Such a time we had at first, they were the best weeks of my life until then. Summer was still at its peak, and bathing in sunshine Thornfield was almost pretty; I loved it like a friend. Meadows bloomed all around it, every tree was dressed in the purest green, even the lightning-struck horse chestnut ventured forth some new growth.

In the mornings I taught Adele, and in the afternoons Mr Rochester taught both of us about nature, or history; sometimes he sent Adele back to her maid or to play alone for some time, and then we talked religion, or philosophy, and I could almost feel my mind expand under his broader knowledge and revolutionary ideas. He told me about his travels, and did not shy away from including the Indies in his tales, which he always had before.

One day, he presented me with a valuable gift, one I didn't know what to think of, for it was not meant to gild me or woo me back to his side, but accepting it would lift me above my low status. He gifted me a real lady's horse, a genteel, pretty palfrey; golden in colour, and golden in character she bore me across the blooming fields, but not after quite a few frightening lessons, in which my master showed a lot of his former impatience and dominance.

For I was frightened at first of this large, strong animal, as I had feared his own black charger Mesrour. But as I had come to terms with his rage and his surliness by teasing him out of his moods, so he bullied and teased me into valour by calling me obstinate and elf-like, while I was in fact scared to death.

Teaching me to ride brought out the worst in my master, for he would not believe someone could be afraid of a horse, his own horse was almost wild, which he seemed to enjoy intensely. One day, before he had forced me into overcoming my natural fear of such a tall creature, my gentle mare was in a fractious mood and wouldn't stand still. I was in a state, for by now I knew she would shy at anything when fidgety like this, and my seat in the lady's saddle was not yet very stable. I was deadly afraid of taking a fall, and before risking that, I had to get past her large body and restless feet to mount.

'Make some haste, Jane, can't you see your horse is eager to be off?'

Mr Rochester was already mounted on his ferocious Mesrour, controlling the black beast easily; it was clear neither of them could wait to start the ride. As soon as I could mount by myself, my master had forbidden the stable-boy to help me, 'There won't be a stable-boy out in the fields, Jane, you have to be able to get on your horse under any circumstance.'

But now my usually placid filly shook her head as I gathered the reins, and sidled towards me, her shoulder topping me by an inch or two. I couldn't do it, fear petrified me, it was all I could do to hold on to the rein.

'You're not afraid of a mere horse, are you Jane? You've tamed me, and I'm much more dangerous, a true predator. Come now Jane, show your mettle, get on quickly.'

He wasn't angry at me, not yet, but soon his impatience would start to colour his voice; in some strange way my courage always rose when he growled at me, and he probably could have needled me into ignoring my fear to please him, but this rare time, he didn't.

'All right, I admit she's a bit more feisty than usual, finally a sign of life out of her. You should be glad of that, you like the spice in me, why not in your horse?'

But more importantly, he got off his own horse, left it standing and laid a hand on my filly's neck. I quickly made way for him, relieved at his lenience towards me but still a bit anxious over what was to come. After a few moments of complete immobility and silence he stroked the golden coat quietly, mumbling encouragements under his breath. This was a totally different side to my master and I watched the scene with more than a little surprise; and felt envious of a horse.

I do think he calmed her down, being among horses made Mr Rochester mellow, it was my lack of a natural connection to the horse that provoked him to lose his patience with me, for he never showed any sign of being put out with his horse, no matter how much it tried him.

But this time he relented towards me.

'See, I calmed her, Jane. And to make sure you'll not spoil my efforts by infecting her with your anxiety, I'll help you mount. Be a good girl and make it quick.'

But his soothing tone belied his harsh words, it was as if he was working his calming magic on me, too, and it worked. I stepped into his cupped hands lightly, and settled in the saddle without experiencing much further anxiety. My master handed me the reins, and when I had taken charge of my filly, he did not go back to his own horse instantly, but instead leaned against my leg for a few moments, a hand on my knee, his head resting against my thigh.

'I'm sorry, Jane, I should rejoice at your fearlessness towards me, not fault you for not being a natural horsewoman. I know you're trying beyond where you feel comfortable, I just fear showing you the sympathy and affection I feel; they would only lead to heartbreak, for both of us. So please forgive me my callousness, my beloved, I just don't want to lose you from my life.'

I dared hold the reins with one hand, freeing the other to show him I understood and forgave him by stroking his raven hair, feeling happy and sad all at once, and more than a little flustered at his intimate touch and feeling words.

The ride that followed was a special one, and the calm he had given my horse and myself seemed to last for weeks, though the next time we rode he was back to his demanding and abrasive attitude.

Still I learned, and as I conquered my fear I started to relish the speed and the freedom riding a horse bestowed on those fortunate enough to be able to keep one. And around us, the grass ripened and the farmers were busy making hay, as the days shortened and the young birds in the garden left the nest and learned to fly.

No laughter or other noises were to be heard had from the attic all summer, it was as if the beautiful weather had lulled Mr Rochester's wife into complacency as much as it had us. Still, she must have hated to see her husband riding out with another, playing shuttle-cock in the garden with Adele and me, relishing summer and freedom as she could not. But the absence of signs of life over my head made me forget all about her presence; I was happy as things were, and my master looked reasonably settled, too, though he did have his usual dark moods, most often just before bedtime.

They worried me a little, but I was no longer afraid he'd suddenly leave us to go abroad, he did truly love me and he would not leave me behind of his own free will.

Sometimes I got an insight into my master's problem, he'd be telling me about some thing or other with energy, say describing an evening at the opera in Milan; then he'd look at me in a certain way with those piercing eyes of his, and he'd approach me. I'd quickly offer him one of my hands, which he'd take in both his, and hold as if it was the most precious gift he'd ever received.

My heart would skip a few beats, my breath would halt in my breast; then he'd visibly control himself and the danger was gone. But after such a moment he'd be in a black mood which I could not tease him out of; I wanted to soothe him, but I didn't dare for fear of making things worse by tempting him.

Those moments of sudden passion, for of course that is what they were, came to me as well, though more rarely and I guess less powerful, I think my master never noticed my having them. Sometimes I would experience a sudden urge to embrace him or kiss him, and try my utmost to hide it from him. Fortunately they did not strike me in reaction to his moments of passion, for that would have been the end of our time together as brother and sister. Since I still dreaded that beyond any other fate, I learned to quickly remove myself from his presence, the next day would see him back to a better mood. What he did when I was gone I didn't dare think about. I flattered myself he'd always had those moments and at least there weren't any temptations for vice at Thornfield.

My own fits of passion occurred at the most innocuous times, mostly when my master seemed happiest. He loved instructing me, even in riding, once I lost my fear. He had no patience with insecurity and what he must have seen as cowardice, being so bold himself, but once I overcame that he spent hours teaching me how to improve my seat, how to communicate with my gentle mare without hurting her, how to teach her certain tricks, like walking backward.

And when such a soft mood came over him I wanted to kiss him, not as heatedly as that one night, just slightly less chaste than I sometimes allowed myself to kiss him even now. And I wanted to take his hand and rest my head in it, he had such beautiful hands and I hardly dared touch them. But most of all I wanted him to touch me, to hold me close, and to run his hands through my hair, and to lift me up and put me on his lap.

Did my eyes show him my feelings as clearly as his betrayed him? I didn't know and he never gave any sign of noticing.

And so summer passed, and I am sure that Mr Rochester was as happy as I was, which was not perfectly happy, but at the very least an excellent approximation of it.

But when the first storm hit the still warm, sleepy country even before the leaves turned colour, things changed. Mr Rochester's wife became restless, eerie cries and her typical, gurgling laughter would rend the night and were sometimes even audible by day, reminding both of us of her presence. I suppose summer had seemed a kind of courtship to us, trying to refrain from intimacies but allowing oneself to think of committing them; indulging in our mutual love freely in our minds, yes, freely, for I at least did nothing to stop loving my master, I merely tried not to show it for decency's sake. And judging from my master's behaviour he was not trying to conquer his love for me either.

We were both biding our time until we would be able to be together, but with Mr Rochester's wife once again showing signs of her presence I was confronted with the fact that we never could be together, that our love was forbidden. Not just its utterance, even the love itself.

I had to stop loving my master, and I was not going to do that by living with him.

Around this time something truly sad happened, which at the same time brought me something I had never thought to possess: an independent fortune.

I had tried to forget all about that fateful moment when Mr Mason walked in on our wedding ceremony, accompanied by a lawyer, Mr Briggs, turning my life upside down, ruining my chances of happiness; though of course a more rational part of me acknowledged our marriage would have been worthless, they were not at fault, my master had been. Mr Mason and Mr Briggs had saved me from a fate much worse than disillusionment, but to my feelings they had been the bringers of doom, the perpetrators of my ensuing misery.

Blameless as Mr Biggs' role in that traumatic event had been, still my heart sank as one morning at the breakfast table I found a letter from that gentleman, addressed to me.

'Are you all right, Jane?' Mr Rochester asked gently, a tone of voice he had adopted more and more during this summer, as soon as I had gotten over my fear of my horse, that is.

'You look as if you've received your death-warrant, signed and sealed.'

Knowing he didn't like to be kept waiting for an answer, I replied immediately, before I regained control over my vocal apparatus. As a result, my voice came out shaky and more than a little afraid.

'It's a letter from Mr Briggs.'

That name did not need an explanation, I could see very clearly that Mr Rochester had it engraved in his memory of a very dark day as much as I.

'Better open it then, Jane, it won't bite any less for watching it in horror much longer.'

See, he didn't expect any better from Mr Briggs either.

As I obeyed him and opened the letter, then read it, I felt a strange sadness come over me. I had never known my uncle, but he was the only relative I had, and I had always held on to some vague hope to meet him one day, though I already knew my uncle was rather ill and not expected to recover.

But to actually read he had passed away, and to realise the chance to get to know him was gone forever, that I was now truly all alone on this world, was so hard on me that I could barely read the rest of the letter; tears clouded my vision and I gave up on reading for a few moments.

Mr Rochester did not voice the concern he must undoubtedly have felt over my grief, instead I felt a strong arm over my shoulder as he pulled his chair close and took me into a comforting embrace. Since I had not actually known my uncle and was therefore not truly attached to him, my grief being that of missed opportunities and a loss of something I'd never really had, it faded very quickly in the close presence of someone I did love, passionately.

My tears dried instantly and I shamed myself by relishing my master's touch with an intensity that almost frightened me. Somehow, passion had sprung to life in me that one fateful night, and had lain dormant since. I remembered my master's intense sadness and guilt, his tenderness, the mercy he showed me despite his own wishes and needs, but also the fire in his eyes, the eagerness of his hands and his kisses. I had always been a passionate person, my likes and dislikes only suppressed by my low standing in the ways of the world. To know myself loved with such ferocity gave me a certain self-assurance, and for a short moment I dared to feel the same passion for the man holding me now, beginning to entertain thoughts of kissing him.

This time, he broke the spell before the situation got dangerous.

'Will you tell me what happened, dear Jane? Did someone die? You did tell me you had no relations? Who can it have been, a friend from your school-days?'

Having to talk helped conquer the passion, though I did not offer to leave his embrace. Not just yet.

'He was my uncle, my father's brother. He lived in Madeira, I never knew I had an uncle until I visited my aunt who lay dying, you know, when you had Miss Ingram here.'

It pleased me to see him look a bit guilty, that had been a bad trick he played her as well as me.

'My aunt showed me a letter he had sent her, in which he stated that he wished to offer me a home and make me his heir; she told him I had died, she hated me so. Then when you and I were going to marry, I sent my uncle an announcement, with the result you remember.'

I surprised myself being able to talk of it so dryly, but on my master the memory had a greater impact; the guilt he showed now was much more intense, in proportion to his misdeed. His hold on me tightened involuntarily, and again I felt satisfaction rather than fear or discomfort.

'And now, Jane? Did he leave you anything? Were there any other heirs? Was he your father's only relative?'

That really set me thinking, I knew of no-one, but I had just accepted I didn't have any, had never tried to inquire.

'I don't know, sir, do you suppose I might find out?'

'Have you read the entire letter, what does it say?'

I hadn't of course, so I started all over, read again the sad message of my uncle John's passing, then got on with the rest, couldn't believe what my eyes told me and handed the letter to Mr Rochester.

'You read it, sir, I cannot make any sense out of it.'

As he bent forward over my shoulder to read the letter in his hand, his face came really close to mine, I could feel the stubble on his cheek grazing my own smooth skin, and for the few blessed moments he needed to read the whole of its content, I inhaled that secret scent I remembered so well from that horrible, fantastic night filled with grief and passion. Mind spinning, I really had to come back to earth as he spoke in wonder.

'Your uncle has left you his entire fortune, Janet, and not a pittance, either. You need only write a letter of acceptance to Mr Briggs to take sole possession of twenty thousand pounds! Twenty thousand pounds! You're a wealthy woman, Jane!'

Why didn't that make me happy? I'd never be dependent on anyone again! My life was now my own to lead, I could buy a house, a school even, I'd never have to work another day in my life, or take orders from anyone ever again! And why didn't I feel happy? Because the man who I loved with all my heart seemed crushed by the news.

As he had comforted me when I had first read the news of my uncle's passing, he now seemed in need for consoling. But why? What difference would it make to him that I was rich?

I turned around in his arms and faced him, suppressing a strong urge to kiss those strong features, that severe mouth. Daring to take hold of both his cheeks, I asked, 'Why aren't you happy for me, sir? I'm wealthy, your Jane is moving up in the world.'

His face got positively dark now, gloom reminding me of former times, when his moods would change in seconds from exuberant to brooding.

'You'll leave me, Jane. You'll be expected to go out, meet people, and then you'll meet some handsome young man who'll want to marry you, and you'll leave me.'

That was too ridiculous to even reply to, but I couldn't refuse him an answer.

'And let go of my wealth and independence in the process? Hand it over to some man who could never love me for myself, but only for my fortune? Sit at home while he squanders it with his friends, laughing at the foolish plain heiress who fell for his charms?'

I became positively angry at the very thought, and concluded brusquely, 'I'd rather stay here with you forever, and teach Adele, maybe travel a little, see the world.'

'That is what you say now, but tomorrow you will write to Mr Briggs to claim your inheritance, and he may know of some distant relative of yours, who will then convince you to make a decent match, have children, live life to the full instead of sharing the exile of an ill-tempered man of advanced years.'

Then I did indeed kiss him, and only with utmost discipline did we keep that kiss chaste.

The very next morning I wrote that letter to Mr Briggs, not forgetting to inquire after possible other relatives I might still have hiding out somewhere. I mailed it myself, the weather still stormy, but I needed some fresh air, and some time all by myself. Mr Rochester had been thrown back into some kind of gloom by the prospect of my gaining new connections; as if I'd let people I didn't even know influence my life.

After one week of storms followed two weeks of lovely sunny weather. The leaves were now in autumn colours, and my master's mood cleared once we could ride out again. We made the most of the time that was left before autumn really set in by riding all over Mr Rochester's lands, visiting little farms whenever the yearly festivities of the harvest season demanded some of his attention.

His tenants were all pleased by his visits, and I was greatly relieved to find that none of them seemed to see me as anything but his employee, allowed to accompany him on an outing. There were no sidelong glances, no hints, of course no-one would have dared to challenge my master to his face even if they did regard me as his mistress.