by Fiona Locke
It was a formidable piece of furniture, imperiously tall and ornate. The tilt-top folded down to display a set of pigeonholes and small drawers. Too small to conceal what I was after. I closed the top again and searched lower.
There was a built-in bookshelf just beneath where the writing surface folded down and I felt around behind the carved scroll that formed the lip of the opening. It shifted easily and I held my breath as I pulled open the secret drawer. I stared at the white fabric on top before daring to take it out. It was a pair of Victorian pantalets. Nell’s drawers. Flushed with excitement, I gently removed the ream of papers they concealed. Across the top page, in Ashbee’s meticulous copperplate, was written Codex Librorum Suppressorum. I released the breath I’d been holding and restrained the urge to kiss the manuscript.
I was about to replace the pantalets when I suddenly thought of Simon. First too scared to come in, then happy to thump on the walls and slam doors to scare me. I’ll show you a ghost, I thought wickedly.
I hurried back to the bedroom and, after concealing the study once more, I stripped off my clothes. I stepped into the pantalets and drew them on. They came down to the knees and fastened with a drawstring around the waist. A front seam was the only semblance of modesty; the crotch and rear were completely open. No wonder they called them ‘unmentionables’!
Next I slipped into the dress and tied the pinafore on over it. Dust motes spun in the beam of the torch and my movements threw creepy shadows on the walls as I costumed myself. Finally, I pinned the cap into my hair and admired myself in the cheval glass. I couldn’t wait to see Simon’s terrified face when I confronted him like the vengeful spirit in a Japanese horror film.
But I was going to treat myself to something else first. I sat down on Fox’s bed and opened the manuscript. As I leafed through it I was thrilled to see handwritten notes in fountain pen, curious little notations made by Ashbee – or Fox. My discovery. Mine. I felt positively buoyant.
But as I skimmed an excerpt from The Merry Order of St Bridget, I became aware of the unpleasant chill. A minute ago I had been comfortable; now my teeth were chattering. How had the room suddenly become so bitterly cold? A convulsive shudder racked my body and I looked at my bandaged hand with concern. Had Simon been right about tetanus? I didn’t even know what the symptoms were.
My breath plumed in front of me and all at once I felt a crawling sensation in the pit of my stomach. There was nothing wrong with me; it was the room. The temperature had plummeted in seconds. And there was something else. The bedroom door, which I’d left open, was closed. My torch flickered like a guttering candle flame and went out. I stifled a scream and flicked the switch back and forth, on and off. It was dead. I shrank back onto the bed as slow, measured footsteps grew steadily louder in the corridor. Someone knew I was here.
The footsteps stopped outside the door and my chest began to ache with the hammering of my heart. I could hardly breathe. The shadows felt alive as I cowered in the dark, waiting. I was too scared to move, but I couldn’t just sit here all night in terror. ‘Simon? Is that you?’ I called hoarsely. My throat felt full of dust and I barely recognised my voice.
The door flew open with a bang and I cried out. A man was standing there. William Henry Fox.
‘Nell!’ he said sharply. ‘What do you think you are doing?’
I stared in disbelief at him, my eyes taking in the immaculate black suit and starched white collar. This was no insubstantial ghost; this was a man, solid and real. He held a brass candelabrum which illuminated the room and made the shadows dance around us, as though the furniture had come to life. His eyes gleamed with a dark vibrancy.
He strode to the bed and snatched the manuscript away. ‘This is not for the eyes of servants,’ he said severely. ‘But more to the point – what do you think you’re doing in my room, lounging on my bed?’
I glanced down at myself, still in Nell’s parlour maid uniform, stunned beyond words.
Mr Fox glared at me. ‘Well, girl? Cat got your tongue?’
‘I …’
‘And who’s this “Simon” you called out to? Hmm? Another of your admirers, I expect.’ He set the candelabrum down on the dressing-table with a thump and laid the manuscript beside it before turning to glare at me. ‘On your feet, girl!’
I rose slowly, completely at a loss for anything to say.
‘It seems you didn’t learn your lesson last time,’ he said, heading for the wardrobe and flinging it open. ‘But we’ll cure you of your nosy ways.’
He paused when he saw the balled-up sheet I’d stuffed inside and he turned slowly to me, holding up the ragged end where I’d torn it. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
At last he’d asked something I could answer. I felt connected to a filament of reality as I showed him my left hand. Blood had seeped through the makeshift dressing and I hoped he would take pity on me.
‘I see,’ he said, nodding. ‘You destroy my fine linens to dress scratches you sustained breaking into my private rooms. Well, I know how to deal with you, Nell. You know I do.’
He took something from the wardrobe and swished it through the air. I knew immediately what it was. I’d read his book.
‘Please, I don’t –’
‘You know the position, Nell,’ he said, calmer now that he was about to indulge in his favourite pastime.
Nell may have known the position, but I didn’t. I stared blankly at him, still too astonished to believe what was happening.
He took my hesitation for dumb insolence and seized me by the arm, hauling me away from the bed. He fetched a low padded foot-stool from beside the wardrobe and placed it in the centre of the room. He tapped it with the bundle of thin whippy switches and I suddenly wondered who had cut them and bound them with twine. And when.
As though under a spell, I moved towards the stool. I looked up at him fearfully and he tapped the rod impatiently against his leg. ‘Kneel. Hands on the floor,’ he instructed. ‘Bottom well up.’
Someone else’s voice meekly said, ‘Yes, sir’ and I felt my body obeying his command. But there was no one else in the room. Unable to resist, I rested my knees on the stool and bent down to place my palms flat on the dusty wooden floorboards. The position raised my bottom high in the air and I felt the chill air of the room against the stretched skin of my bottom and thighs.
‘A birching must always be given on the bare,’ he said loftily, ‘so we’ll have this up.’
And just like that, he raised my skirt.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, sounding amused. ‘I thought I had these safely tucked away, along with that manuscript. My, but you are a disobedient little thing, aren’t you? Well, we’ll soon put you right.’
He peeled the drawers apart, baring my cheeks, as I whimpered softly.
‘Two dozen,’ he pronounced.
I felt the rasp of the twigs against my bare flesh. Fox pressed the rod against my bottom, forcing the individual switches to spread out and cover it fully. Frightened by the realisation of how much area the birch would cover, I slowly filled my lungs with air in an effort to prepare myself.
The rod tapped once, held its position, and then struck.
I heard the swish of the birch cutting the air and then there was a burst of fiery pain, as though I’d been stung by fifty bees at once. I’d never even been spanked as a child and I had no idea how much it could hurt. I cried out and struggled awkwardly up onto my knees, clutching my bottom.
‘Hands down, girl,’ he growled. ‘A birching is meant to hurt.’
His words brooked no disobedience and I forced myself to resume the position. My hands had left two perfect prints in the dust and I fitted my palms into them again. The second stroke fell as soon as I did. Again I leapt up and grabbed my bottom, wailing in pain.
‘Nell,’ he warned.
It was absolutely the worst pain I’d ever felt in my life. How was I ever supposed to endure two dozen strokes? Again I felt myself eased into place, presenting myself to
him.
Stroke three caught my legs and I yelped, writhing over the stool and trying to stay still.
When he told me to get back into position again, I saw that my handprints had vanished. I looked to my right to see that the iron bedstead was no longer covered in cobwebs. The flocked red wallpaper looked like velvet, showing not a trace of decay. Even my uniform – what I could see of it – was immaculate.
‘Back in position,’ he repeated firmly.
I surrendered myself to another series of strokes, one right after another. With each stroke, pieces of the rod broke off and flew into the corners of the room. Close to tears, I watched as tiny buds and twigs landed beneath me on the polished floorboards.
‘How many was that, Nell?’
The response came easily. ‘Ten, sir.’
He delivered the next two in rapid succession and I began to cry. I still had a dozen to go.
The next three strokes came fast and hard, as though the first dozen had only been a warm-up. My voice was growing more ragged and tortured with every cry. Fox’s voice finally reached me through a haze of pain and I realised he was repeating something he’d already said.
‘How many, Nell?’
Startled, I realised I had lost count. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ I choked out.
‘Dear me,’ he said. ‘Should I start again?’ He paused long enough to savour my horrified silence before softly telling me it was twenty.
I gritted my teeth and locked every joint in my body to stay in position as he laid on the last four strokes. I cried out with each one and I actually heard the birch twigs snapping as they struck.
I could hardly believe it was finally over. I was shaking with sobs and gasping for breath. I couldn’t remember ever crying so hard in my life. Fox stood aloof, watching, as I got shakily to my feet. Through tear-blurred eyes, I saw what remained of the birch – lying scattered over the floor.
Eventually my tears subsided and I began to come back to myself. I felt oddly weightless. Light-headed but not unpleasantly so. I remembered a description Fox had written of Nell clinging to him after she had been birched. He spoke glowingly of how she always seemed more settled after a punishment. And more affectionate.
The pain had been terrible and I had truly hated every second of the birching. But now that it was over I drew strange comfort from the warm glow in my bottom. I reached behind and could feel the thin raised wheals, the tiny bee-sting knots where the buds had landed. I had even forgotten the pain in my hand.
‘Kate!’
My eyes snapped open and I looked up to see Simon standing in the doorway, shining his torch onto me. He was panting and out of breath.
‘What happened? Are you all right?’
I looked around in confusion, as though waking from a dream. Fox was gone. I was curled on the dust-choked bed, my arms wrapped round the torn and yellowing sheet, clinging to it.
‘I’m fine,’ I said slowly.
‘It sounded like you were in pain. I heard you crying out.’ He frowned. ‘What are you wearing?’
I still had Nell’s uniform on, once more aged and covered in dust. Under the skirt I could feel the cool air through the parting in Nell’s drawers. How could I possibly explain what had just happened?
‘Oh, I thought it would be fun to surprise you,’ I said awkwardly, forcing a smile.
Simon looked utterly baffled. ‘Right. Well, you’ve done that. Can we go now?’ he pleaded.
I sat up and immediately yelped with pain. ‘My hand,’ I lied quickly, answering Simon’s concerned look. Whatever had just happened, my bottom was proof of it. But proof no one was ever going to see – not even Simon.
‘Did you find it?’
I looked around for the manuscript, but it was gone.
‘No,’ I said sadly. ‘I didn’t find anything.’
As I gathered up my clothes and followed Simon out the door I noticed the candelabrum still burning on the dressing-table. I smiled to myself as I blew the flames out one by one.
I would return to Scargrieve – alone. I felt sure Mr Fox would eventually trust me with the manuscript. When he felt I’d paid for it.
A Suitable Match
Cambridge, England, 1865
I WAS BORED. Another dinner, another suitor. Why was my uncle trying so hard to marry me off? I hadn’t even met this Captain Hawksley. Back home in Atlanta I’d had my pick of southern gentlemen, but Englishmen were so dull and unimaginative.
There was a timid knock at the door and Polly poked her head inside. Her white cap sat askew on her head and I grimaced at the streaks of soot on her pinafore. Her slovenliness only soured my mood further.
‘Well, don’t just stand there letting in the chill,’ I snapped. ‘Do you expect me to dress myself?’
‘Sorry, Miss Angelina!’ The waifish girl scurried to my side and helped me into my corset. I wrapped my arms round the bedpost while she tightened the laces. It was obvious she’d never helped a lady dress before and I soon lost patience with her clumsiness.
‘Tighter,’ I hissed. ‘Pull tighter!’
I exhaled, emptying my body of the last breath of air and winced as she tightened the laces, drawing the whalebones in to constrict my frame. Only after much incompetent fumbling did she finally manage to tie the laces. Next came the voluminous petticoats, which Polly helped me step into. Then she pinned them in place over my frilly white bloomers: a French indulgence my uncle wouldn’t have permitted, but he wasn’t likely to see them.
Polly gasped as she stabbed herself with the pin. Hopeless.
‘Which frock will you be wanting, miss?’
‘The green,’ I said, inspecting my waistline in the mirror, admiring the impeccable posture enforced by the corset. I honestly didn’t care what our dinner companion thought. I found military men pompous and tiresome and I expected the captain would be no exception. No doubt he would boast of his exploits all night, one bombastic tirade after another, while I grew bored and restless. But to spurn a suitor properly, a lady must look her best.
Polly raised the rustling gown above my head and I swam through the layers of emerald green silk until the garment moulded itself to my curves. The maid had difficulty fastening it in back and I lost patience as she groped behind me like a blind beggar.
‘Wretched girl! Do those clumsy hands of yours know what they’re doing?’
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ she said, lowering her head.
‘Have you any experience at all of being a ladies’ maid?’
‘A little, miss.’
I didn’t believe her, but she finally managed the task. Dressed at last, I admired the southern belle in the mirror. My flaxen curls were pulled back from my face and adorned with matching green ribbons, setting off the deep contrasting brown of my eyes. The gown emphasised the porcelain swell of my bust and I smiled.
‘Uncle won’t be pleased with me showing so much décolletage,’ I confided to the maid. ‘But I don’t care.’
‘Ain’t that what a nice dress is supposed to do, miss?’ Polly asked shyly.
‘Oh, I had much nicer dresses before that beastly war. You should have seen me!’ I sighed. Then I grew annoyed with her for reminding me of all I had lost. I had been to all the finest balls and parties, worn the richest gowns and jewels. And now here I was in this damp gloomy country, bored silly by my uncle James and his parade of tedious suitors.
I held up the emerald necklace my uncle had given me. It matched the gown perfectly, but I didn’t care for the earrings, which made my face look too long. I tried a smaller necklace of semi-precious stones, but I didn’t like the idea of wearing inferior jewels.
At a loss, I turned to Polly. ‘Which do you think looks best?’
She gazed at the jewels, mesmerised. ‘Them big ones is awful nice, miss.’
I couldn’t help but grin. Yes, ‘them big ones’ would do for Captain Hawksley. He should know what he wasn’t getting. I fastened them on, not wanting to let the maid handle them.
‘You look very pretty, miss,’ she said softly.
I confess her little awestruck voice did brighten my mood somewhat. ‘What time does our guest arrive, Polly?’
‘Sir James ordered sherry in the library for half six, miss.’
It was nearly that now, which gave me at least half an hour before I needed to make an appearance. I wouldn’t dream of being on time. I sat down so Polly could lace my shoes.
‘What’s the gossip below stairs about this Captain Hawksley?’ I asked.
The girl hesitated, then shrugged. The pause told me she’d heard a thing or two. Servants’ gossip was notoriously exaggerated, but still often valuable.
‘Polly?’
She blushed and fidgeted with the edge of her pinafore. ‘Well, miss, they say he … that he …’
‘Out with it, girl!’
Polly looked up at me, then back down at the floor. ‘That he – rides his fillies hard.’
I blinked. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
She shrugged sullenly. ‘Don’t know, miss. Just what they say.’
It was likely some crude reference to his courtship methods. He was a cavalry officer, after all. It wasn’t hard to figure out and I didn’t really care to hear such vulgarity.
Before I could tell her to forget it there was a knock at the door. This time it was the cook, Mrs Carson.
‘Begging your pardon, miss, but we’ve run out of sherry and I was wondering if we could offer Madeira instead.’
Why were they bothering me with such trivial matters? I sighed with exasperation. ‘Has my uncle gone missing?’
Mrs Carson had no answer for that, so I told her that Madeira would be acceptable. I didn’t care one way or another.
‘Very good, miss,’ she said. ‘And I wonder … could Polly help me in the kitchen now?’
My shoes were laced and I didn’t need the girl any more, so I dismissed her with a wave of my hand.
Polly dropped a little curtsey and left. I decided to take a turn round the grounds before presenting myself.
‘Ah, Angelina,’ Uncle James said, smiling. ‘Come in. Captain Hawksley, may I introduce my niece, Angelina Duke?’