This scene should be placed near the beginning of chapter 22. Jane went to Gateshead to see her Aunt. While she lay dying she confesses to Jane that she has concealed something from her. Her Uncle John Eyre, her fathers brother, wrote to her four years ago requesting information about Jane. He had come into some money. He wished to adopt Jane and make her his heir. Mrs. Reed explains that she was jealous of Jane's mother. She was Mr. Reed's favorite sister and he showed her more attention than he did to her (Mrs. Reed). When Mr. Reed forced them to take in the orphaned Jane he was more affectionate to her than he was with his own children. This caused Mrs. Reed to hate Jane so much that she could not stand to help her in any way. She wrote back to John Eyre and told him Jane had died as a child during a Typhus outbreak at Lowood. After Mrs. Reed's death Jane stays a few weeks to help her two remaining cousins shut up the house. Neither of them wish to remain in contact with each other or Jane. They both go their separate ways and Jane returns to Thornfield. While she was away, the party at Thornfield concluded. Mr. Rochester traveled to London to purchase a new carriage. It was speculated this was done in preparation for his rumored upcoming marriage to Miss Ingram.

Jane would return that evening or perhaps the next day, depending on the state of the roads. She had written several letters to Mrs. Fairfax. It was through their correspondence that I heard the news of her aunt's passing and the resulting funeral. It had been more than a month since that vile woman had been interred, but still Jane tarried at Gateshead. I had been to London and back in the interval, to purchase a new carriage. I had grown so restless with waiting, I was nearly to the point of journeying to Gateshead to retrieve her myself when I finally learned that she was to return.

I was sitting on a stile, allowing the early summer breeze to sooth my anxious nerves. The afternoon was waning into twilight, the haymakers were finishing their day's work. From my perch I could see a fair distance down the road. I would be sure to spot any coach that passed this way. I was writing in my journal when a movement across the field caught my eye. It was Jane. She was approaching the house on foot! She must have left the coach at Millcote to take the shortcut across the fields.

"Hello!" I cried. Leaving my book and pencil, I stood to greet her. "There you are! Come on, if you please."

How would she greet me? Her veil covered her bonnet, shading her face.

"And this is Jane Eyre? Are you coming from Millcote, and on foot? Yes—just one of your tricks. Not to send for a carriage and come clattering over street and road like a common mortal. But to steal into the vicinage of your home along with twilight, just as if you were a dream or a shade. What the deuce have you done with yourself this last month?"

"I have been with my aunt, sir, who is dead." She said in her usual calm manner.

"A true Janian reply! Good angels be my guard! She comes from the other world—from the abode of people who are dead, and tells me so when she meets me alone here in the gloaming! If I dared, I'd touch you, to see if you are substance or shadow, you elf! —but I'd as soon offer to take hold of a blue ignis fatuus light in a marsh. Truant! truant!" I taunted. "Absent from me a whole month, and forgetting me quite, I'll be sworn!"

She ignored my rant, and instead inquired politely about my trip to London. My errand having been related to her by Mrs. Fairfax.

"You must see the carriage, Jane, and tell me if you don't think it will suit Mrs. Rochester exactly." I imagined her swathed in finery, seated in the coach by my side. "I wish, Jane, I were a trifle better adapted to match with her externally. Tell me now, fairy as you are—can't you give me a charm, or a filter, or something of that sort, to make me a handsome man?"

"It would be past the power of magic sir," she teased.

There she was, my little Jane, my taunting had brought her out at last. I was so elated by her presence, I couldn't help but grin broadly at her.

"Pass, Janet," I said, making room for her to cross the stile. "Go up home and stay your weary little wandering feet at a friend's threshold."

She climbed carefully up the stone steps, lifting the hem of her skirts so as not to trip. When she approached near enough to me, I reached out to briefly caress her calf.

"Jane," I called up to her. "I'm truly glad you are returned to me."

She hurried over the steps then paused.

"Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely glad to get back again to you, and wherever you are is my home—my only home," she said solemnly. She moved quickly and hurried up to the house.

Some time later I looked in upon her while she was seated with Mrs. Fairfax. They had taken their supper and were now arranged in comfort in the old woman's sitting room. Adèle seated on Jane's lap, was a bustle of activity, and chatter. Jane was so patient with the child. Doting on her and allowing her far too much liberty.

Without preamble I asked of Mrs. Fairfax, "Are you alright now that your adopted daughter has returned safe to you?"

All three heads turned to me in unison, surprised by my sudden intrusion. Without pausing her knitting, Mrs. Fairfax nodded her assent.

"Here now Adèle! Leave off your poor little English mother, you look positively prepared to devour her," I scolded. I was impatient for Jane to retire, so I could devour her myself.

Adèle quieted for a moment but did not move. Jane placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and I saw a look pass between them. Then I understood, these women had become a surrogate family. I was encroaching upon them. I retreated to give them some privacy to enjoy their reunion. It seemed I would have to wait a while longer for the reunion I desired.

I lingered in the hall, watching the door to Mrs. Fairfax's parlor. All was still, the servants were downstairs for their evening meal. I took the opportunity to slip into Jane's room unnoticed. I would await her there.

Her trunk was laid open on the floor. She had unpacked her dresses. All were hanging in the wardrobe, except her black mourning gown, which was set aside for the laundry.

I sat before the writing table to wait, for it was the only chair in the room. Her portfolio was placed upon it, along with her pencil box, and brushes. Evidently she had taken them along with her on her journey. No doubt she would have had ample time to apply while awaiting her aunt's passing.

I flipped the portfolio open. There were the finished drawings I had seen before, but among them was another file. This contained her works in progress. There were sundry slips of parchment blotted where she had tested the tints of her watercolors. There were a multitude of sketches in various stages of completion, several portraits and scenes of nature. I found one of Adèle frozen in the performance of a pirouette. Her long curls and full pleated skirts swirling about her. There was a family group dressed in plain clothing. The man stood with a hand upon his wife's shoulder. The woman held an infant to her breast, as two more children stood beside her skirts. The margin read 'Levin.' Another portrait, this one of two women who could not be more dissimilar. One was fair, with round features, and a fashionable gown. The other was dark and thin, she looked rather frigid, like a nun. These were her surviving cousins I presumed.

As I leafed through the pages I was puzzled to find Miss Ingram. Jane had painted her in vibrant colors, gifting her with greater beauty than she truly possessed.

Then there was Jane herself… or not really herself. It was a colorless charcoal sketch, her expression hard and blank. This was not the Jane I knew. Was this how Jane viewed herself? I turned the page wishing to no longer look upon such a disturbingly false representation of my lovely one.

Then I saw my own portrait, a faithful likeness. I was not handsome, yet she had portrayed me with an expression of such confidence, it rendered my visage striking -powerful. I could not help but look upon the image with pride, and admiration for its creator. This was drawn by a loving hand, with an admiring eye.

There was one remaining sketch, this one only half finished. Even in its incomplete state it was striking. A man's hand. The familiar fingers were slightly curved, gripping firmly into -skin? Yes, they made subtle depressions into supple flesh. There was a ring upon one finger, I recognized the setting, it was one I wore continually. This was my hand. A representation of my hand groping her body. How intimate, and so very erotic. What thoughts had she invoked while she committed this image to paper? Was it a cherished memory? Or a fantasy yet to be fulfilled?

I heard her step in the hall, then the rattle of the door. Leaving the drawings, I was up and across the room in an instant. She entered and saw me. She was not surprised, in fact she seemed to have been expecting my presence. With a knowing smile, she turned to bolt the door.

Stepping behind her, I wrapped my arms about her waist. I pulled her firmly against me, pressing my face into her hair, inhaling the scent of her body. This was no woodland sprite or apparition, she was real. Truly she had returned to me. My body, already heated by the anxiety of impatience, and her tantalizing drawing, began to respond to her after so long a separation.

"I should never have given you leave," I said with irritation. "I began to doubt you would ever return."

"But you see that I have." She replied calmly, refusing to acknowledge the fire in my tone, subsequently stoking it further. She had no remorse for the distress her absence caused me.

I forced her step, moving her across the room until her shins were pressed against the side of the bed.

"I allotted you one week and this how you repay my kindness? With willful disobedience?"

"One week was not sufficient, sir." She responded coolly, as if we were discussing the matter quietly over tea in the drawing room. "I returned as soon as I was no longer needed."

She attempted to turn to face me, but I held her fast.

"Even now you continue to try me with your defiance. How shall I punish such insolence, Miss Eyre?" I demanded. Trapping her arm, I twisted it behind her back, bending her over the bed. My thighs pressed against her bottom pinning her in place.

"I'm sure I don't know sir, but I have faith you will think of something appropriate." She couldn't manage to keep the mirth from her tone. She turned her face into the bedclothes to conceal a coy smile.

She was baiting me, and damn it was working.

"You mocking ungrateful thing!" I spat out incredulously, "you will answer for this."

Furiously, I pushed up her skirts and tore her undergarments so the pristine white skin of her arse was bared to me. I stroked my palm over her, then drew back and struck her sharply.

(slap)

She made no sound. She had anticipated it, had braced for it.

I caressed her raw skin and pressed my hips forward menacingly. Grinding my ready cock against her arse. She pressed back in challenge. I scoffed.

"Oh, I see! So that is the way of it -are you enjoying this, Miss Eyre?"

(slap)

I struck her again, harder. But still -DAM HER, she would not cry out. I slid my hand between her legs. My fingers slipped easily into her wetness. She gasped.

"You ARE enjoying this, you witch!" I nearly growled. "What have you done with my innocent schoolgirl? I've found a seductress in her place."

(slap)

"Did you think of me?

(slap)

Did you give me one moment's consideration? Or did it give you satisfaction to make me wait?

(slap)

When I give instructions, Miss Eyre, I expect them to be obeyed."

(slap)

I continued in that fashion, striking her, then caressing her flaming skin, for perhaps another five or six blows. I lost count. I unfastened my breeches, taking my cock in my hand. I slid it against her thigh.

"This is what you want, isn't it?"

She was silent.

"Oh, you can attempt to deny it, but your body has already betrayed you. You can't help it." I rubbed her sex. "Look how your arse arches up when I tease you." I pushed my fingers into her. "And your ready cunt is dripping for me," I crooned menacingly.

I slid my cock along her slit, rubbing her swollen lips with the smooth head. She tried to suppress a groan. Oh yes, she wanted it, she was desperate for my rigid ready cock. I had to dig my fingers into her hips to prevent her pressing back onto me.

"You want my cock?" I accused.

"Yes," she gasped, finally responding.

"Tell me you will never disobey."

"No, never sir."

An overwhelming sense of power predominated at her words. I thrust hard, penetrating her aching cunt. Flames of delight leapt in my belly, each forceful stroke heightening my pleasure, and my satisfaction.

I traced my fingers over her rosy arse, she braced for another sharp stinging blow. But it never came. I was mesmerized by the raised red welts where I had marked her. Each thrust of my hips sent a wave of movement rippling through her flesh.

I liked her like this, pinned and powerless, completely under my control. Her skirts bunched up around her. Trussed up for my use, her pretty little arsehole on display, tempting me. Instead of striking, I moved my hand slowly down her cleft until my thumb glided over that forbidden opening.

I was gentle, barely grazing the puckered skin. She bucked under me. Her sex tightened on my cock as she clenched in reaction to my touch. God, I wanted to fuck that tight little hole. Just the thought nearly made me come.

"Mr. Rochester, are you a sodomist?" she accused fearfully. That cooled me, did she think I would force her? I stopped momentarily.

"I am many things, Jane, but I am not a brute. You judge too hastily what you do not understand. You have barely begun to experience what pleasure there is to be had. Perhaps in time you will trust me to show you."

I moistened my thumb with my mouth, then proceeded to tease her arsehole. I gently pushed inside and her breath caught. Ere long I paused, dropping down to my knees. I placed a hand on either mound and spread her. I pressed my face into her valley and licked my tongue over her arsehole. I fingered her cunt, as I pressed my writhing tongue into her.

She gasped, "It isn't right." She was pressing back against my mouth, suppressing her moans. Her mind unwilling to admit to what her body clearly coveted.

I stood, thrusting my cock into her again. I teased her bud with one hand, her arse with the other, as I pulsed into her. She was in heaven. Her hands fisted the bedclothes.

"Ohhh God, Edward… I'm coming," she cried as her body convulsed. It seemed to go on forever. I allowed her to soar as long as the sensation would last, continuing to move within her.

"Give me your mouth," I demanded.

I supported myself against the bed and she moved to the floor before me. She quickly took me into her mouth and sucked forcefully. I pushed into her throat, and she gagged as I advanced beyond what she could tolerate. She retreated a measure, but did not stop. She greedily sucked my cock as I struggled for control. I watched her beautiful lips slide over my shaft, taking everything she could from me. I gave her but a moment's warning and she pulled my member from her mouth, continuing to stroke me. My cock was swollen and throbbing, the head darkened to a deep shade of purple. My seed spurted out with a surge of pleasure, onto her lips and chin. She looked up at me, her eyes dark with triumph, my seed upon her face. She smiled, then licked the few remaining beads of fluid from my overly sensitized head. My knees buckled, and I cried out with pained agitation. I held her at a distance.

"No more," I gasped, I sat down on the floor, leaning against the bed, I wiped her face, then pulled her into my lap.

"I have no notion what to make of you. I have an insatiable need to master you, yet your submission humbles me. You bring me quite literally to my knees," I said quietly as I stroked her face. I held her for a time, until we were both quiet.

"Why did you stay away so long?" I finally asked.

"I could not leave my aunt, she lingered several days. Then my cousins pressed me to assist them."

"And what of it? Did you reconcile?"

"No" she sighed, "I gave my full forgiveness and begged hers, but she clung to her hatred." She reflected silently for a moment, then continued. "She hated my mother. When my Uncle Reed took me in after my parents' deaths, she transferred that hatred to me."

The whole ordeal seemed an exercise in futility.

"Why on Earth did she send for you, if not to ask forgiveness?"

"To confess," she said. "I have another uncle, John Eyre, my father's brother. She hid the connection from me. He wrote to her four years ago, informing her he wished to adopt me. But she told him I was dead."