Chapter Ten

I do not know what further depravities the Count would have introduced me to, had our association continued. There seemed almost no limit to the licentiousness of his imagination, no end to the inventiveness of his sexual desires. I confess I was eager to be shown further activities and have my education extended. But it was not to be. One day, soon after our memorable weekend with the two boys, the Count took me into his study. It was a weekday; his children were downstairs in the schoolroom, so I knew this was not the preliminary to another bout of excess.

“My dear Jane,” he said, “I have some bad news. Bad for me, and I venture to think bad for you. I have been recalled. It seems that my government has other plans for me. I am to be sent as ambassador to the United States.”

“Oh, Count,” I said. “How thrilling. Is this a promotion?”

“I can hardly see it as that,” the Count replied. “Surely no post is as prestigious as the one at the Court of St. James. In private terms I fear too that it amounts to a demotion. I cannot believe that America can offer such potential for amatory delights as I have enjoyed here in London.”

“Do you not think so?” I replied. I had little sense of what America might be, either in general or in matters of Eros.

“America was founded by puritans,” said the Count with a shudder. “Need I say more?’

He told me that he would be truly sorry to part with me, and that furthermore his children would be devastated to lose their kind and patient governess. He said that he would furnish me with the best possible reference and that he was sure I should secure a new position quickly. He proposed to pay me sufficient to ensure I did not go without while this new position should present itself.

In return I told him how much I should miss him, and his dear children. I never was in love with the Count, but I had grown fond of him, and felt gratitude for the way in which he had taken me under his wing and furthered my sexual education, though of course, I realized that he himself derived great pleasure from this.

I will not tire readers with an account of the next few weeks. Suffice it to say that I did indeed, with the Count’s help, find a new position. It was to be far from London, in the north of England. I was to be governess to a young girl of eight years old, at a place called Thornfield Hall. It appeared that the child’s father, a Mr. Rochester, was frequently abroad on business, and that he was a widower. I should therefore have sole charge of the child while Mr. Rochester was absent.

I said a tearful goodbye to the Count and his darling children as my box was loaded onto the stagecoach and I began my journey north. Thornfield proved to be a building of considerable size and antiquity, but rather forbidding in aspect. It was nearly dark when I arrived, and a cold wind was blowing, but I was optimistic, as a young girl should be. The owner proved to be away on business and I was received by the housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax. As it turned out, the child proved to be a little French girl. Mrs. Fairfax explained to me that the girl’s mother had been a Frenchwoman, who had unfortunately died soon after giving birth. The girl, Adele, was charming and we soon established an excellent relationship, Mrs. Fairfax was civil to me and life proceeded in an orderly if rather dull fashion until one day Mr. Rochester returned home.

On being introduced to him, I was struck by his dark good looks. His hair, luxuriant, was black. He was clean-shaven, and I would say a little above six feet in height, his build strong but graceful. It was his eyes that caught my attention: a luminous green-blue, like the sea.

His manner towards me was respectful and courteous. We conversed a little about his recent travels on the continent and about his child’s development. Later that evening I dined with him. Though I found him undeniably attractive, there was little in this initial meeting that prepared me for what was to follow later.

The next day Mr. Rochester was off again and I did not see him for a further six weeks. Nothing happened in the interval except for a curious occurrence one night. I awoke and had an immediate sense that someone was in my room. I sat up in bed in the darkness and called out, seeking to know who was there. I saw a figure silhouetted against the window, dressed in white. Perhaps a girl more given to superstition than I might have deduced this was a ghost; I thought simply that it was a woman in a nightdress. I called out again but the figure moved rapidly towards the door and was gone. I lit a candle and went out into the corridor but saw nothing. Then, from near the top of the house, I heard a sound that could only have been laughter, though of a chilling kind, more like a cackle.

I mentioned this event to Mrs. Fairfax in the morning. She said it must surely have been a dream. There was no one in the house except she and I, plus Adele. The servants did not live in but returned home each evening. It seemed to me that Mrs. Fairfax looked very uncomfortable while she expressed her view; I am afraid that I did not believe she was telling me the truth.

However, when Mr. Rochester next returned home, developments ensured that I thought no more of this incident. This time he was back for a week. We dined together again the first night, and he was extremely attentive. He paid me one or two pretty comments, not in such a manner that I could possibly take offence. Afterwards he requested that I play the piano to him and sing; he said that I had a talent, though I think this was more flattery than the truth. I remembered that the Count had said as much.

The next day, while Adele was busy with an exercise I had set her, Mr. Rochester invited me for a walk. We went through a wood that formed part of his estate; as we did so, he asked me a series of questions about myself, about my history, my thoughts on this or that. As we sat for a while on a fallen tree he enquired, in a light and pleasant manner, what had been my experience of love. I was not used to such questions from someone I scarcely knew, and I blushed.

“I have offended you,” he said with concern.

I was silent for a while. Then I spoke. “I have no lover, sir, if that is what you wish to ascertain.”

‘And you have no experience of love? Of love in the fullest sense, between a man and a woman?”

I did not know what to say. I could not possibly tell him about Pierre and Helen, or about the Count. Again I felt myself blushing. “I do not think you have the right to ask such questions, sir,” I said.

“Then I think I have my answer, Jane,” he said.

Even after a short acquaintance there was something about Mr. Rochester which disconcerted me. He had a manner of talking which was very direct. If he wanted to know a thing, he simply asked it. And as I was to discover, if he wanted a thing he took it. I did not resent him for these things, as I might another man. Already I could feel myself coming under a kind of spell. I wanted him to think well of me, I wanted him to think me not a simple provincial girl but someone he might respect and even treat as an equal, at least in some respects. Whether I wanted equality in everything, you will discover.

For a week we saw a lot of each other, dining together each evening, talking of life and literature and all manner of things. At times he had a lightly teasing manner which I found difficult to resist. I could feel myself becoming charmed by him. Perhaps I was not greatly surprised when, on the last evening before his departure, when Mrs. Fairfax had withdrawn; he suddenly put his hands on my shoulders and kissed me. I felt there was a danger in accepting this advance, and yet I feared him to think I was just a silly girl.

Having kissed me, without resistance on my part, he pulled back and looked at me.

“I think you know what I want, Jane,” he said. “You can feel my desire, I am sure. But I shall not go further. Not now. I wish you, while I am away, to think about whether you could accept me as a lover.”

“As a lover? Is it not usual to be first a husband?”

At this he looked troubled. He broke away and sat down in a chair by the fire.

“Is that what you want?” he said, his head in his hands.

“Is that so unusual?”

“And if I offered you marriage, would you make me wait until the wedding?”

I couldn’t resist teasing him, as he had often teased me. “Wait for what, sir?” I said playfully.

“Oh, Jane,” he said, in a tone that veered on the edge of despair, “don’t play with me. Think of this, while I am away. Whether you could accept me as a lover when I return, against a promise of a future marriage, once I have put my affairs in order.”

“Is there some impediment?” I asked.

“Yes. Well, no. Perhaps I can resolve it soon.”

I went across and put my hand on the back of his neck, stroking gently. He turned his head and looked up at me. Something went through me, a powerful charge of desire. I wanted him. If I had given myself so readily to Pierre and then to the Count and all the others he shared me with, why should I play the shy virgin with Mr. Rochester?

“In matters of love,” I said, “I am not guided by what society thinks a respectable girl should do. I have pleased myself in the disposal of my body. Perhaps you are shocked to hear it.”

“No, no,” he said animatedly. “I am glad to hear it. I think you may be a girl after my own heart.”

“As to that, sir, we shall see,” I said smiling. “I will ponder this and give you my answer when you return.” With that I bent and kissed him on the mouth, but as he put his arm up to pull me closer I broke away. “When you return,” I repeated with a laugh.

“One word more,” he said. “Where matters of physical love are concerned, I am perhaps not as other men. I think sex, the raw animal instincts, is about power as much as they are about love. I think when a man and a woman come together that there is always a contest as to who will have the upper hand. And it always has to be me. I do not mean that I am violent or that I do not respect women. I adore them, worship them. But I seek to subject them to my power, sexually. Because, with the women who attract me, I think that is what they want.” He looked at me. “Do you have any idea what I am talking about?”

I gazed at him steadily, taking my time to reply. “You may find that I have a great deal more idea of what you are talking about than you suppose. But you will have to wait and see.”

Mr. Rochester was gone for a whole month. In that time I rehearsed my last conversation with him many times, seeking to ensure that I had understood him right. But in truth I had little doubt of what he meant, and what his intentions were. On his return, we dined together as usual. Afterwards, when we were alone, he asked me if I had thought about what he had said to me. I answered that I had thought long and hard.

“Several things weigh with me,” I said. “Firstly, what exactly is it that you require of me? Is it love and affection, or is it the relief of your carnal appetites? Second, should I accede to your request, how would this affect my status? It is not easy to be both lover and employee. Third, have you given sufficient consideration to my position in society? A woman’s reputation is hard earned and easily lost. For myself, I care not for respectability. But since I am a person of no means, I cannot disregard the world’s opinion of me.”

I paused, thinking that would be enough questions for him to ponder initially.

Mr. Rochester looked very serious. “In the first place,” he said, “carnal pleasures and affection are to my mind not incompatible. I should hope for both; perhaps one would follow from the other.”

“And which comes first?”

“In my experience,” he replied, “physical love is apt to engender affection, unless for some reason it is blocked.”

“Have you much experience of this kind, sir?” I enquired. I had already developed a taste for teasing him.

“Oh, Jane,” he said, looking soulful, “must I make a reckoning of my life?”

“Eventually, I think, you must. But it can wait.”

“As to the combination of the roles of lover and employee, I do not see that there would be a conflict. I have no doubt you will continue to discharge your duties satisfactorily.”

“But what if we should fall out, as lovers sometimes do? What then happens to my employment?”

“There are no guarantees in this life,” he said, and a shadow passed across his face. “But let us look on the bright side. And let me assure you that your reputation is safe with me. I shall scrupulously avoid anything that might compromise it.”

I sat silent for a while. Then I spoke again. “My needs are as yours. I crave affection and physical fulfillment. But I do not want to be taken advantage of.”

He crossed to where I was seated and took my hand, raising me to my feet and embracing me. “Dear Jane, I vow to be worthy of you.”

He kissed me on the mouth. I let myself relax into his arms. I felt one hand about my waist, pressing me against him, while the other stroked the back of my neck, a gesture that has always had a profoundly sensual affect on me. I could feel something stirring.

He took me upstairs to his room. I knew that Mrs. Fairfax slept on the other side of the house, and that his daughter slept next door to her. We should not be disturbed. He led me across to his bed. A single candle burned, casting long shadows. It was, for a woman about to reveal herself to her lover for the first time, a flattering light; romantic, sensuous, concealing those little flaws which every woman knows her body must exhibit, no matter how much it may excite the man.

He sat on the bed and left me standing in front of him.

“Disrobe, Jane,” he said.

There was something about his tone of voice that, even should I be inclined to dispute his command, left me utterly in its thrall. I knew, as I had suspected, that I was in the presence of a man who knew how to dominate a woman, almost effortlessly, it seemed to me. The Count had been a persuasive man, one whom I readily wished to please. But Mr. Rochester was one in whose presence I had no will of my own, no power to formulate any other wishes than his. I seemed to be in a kind of trance as I stood before him and slowly unbuttoned my dress, pulling it down over my bodice and shirt, placing it on a chair and carefully unlacing my stays, pulling them off my waist (with, as always, a sigh of relief at the release of the pressure) and then stripping my shift up over my head. I now stood before him naked to the waist, shy yet pleased to see the desire in his eyes. I resolved not to play the coquette, instead undoing my drawers and letting them fall to the floor, revealing my lower body clad only in my white cotton stockings (I had slipped off my shoes at the start). I bent to peel off my stockings, but he stopped me.

“Stay as you are for a moment, Jane,” he said. “Let me see you in all your glory.”

I managed to suppress a smile at the extravagance of this; it was pleasing to me to know I enticed him. He looked me up and down several times.

“Beautiful,” he said, “Exceptional. Magnificent.”

I wanted to protest that this was altogether too much praise, but I knew that silent acceptance of his words was all that was required of me.

“Come closer,” he said.

I took a couple of paces forward and stood in front of him, one hand on my hip, trying to have no expression, neither lustful nor prim, simply ready to accept whatever he required of me.

“Open,” he said.

I moved my legs apart, at this point feeling my face color. This was, even for a girl who had been initiated into practices that most of her peers had never contemplated even in their private fantasies, a difficult command to comply with. I felt shamed, yet my cunt burned with desire.

He looked me in the eye. “So,” he said. “What sort of girl are you, Jane? What should I do with you? What things do you like, I wonder?”

I was not sure if an answer was required, nor whether I could speak coherently at that moment.

“I-I… whatever you want, sir,” was all that I could manage.

“Whatever?” he said. “Be careful not to promise more than you can give.”

I took a deep breath. “I am yours to command, sir,” I said.

He looked at me for a full minute, saying nothing. Then he spoke again. “I mean to test you, Jane. Whether you are what I believe you to be.”

“And what is that, sir?”

He told me to step forward, even closer. He took my nipples in each hand, between thumb and forefinger, and squeezed them hard, so hard that I cried out.

“I think you like this, Jane,” he said. “Let us see how much.”

He squeezed them still harder. I don’t know if you have ever had someone take your nipple in this fashion, compressing it between the thumb and the knuckle of the forefinger. If you have not felt it, you would be surprised to find out just how much it can hurt, if done by someone with a taste for imparting pain. Mr. Rochester ground my nipples harder and harder, until I begged for mercy. In reply, he forced me down onto my knees, but never let go of his grip.

He looked down at me as I knelt beneath him, my face contorted in pain, my lips parted in a silent cry. “Are you still mine to command?” he enquired, and then twisted his fingers, producing an even more agonizing pain to my poor nipples.

“Yes, sir,” I gasped. “But please, don’t hurt me any more.”

He relaxed his grip, but his fingers still controlled me. “I wish to hurt you more, and I shall, Jane,” he said. “And I believe that is your wish.”

“No, sir,” I protested. “Please, no more.”

“Stand up,” he said. He pulled me up to a standing position by my nipples. I was whimpering and gasping with pain.

“Now, Jane,” he said. “I shall prove to you that nothing gives you more pleasure than to be used in this manner.”

“No, sir,” I pleaded.

“Put your hand between your legs, Jane. Insert a finger into your pretty little cunny.”

His fingers were now softly kneading my nipples, which tingled under his touch while they remembered the recent pain. Not wishing to seem anything but obedient, I slid my hand between my legs. I knew what I would find once my finger went inside, but it was even worse than I thought. It seemed as though wetness was oozing from me, that I dripped with the clear but slippery juices of desire. My body had betrayed me; I could not deny the evidence that I was aroused by what he was doing to me.

“Hold up your finger, Jane,” he said.

Blushing furiously, I showed it to him, gleaming wet. He took my hand and brought it to his lips, then licked the fluid from my finger.

“You may tell me that you don’t wish for pain,” he said, “but I know better. You are, as I suspected, a girl who is excited by it, who desires to be hurt. Of course, the pain must be of the right kind, administered in the right way, by the right person. But I think we can now say who that person is, can’t we?”

He paused, obviously expecting an answer.

I bent my head, unable to look him in the eye, such was my shame. “Yes, sir,” I whispered.

“Let us try something else,” he said. He took my hand and pulled me forward, pressing me down across his knees as he sat on the bed. My toes rested on the floor, while on the other side of his knees my head was bent. I could see only the floor. He began to stroke my bare bottom, gently, soothingly, his hand running slowly over the curve of my behind.

“Are you ready, Jane?” he asked.

I could only guess what he intended. “If you wish, sir.”

“Oh, I think you wish it too, Jane,” he replied. “But you are too ashamed to admit it.”

With that, he brought his hand down firmly across my left buttock. It stung, and I squealed out loud. He laughed softly. Then he struck me again. This time his hand landed on my right cheek. It stung harder than before. I tried to wriggle free. In response, with his free hand he grabbed my hair and twisted it hard. I cried out.

“If you don’t keep still, I’ll twist it harder,” he said.

Then his hand landed again on my left cheek. I stifled a yelp and forced myself to remain in position. My hair hurt a lot as he maintained his grip, worse than the spanking. His hand rose and fell steadily, first on one cheek, then on the other. Gradually, as I managed to remain still, he relaxed his grip on my hair. But the stinging of his hand on my bottom was getting worse. After several more smacks, he paused. Then he began to stroke my poor inflamed behind, his hand soothing on the smarting skin, but I felt sure that this was not the end. And indeed, after a couple of minutes, he began again. It seemed to hurt more now; whether he was hitting me harder, or whether the pain was cumulative, I began to gasp and groan, and could not help a little wriggle from time to time when the pain got too bad. Once more he paused, relieving the pain with the softness of his touch, only to resume a moment later. At last he stopped.

“Stand up,” he said.

Unsteadily I got to my feet.

“Eventually,” he said, “I shall test your limits. I shall push you as far as you think you can go, and then a little further. We shall discover where your pain threshold lies. But not tonight, not this first time. This is just an introduction, something to think about. Soon I am going away again, and I wish you to contemplate what is happening here tonight, and consider how much you want it to happen again, only next time more so.”

He crossed the room to a wooden chest, which he opened. From it he drew a length of thick leather, narrowed at one end as a grip, while the other end was slit down the middle for a distance of six inches or so. He came back and showed it to me.

“This is my strap, Jane,” he said. “Often it is called a tawse. I believe it is employed by the more sadistic of our schoolmasters. But perhaps not on girls; have you seen one before?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, looking at it with apprehension.

“I’ll give you just a little taste of it,” he said. “And while I’m away you can imagine what it feels like when I wield it to the fullest extent of my powers.”

He made me kneel on the edge of the bed, my bottom protruding outwards. He pushed my head down into the covers and told me to arch my back, so that my bottom was raised.

“You will receive twelve, Jane,” he said. “You must hold your position. If you do not, I shall start counting again from the beginning. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled. I was shaking a little. He was wrong; I didn’t want the pain, I wished it was over. Please don’t let him hit me hard, I pleaded, but not out loud.

The first stroke of the tawse took my breath away. The pain was sharp, intense. It seemed to burn into my skin. Trying to mitigate it even if only a little, I shifted from one knee to the other.

“Keep still,” said Mr. Rochester sternly.

The second stroke fell directly on top of the first. I gave a stifled cry but managed to keep fairly still.

“Two,” said Mr. Rochester.

The strap was heavy. Each time it hit me I felt myself pushed forward by its weight. I did my best to retain my position. I gritted my teeth so that my cries of pain would be muffled. He hit me with a steady rhythm, each stroke, as it seemed to me, being given just enough time to sink in fully before the next one arrived. His aim was unerring; every time the strap landed in the same place, so that soon my bottom burned as if on fire. But something was happening to me. As Mr. Rochester continued to apply the strap, the pain increased, but so did my ability to absorb it. And then, in some strange way, I began to welcome each stroke, arching my back a little more, raising my bottom towards the tawse. I do not mean to say that it didn’t hurt any more. It hurt a lot. Perhaps he was not using all his force, but the blows were quite enough for me. Yet somehow there was pleasure in the pain. This was a mystery I had encountered before but would need to muse upon.