed me ten shillings.

“This is all we owe in wages,” he said. “Now get out before I call the police and have you charged with assault.”

I did not choose to argue; I was only too pleased to get away from him. I could see it was useless to appeal to his wife, who was clearly terrified of him. I picked up my case and walked out of the front door, which was shut loudly behind me.

I walked slowly down the street and then stopped. It was ten o’clock at night. I was utterly on my own; I knew not a soul in this vast city, except Helen, and I had not the least idea where she was, or even if she remained in London. I sat down on a curbstone with my head in my hands and wondered what would become of me. What could I do? Where could I turn for help? I must have sat like that for nearly an hour when I heard a man’s voice.

“What are you doing here, young lady?” asked the speaker in a not unkind manner.

I turned round to behold a young clergyman, tall, with blond hair falling out from under his hat. I burst into tears as the pent-up emotion of the evening welled up inside me. He had a pleasant manner and seemed genuinely concerned for my welfare, and so I told him tearfully the facts of the case, that I had been indecently assaulted and had left my employment. He said that he lived nearby with his sister and offered to take me to his home. I accepted readily, having decided, despite my experiences, to trust him.

He said his name was St. John Rivers. Once at his house he introduced me to his sister, Diana. She made me tea and insisted I tell her my story, not just the events of the evening, but my entire life-history. Then she took me upstairs to a small but well furnished and pleasant room and said that I needed sleep and that we would talk more in the morning.

I will not detain my readers with a detailed account of the next few weeks, Suffice to say that St. John Rivers and his sister were kind to me. But after a while I felt that his attentions were becoming a little too intense. There was nothing objectionable in his manner; indeed, he was unfailingly polite and considerate. But I had the sense that he was developing feelings for me that I knew I could not reciprocate. I determined that I should leave as soon as it was practical. Accordingly I began to seek employment. An agency which placed governesses took me onto their books. Ordinarily I would have found it difficult to secure a position without a reference from my previous employer, but Mr. Rivers (as I insisted on calling him, though he several times begged me to call him St. John) anticipated that problem and wrote me a reference himself. His sister teased him; ought a clergyman to tell fibs? she asked, since he had written that I had been in his employment. He smiled and said that sometimes the greater good must prevail.

After a week I was offered a place, one which seemed eminently suitable and respectable. It was as governess to the two children of the Italian ambassador, no less. I was required to attend for an interview at the embassy, an imposing building in Kensington. The ambassador, Count Orsini, was a handsome man, between forty and fifty, so I judged. His children were delightful. After we had conversed for a while (he spoke excellent English) he asked if he might take me into his confidence. Of course, I replied.

He explained that he and his wife did not live together (I had wondered at her absence, but had said nothing). They were on as amicable terms as could be expected, and had resolved not to quarrel for the sake of the children. But, he said, without elaborating, it was impossible for them to live together. Accordingly, the Contessa lived in a house a few streets away. The children spent the week with their father, during which time I would educate them, and at weekends went to their mother’s house.

I said I understood perfectly. Certainly it was not for me to comment upon this unorthodox arrangement. After this, we soon came to an agreement about terms. It was decided that I should begin the next week.

“I am particularly concerned that my children learn to speak perfect English,” he said. “Better than me.”

I corrected him with a smile. “Better than I.”

“You see,” he said, smiling back, “you have begun work already. Splendid.”

St. John Rivers clearly regretted my departure, but his sister was positive that this was an excellent step for me to take. The following weekend I was installed at the embassy, ready to start work the next day. During the course of the week I saw very little of the Count, who was busy with diplomatic affairs. But when the children had left for the weekend, he put himself at my disposal. He was a charming man, an excellent conversationalist with gracious manners. On the Saturday evening we were served dinner in the grand dining room. I had no qualms about his wife’s absence; my position was eminently respectable, because the house was full of servants, including the Count’s housekeeper, a middle-aged woman of rather severe countenance, dressed all in black.

The Count asked me how I liked my work. I replied with enthusiasm, praising his children. This conversation continued until the meal was at an end. After dinner we repaired to the sitting room for coffee. There was a piano in the corner. The Count asked me if I played. I blushed a little, saying that my accomplishments were modest.

“Pray,’” he said, “don’t be bashful. I like to sing, and I am so much hoping that you will accompany me.”

I did not wish to pour cold water on his enthusiasm. “I will do my best, sir,” I said.

He considerately chose a piece that was not too difficult, and I gave a reasonably good account of myself. The Count had a pleasing voice, a light baritone, and we did several songs together. He asked if I sang too. I blushed again, saying that I would not impose my vocal efforts on him. Then he asked me if I liked pictures. I replied, truthfully, that I enjoyed them greatly, but had not much experience of seeing anything good. From a bookshelf he fetched a number of large illustrated works, chiefly of Italian masters.

As we leafed through them, I saw that several of the pictures showed ladies, often rather full in the figure, and wearing few if any clothes. He saw me looking at one.

“You are not offended by the frankness of these images?”

“No, sir,” I said. “It is only as nature has made us.”

“But some would hold that such images are indecent.”

“I cannot speak for society,” I said.

The Count looked at me thoughtfully. “I think I like you, Miss Eyre.”

I blushed. “Thank you, sir,” I said.

“I note that you only blush when the subject is your own qualities. The sight of a naked woman does not embarrass you.”

I was aware that the conversation was proceeding in a certain direction. I did not mind at all. I felt that the Count was an educated and sophisticated man, that I enjoyed his company, and that I felt in no way threatened or offended by his manner. There was a respect in his attitude towards me that warmed me towards him.

Soon after I said that I wished to retire. He kissed my hand and hoped I would sleep well. The next day I did not see him much, and then lessons resumed with the children and both of us were busy. However, the following weekend the Count and I were once more in each other’s company. Since I had shown enjoyment of the pictures he had shown me, he invited me to join him in a visit to an Italian artist that he knew. The painter’s studio was in Soho, an area that I had never visited but which had a rather louche reputation.

We went up some narrow stairs and knocked at a door, which was shortly thrown open. The painter and the Count greeted each other with enthusiasm. The room was at the top of the building, with a glass roof, which let in plenty of light. The artist had evidently been at work. On an easel stood a large painting, half-finished. And on a couch in the centre of the room reclined a woman, entirely naked.

“So,” said the Count jovially, “this is to be your masterpiece?”

“Every one is to be my masterpiece. And then I think afterwards, I can do better!” the artist explained.

I looked at the woman with interest. She was about my age. She had black hair and a flawless white skin. Her breasts were well-formed, with prominent brown nipples. But what caught my attention was that, below her wide, flat belly, at the junction of her thighs, she was shaved. Her legs were partly open and I could see a glimpse of her cunt, with its pale pink lips. At that time I had only seen two women naked, myself and Helen. Neither of us had thought to denude ourselves in such an intimate manner. I wondered why she had done it. Was that what artists required? It occurred to me that none of the naked women I had seen in the books the Count showed me had any pubic hair.

I had a sense that the Count was watching me, that he was waiting for my reaction. I wondered if in some way it was a test. Was he trying to find out if I was a shy young maiden, easily shocked? I resolved that I would give him no reason to see me in that light. So far I had found the Count pleasant, even entertaining company. He was physically attractive, and his manner to me had been in no way disrespectful. I had already formed a resolution that if, as I believed he would, he were to make advances to me, that I should not reject them out of hand. I was a young woman with enough experience of the delights of physical love to look favorably on the prospect of more, should the terms be right. I would not be treated as the Count’s possession or a mere plaything; but I was not averse to a proposition, if it were made in the right way.

“What a pretty girl,” I remarked. “I should think anyone would want to paint her.”

The girl glanced at me without moving her head, and I saw a slight smile on her face.

“Indeed they would,” said the Count, evidently pleased that I felt at ease.

The artist bade us both sit down. He offered us some wine and for a short time busied himself at his easel. Then he put down his brushes.

“That will do for the moment,” he said to the girl. “Come and join us.”

The model got up from the couch where she had been lying, wrapped herself in a cloak and came over to where we were seated. The artist introduced her as Maria. The Count got to his feet and greeted her warmly. I liked it that he had respect for her. All four of us talked for a while about art and beauty and such, though in truth I had not much to say. At last, as the two men engaged in some animated debate in Italian, I addressed myself to the model.

“Is this your profession?” I asked.

“It is when I can find the work,” Maria replied. She sounded foreign; perhaps another Italian.

“You are very beautiful,” I said.

“And you,” Maria replied. “Are you a model too?”

I smiled. “Indeed, not. I am governess to the Count’s children.”

“Oh, I see,” Maria said, still smiling. “A serious person.”

“Not too much so, I hope,” I said.

After we left the artist’s studio, the Count took me to an Italian restaurant in Soho, of which there were several. We were served excellent food and drank wine; perhaps a little more so than I was used to. Back at the embassy, he said that I was welcome to more wine should I desire, but that if I preferred he would ring for some tea. I thought it best to keep a clear head, and said that this was a splendid idea. We talked of this and that, but nothing intimate.

The next morning we went for a walk on Hampstead Heath. In the afternoon I rested in my room with a book, dozing lightly. In the evening I dined again with the Count. This time we were not waited upon; instead, the servants had left a cold collation in the dining room and we served ourselves. At the end of dinner the Count invited me to take my glass of wine into the sitting room. He took a place beside me on the sofa. I think this is where he makes a move, I thought to myself. I had no fixed idea of what I should say; for me it depended on how he approached it.

After chatting for a while, he put down his glass and turned to face me.

“Miss Eyre,” he said, “may I be frank?”

“I hope you will always feel that you can be so, sir,” I said.

He took a deep breath. “You know my situation. I am married, and shall remain so, because of the children, and because my wife is a devout woman, who would never consent to a divorce. I am a man still in the prime of life, with healthy appetites and an appreciation of all that women can offer.”

“You seem to like women,” I said.

“Indeed I do,” he said warmly. “I like everything about them. Well, almost everything,” he added, seeing that I was about to interject. “I enjoy their company, and I also enjoy their embraces.” He broke off. “Do I embarrass you?”

“Certainly not,” I replied. “Please continue.”

“I have formed the impression that, young as you are, you are not without knowledge of men.”

He paused. I said nothing.

“Which is why,” he continued, “I venture to speak in this manner. I have formed a very favorable impression of you, not only of your person, which is wholly delightful, but of your mind, which if still unformed appears to me quick and also ready to be amused and entertained, yet not shallow. You are someone I should like to know better. Much better.”

He spoke with great earnestness, not wholly at his ease. He seemed, for once, a little unsure. I liked that. Perhaps it is to my discredit, but I could not forebear to tease him a little.

“I too hope that we shall get to know one another well, and be good friends,” I said. “I feel there is a meeting of minds.” I looked at him primly, unwilling to give him any encouragement just yet.

“Perhaps not only a meeting of minds?” he said nervously.

I fluttered my eyelashes at him. “But what else could you have in mind, Count?” I asked.

He blushed. I felt sorry for him yet could not help enjoying my triumph.

“Do you think, could you…?” He paused. “I know this is improper.”

“Improper? What do you mean?” I asked, all innocence.

He seized my hand, but not at all in the manner of Mr. Birtles. He looked into my eyes, entreating a favorable response.

“Surely, Count, you are not proposing a liaison? I am a respectable woman.”

He looked crestfallen. He was silent. I resolved to put him out of his misery.

“There would have to be certain conditions,” I said.

“Conditions?” A flicker of hope appeared on his face.

“In the first place, we shall maintain the proprieties. No one must suspect. I insist on retaining my reputation.”

He opened his mouth to speak. I held up my hand for silence. “Secondly,” I said, “you will not pay me or give me any presents above what I currently receive as your employee.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” he said, his face flushed with joy as it dawned on him that he might get what he wanted.

“And thirdly,” I said, “it is evident that you are a man of some sexual sophistication. I am a girl who has almost none. It will be your role to teach me what more can be learned of pleasure. I have intimations that there are sexual practices and states of mind of which I know nothing. I am eager to explore all possibilities if you will show me how to enjoy them.”

For a moment he was speechless, seemingly unable to take in what I had just offered him. Then he fell to his knees, and kissed my hand.

“I shall gladly be your tutor in all the mysteries of love,” he said. “I shall guide you in any way you wish to go.”

“Let me say one more thing, Count. What I appreciate most in a man, after the essentials such as passable looks and good manners and a pleasant disposition, is confidence. I require of a man that he be sure of himself and sure of what he wants from a woman. In my opinion, thought it is not yet backed up by much experience, knowing exactly what you want, and having a good idea how to get it, is more than fifty per cent of the battle. And, of course,” I said, thinking for the last time of the egregious Birtles, “knowing the difference between confidence and arrogance.”

“I am overwhelmed,” the Count said. “I do not know how to express my delight.”

“I think the best way would be to kiss me,” I replied. So he did. I decided that I would not at this point let the Count go further. He made it clear that nothing would please him more than to take me upstairs to bed, but I told him that I needed a period of reflection before I would commit myself to such a course. In part, this was purely a desire to tease on my part; I find that such a thing comes naturally to me when dealing with men. But I also wanted to test how respectful of my wishes he would be. I told him that he must wait until the following weekend, and then I should tell him whether or not I had definitely decided to let him have his way with me, as the saying goes. He took this in good spirit, not attempting to persuade me, not sulking that he did not have his own way, as some men are wont to do.