The matter being settled to his satisfaction, I asked him about AdŠle’s parentage and background, covering my curiosity in the mantle of an, almost, legitimate desire to have a fuller knowledge of my pupil, the better to govern her. He told me that her mother had been a French actress and dancer, who specialised in parts where the display of her body was necessary for the sake of her Art, the representation of passion and even lust, since these are the stuff of real life, and the stage would not represent to us the world as it is without them.
She appeared regularly in something known as Le Temple d’Amour. I forbore to question him as to how he had come to witness these performances, or make the lady’s acquaintance. It seems that, out of fondness for her, he had set her up in a little house with maid, carriage, and all those other amenities without which beautiful women are, apparently, quite incapable of surviving. When AdŠle was born he took her, at first, to be his own.
“I thought that I was the only one mounting my filly, and that the foal she dropped must be mine,” he said, with a delicacy occasioned, no doubt, from relating the affair to a gentlewoman, “but later, when I came to know her cunning and deceit better, I could not be so sure she had not allowed another into that fertile place. Still I could not be sure, either way and, when she died tragically, a year or so back, I took the girl into my care. You see now why I am anxious for her to be strictly brought up, the danger that she might inherit her mother’s profligate ways is too real, but, with even the faintest chance that she may have my blood, a commoner must be her whipping girl, and take her stripes.”
I was aware, as he must have been, that young ladies of even the bluest blood were often whipped at that time, to improve their manners and prepare them to be good daughters and wives but, since his other argument, based on AdŠle’s tender years, was sufficient justification in itself for his decision to make my woman’s bottom pay for her girlish faults, I refrained from pointing out the discrepancy, and the matter was agreed.
I was to find it a costly bargain, for, despite my care to keep her ignorant of it, AdŠle inevitably discovered she could get me fearsome stripes in my buttocks at the cost of mere flicks to her palm, or even scot free, if she plagued my employer in my absence, and the little devil that ever lurked in her would tease me by asking if I were a little stiff that day, or did my legs trouble me, if I limped at breakfast, or winced at placing my bottom on my chair.
Grace Poole
Before then, though, there were other misdeeds to correct in the house. From the beginning of my residence at Thornfield, I had been aware of mysterious comings and goings between the kitchen and the attic story, glimpses of a female figure, often carrying a tray or jug, noises in the night, as of wild laughter or eldritch screams.
I was given to understand there was a woman lived on that floor, that did sewing and such for the house. As to the noises, the creepings and peals of mirthless laughter, Mrs Fairfax seemed indisposed to make anything of them, suggesting I dreamed them, or it was the birds, or the night owl.
One night I was awakened by some indistinct noise, and went out into the corridor to investigate. I smelt something burning, there were wisps of smoke obscuring the far end, where Mr Rochester had his room. Some breeze must have stirred, for his door swung open a little, and the smoke poured out, illuminated with the redness of flames.
Naked as I was, for I had not donned a robe in my haste to catch whoever had disturbed my sleep, I threw all caution to the wind and ran down the long alley-like passage, thrusting open the door, and seeing, to my horror, that the hangings of my Master’s bed were all afire, while he lay deep asleep, stupefied by the smoke, and like to perish if left.
I called out to him, but he did not stir, and I cast around wildly for aid. My eye fell on his basin and ewer, both, thankfully, still filled. I threw the one, then the other, over the burning fabric, beating at it with my hands, pulling it down, smothering it with the sopping rug. As I finally succeeded in extinguishing the conflagration, my Master awoke, roused by all the noise and confusion, and the douche of cold water that had drenched him. He looked out from his bed to see me, naked, soot-stained and wet, disposing of the last of the sparks.
“I called you an Elf, when you felled my horse in Hay lane,” he remarked, “but now I see you are an Imp from hell, although I see no horns, unless they are about to sprout from those hard points on your chest. In the name of that fiery place from which you come, what is going on?”
“Why Sir,” I replied, realising for the first time my nakedness, and wrapping my arms across those throbbing teats he had so embarrassingly referred to, “I was wakened by strange movements outside my door, and laughter, there is a woman named Grace Poole who laughs like that, and came out to find fire coming from your room. It seems someone wishes you ill, and has set light to the bed curtains.”
“And you have put them out, and saved me from visiting your own country too early. For that I must show my gratitude, but first I will investigate upstairs. Stay here and do not move.” He slipped out of the door, taking the only candle with him. I stood there in darkness, naked, wet and soiled, not moving for my Master had forbidden it. As I waited, the first light of dawn began to filter through the curtains and, when he eventually returned, there was no further need of candle, one could see the room and its ruined contents quite clearly. The contents included my unclothed person, and he inspected me silently, burning me with his eyes.
“It was as you thought,” he said at last, “the woman Poole was responsible. I will have her punished later.”
If I’d had my senses I would have asked how it came about that she was not instantly dismissed, after such an offence, but my nudity and sooty appearance, together with the cold that was seeping into my wet limbs, took my attention, and his.
“The devil chooses tasty aides,” he said approvingly, then, as he realised my discomfort, and the shock of what I had witnessed and done, he became almost tender for such a stern and demanding Master.
“Deuce take me then,” he burst out, “you are wet and shivering, and here am I only concerned for my pleasure in looking at you.”
Ah, I would have stood naked in the frozen wastes of Iceland, or trodden bare foot through the lava of Etna, to hear that I gave him pleasure, though I feared he only teased me.
“Come girl,” he said, seizing his cloak from the chair, and wrapping it round me, “much as I hate to cover up your charms, I would keep them warm for another day. Off to your room, and make good the nights ravages. I will thank you later for saving my life.”
I stumbled back to my room, weary and worn, my mind choked with the emotions of the night, and cleaned the soot and stains from my body, blushing again as I discarded my Master’s cloak, and remembered how he had seen me in this state. I rested for much of that day, but came to dinner in the evening, feeling much more composed, though still blushing to meet my Master’s gaze. He seemed preoccupied, and more than usually stern, even for his saturnine character. It was with relief that I learnt the reason for it, which he divulged to me as dinner was cleared.
“As you surmised, Mrs Poole must bear responsibility for the night’s uproar, and will be punished this evening. I have told Mrs Fairfax she is to have all the servants attend, as an example to them to observe their own responsibilities, and I would like you to be present also, so that you may see that justice was done, and the danger and discomfort to which you were subjected, have not been overlooked.”
I was surprised indeed that the woman had not been dismissed out of hand, but assumed that there was some old family connection, some debt owing for services in the past, that entitled her to a reprieve. Mr Rochester led the way, going up the stairs to gain the attic story again, a room almost directly above my own. The servants were already assembled, but it was not their nervous chatter that took my attention, but the strange structure at one end of the longish room.
Two stout beams started from the floor, about four feet apart, and came together, some seven fe
et or so above the floor, forming a very rigid triangle. A thick iron ring was set into the apex, and others at the lower corners and at intervals along the sides.
As soon as we were arrived, my Master nodded to Mrs Fairfax, who left the room, returning in an instant with the wretched delinquent, whose punishment we were to witness.
Grace Poole was a powerfully built woman of about thirty-five years, with strong features, coarsened somewhat by too great an affection for strong drink. She was dressed in a manner suitable for a woman of her class, that is, a stuff gown with apron, over petticoats, stays and stockings. As was usual for women of her condition she wore no drawers, such persons clinging to the customs of past years rather longer than the quality, who had adopted fine coverings for female loins many years before.
All this we were able to ascertain for ourselves as Mr Rochester abruptly commanded her to strip herself for chastisement, and she humbly obeyed him. Her form was like her face, strong and well-shaped, but impaired somewhat by belly rolls and fat about the shoulders, that spoke of too much gin and porter. She had fine breasts though, their fullness enhanced if anything by the slight superfluity of fat she carried. When she was naked, she was made to stand to the triangle, where her wrists were bound and secured to the ring at the apex, causing her to reach up, her heels leaving the ground. Her ankles were then secured, pulled wide apart, and corded to the lower rings, the additional tension sending her up onto her toes. Now she was stretched taut, arms above her head, her back and buttocks quite exposed to our gaze, and her employer’s whip.
“Fifty strokes, Grace,” he announced, “prepare yourself.”
The woman was obviously in great fear, and cried out for mercy.
“I know I was remiss in my duty, Sir,” she wailed, “but I’ll never touch drink again. Spare me, Sir, for fifty strokes will kill me.”
“Never fear, Grace, your fat back will cut nicely, but you’ll come to no harm, and it will encourage you wonderfully, you have my word on it. No more tippling at the gin bottle. You’ll remember this whipping and it will taste like vinegar. No, you failed in your duty and you’ll suffer for it.”
I found their exchanges somewhat strange. I could believe that her crime had been prompted by drink but the talk of duty was beyond me. I gave it little more thought at the time, however, for Mr Rochester began the whipping, drawing back his arm, and sending a wicked length of black leather, singing through the air, to land across her back with a sharp crack.
She screamed, and tensed in her bonds, throwing back her head, her mouth open in pain and shock. Before she had recovered completely another stroke joined the first, and she screamed again. Down the white back, in awful progression, the whip strokes descended like a staircase of agony. Grace babbled for mercy between each deprivation of breath, as the lash drove the air from her lungs. A dozen strokes laid a ladder of red rungs from the top of her shoulders to her waist.
She was given a short respite, hanging in her bonds, while Mr Rochester crossed to the other side, then she screamed and shrieked her way through twelve more as they were laid across the first from the howling woman’s right. Another hiatus as he returned to her left, and the whip curled round her thick haunches, laying a scarlet track across their fullness and biting into her flank. Eight fell from one side, then eight from the other.
By now the woman was in some distress, her back bleeding in several places, a red trickle from her right flank running down her thigh, but her ordeal was far from over. He returned to her back, laying four strokes across it from the left, reaching further over, so as to wrap the lash round her ribs and onto the swell of the right breast. Four times the tip of the lash bit into the tender underside of the full globe, her howls, which had grown weaker, renewed to their full earsplitting quality, nor were they any less when he crossed over and treated the left breast to the same venomous kisses. After the last she hung almost quiet, as if she believed it over, her body still, save for the heaving of her shoulders and the sound of her sobs, but there was a deficiency in her tally, the correcting of which quite undid her. Instead of crossing back for the last two strokes, Mr Rochester stood directly behind her and cut her in the crotch. The whip came singing up between the spread thighs and sliced the fat lips pouting between. The scream she let out was like a soul in hell, which she undoubtedly was at that moment, and the succeeding moment too, for he sent in the last cut to the same place.
When she was released her only concern was for these two awful cuts in her centre of womanhood, the wounds to her shoulders and buttocks fading into inconsequence beside them and she collapsed onto the bare boards, writhing and clutching her outraged vulva. I have become inured to witnessing and receiving punishment, but these cuts, and her shrieks, had caused my own belly to contract in sympathy and, momentarily, I felt pity for the woman, until I remembered she had tried to encompass the death of my Master. Drink was no excuse in such a case, and I thrust aside my feelings of pity in favour of satisfaction that justice had been executed.
Guests At The Hall
Mrs Fairfax had intimated that Mr Rochester was not in the habit of staying long at Thornfield, leaving quickly to resume his dubious wanderings on the Continent of Europe, or even further afield, dark hints of the Levant surfacing in company with her own husband, whose proclivities learned in the cities of the Middle East, where strange and ancient practices prevail, had so sadly denied her children. Now he seemed to turn over a new leaf, visiting extensively the best houses of the County, attending balls and routs, finally arriving to set the house by the ears with the announcement that company was expected, and all to be put in order.
There was a great airing of linen, cleaning of rooms, and preparation of food and drink for the party. Among those who arrived to taste Mr Rochester’s hospitality were the Dowager Lady Ingram with her son, Theodore, newly come to the title, and daughters Blanche and Mary. I had heard much of the elder daughter from Mrs Fairfax, my source of all information on my chief subject of speculation and devotion, Mr Rochester, for she had told me that he favoured Miss Ingram, and might well offer her marriage.
Both sisters were tall and well favoured but, while Mary was a little too slim for her height, and of a quiet and retiring disposition, Blanche was majesty itself. Long dark hair, a complexion dark as a Spanish lady, her figure was perfectly moulded to her height, the swelling bosom balancing the curving haunches, the glimpse of a fine ankle, confirmed by the beautiful bare arms and shoulders, for her gowns were daringly low cut, showing the tops of two firm olive breasts almost to the nipples. Her manner was vivacious, where her sister was restrained, but her lively disposition carried an edge, an acidic satirical flavour, that could hurt, and not without intention.
Mr Rochester had given instructions that I was to attend in the drawing room, when the ladies retired there after dinner, taking AdŠle with me, so that she might have her hearts desire of meeting the fine ladies. I kept to a recess, while all made a fuss of the little girl, staying out of sight when the gentlemen joined us.
Miss Ingram sought out Mr Rochester by the fireplace and started a conversation by remarking that she did not think he was fond of children, indicating AdŠle, to which he replied that he was not, but she had been left on his hands. It was clear Blanche believed AdŠle to be his bastard brat and she declared she could not understand how he did not send her to school.
“A good English education, drilled in with the rod on her bared behind would soon cure her of her nasty French ways,” she declared.
Mr Rochester replied that he could not afford to send her to a suitable school, but had engaged a Governess instead.
“Ah yes,” Miss Ingram replied, in her most cutting tone, “I believe I noticed a person of that description hanging about. Why there she is now, behind the curtain.”
My cheeks burned, but I kept silent while she went on.
“They are the most tiresome class,” she observed. “Mary and I have had above a dozen of the creatures, and nothing but trouble
from them all. Theo and I would lead them all a dance, Mary was always too meek to treat them as they deserved. Do you remember Theo, how we use to rag Miss Grey. We’d turn the school room upside down, then tell her she had failed in her duty, and make her hold her hands out for her own strap. She used to squeal so, it was delightful.”
“Yaas,” drawled her languid brother, “but Miss Wilson gave us the best sport.”
“Miss Wilson,” echoed his stately sister, “now there was a triumph for the governed over the governess, the well-born over the lowly. We made her squirm and squeal, and finally quit the field.”
“Did you so?” said Mrs Eshton, another of the guests, of middle years, and with two daughters of seventeen or eighteen. “How was that accomplished?”
“With rod and strap, and bare rump,” laughed Miss Ingram. “She was about twenty or twenty-one at the time I think, quite pretty in a fashion, though lacking true nobility. In fact Theo preferred to spy on her, rather than to watch me in my undress, which I found a fault in her, he peering through a knot hole when she was at her ablutions, when he could have come freely into my room.”
She glared at her brother, who grinned sheepishly back, little abashed by her disclosures.
“Still, I made certain she paid for the offence,” she continued, and I gathered poor Miss Wilson had aroused her jealous wrath as well as her mischief.
“We caught her in a meadow with Mr Vining, Theo’s tutor, lying in the long grass, her skirts around her ears, his prong deep in her belly. We said nothing, but I made sure she saw me where she was looking wide mouthed over his shoulder, as he pumped away lustily inside her.”
Jane and Her Master Page 4