On the Bare

by Fiona Locke

  The captain was younger than I’d been expecting. Most of the gentlemen my uncle introduced me to were old enough to be my father. I was also surprised he wore a plain black tailcoat – impeccably tailored – instead of his uniform. Most soldiers seemed to think that the very sight of a uniform would make a lady swoon from excitement. I thought the practice simply vulgar. But the captain cut a dashing figure and I confess I found him not entirely unappealing.

  I closed my fan and extended one gloved hand to the stranger.

  ‘Enchanté,’ he said, kissing my hand in an affectedly old-fashioned manner. Oh, he was a sly one.

  ‘Charmed,’ I said, inclining my head and offering only the most minimal of curtseys. I loathed curtseying.

  ‘Would you care for some Madeira?’

  ‘Yes, please, Uncle,’ I said, flouncing past the captain in an impertinent rustle. My skirts brushed against him and he was obliged to take a polite step back, though I sensed it was more for my uncle’s sake than for mine.

  The conversation was predictably dull and I soon grew weary of it.

  ‘Shooting and hunting,’ I said with a dramatic sigh. ‘The Crimean War. Is that all you gentlemen can talk about?’

  The captain apologised with a great show of gallantry and began to tell me of London, appalling me with stories of the dreadful smells and smoke there. I had no wish to visit such a vile place and I explained that Atlanta had been far more civilised. Before the dreadful Yankees had burnt it, that was. Here I spied an opportunity and gave a little sniffle.

  He offered me his handkerchief at once and I took it, dabbing at my eyes.

  ‘I am very sorry to have disturbed you with such talk, miss,’ he said, giving a little bow.

  I hid my grin of victory.

  Conversation soon turned towards my uncle’s new maid and I didn’t hesitate to voice my frustration.

  ‘Honestly, Uncle, she’s hopeless! I don’t wonder her previous employer no longer wanted her, but how on earth you came to hire her –’

  ‘She had no previous employer, Angelina. Mr Squyres sent her from the reformatory.’

  I stared at him, aghast. A criminal serving in my uncle’s house! Could he not get proper servants?

  He and the captain shared a strange smile. I didn’t care for the vulpine look that passed between them, so I decided to let the matter lie. Soon after, Polly knocked at the door and announced that dinner was served. I was relieved that my uncle didn’t insist on a formal procession, so I didn’t have to surrender my arm to the captain.

  As soon as we were seated my uncle furrowed his brow at the place settings. Polly filled our wine glasses from a decanter and set plates of asparagus before us.

  ‘From the right, if you please, Polly,’ my uncle said with a pinched smile.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  When we were alone, my uncle looked down at the table. ‘The place settings are rather … creative, don’t you think?’

  The captain agreed and I rolled my eyes.

  ‘What do you expect, Uncle?’ I asked. ‘She’s not even a proper maid.’

  ‘Oh, but such girls can be taught,’ said the captain.

  I didn’t appreciate being contradicted, so I ignored him and ate my asparagus.

  When it was time for the soup, Polly displeased my uncle by slopping soup onto the lip of his bowl. Sir James and the captain discussed ‘civic duty’ and charity and the chance she was being given, but I was simply weary of her incompetence.

  When she came to clear the soup bowls Sir James addressed her. ‘Who set the table, Polly?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘Were you never taught how to arrange the cutlery?’

  She didn’t have a satisfactory answer for that. How on earth was the wretched girl expected to know anything about it? Surely all she knew was a life of crime and wickedness. While he kindly explained to her that the places were to be set outside in, I noticed that one of the tines of my fork was tarnished. I waited until she was almost to the door before calling her back.

  ‘Oh, girl? Do you think I might have a cleaner fork?’

  She scurried to my side and took the fork from me with a worried expression. ‘Certainly, miss,’ she said with a curtsey before scampering out.

  I took a sip of my wine and noticed the captain smiling at me.

  It was a few minutes before Polly arrived with another fork and I inspected it, slightly disappointed to find it immaculate.

  She refilled our wine glasses, then served the lamb and potatoes. And parsnips. I loathed parsnips. I snapped my fan open to show my displeasure.

  ‘I’m not eating that,’ I informed her curtly. ‘You can take that plate straight back to the kitchen and fetch me a clean one. With no parsnips. And tell Mrs Carson that in the future she needn’t bother cooking them for me.’

  Perhaps a little humiliation would help her learn. It was unlikely she’d forget my preferences next time.

  Polly looked worriedly at my uncle, then dropped a little curtsey. ‘I’m sorry, miss.’

  Sir James and the captain continued to discuss the merits of his method of ‘reformation’ while Polly bustled around us. I didn’t doubt she would be nibbling off the plates in the kitchen and probably stealing wine from the cellar as well. Not to mention the silver. My uncle’s ‘charity’ was sheer folly.

  I became more interested in the conversation when the men began to discuss discipline. The birch was used liberally in the reformatory, they said, so Polly would have no reason to suppose herself above such measures simply because she was a maid now. My uncle supposed his charity would provide her with an extra incentive and that in the end she would prove more reliable – and more loyal – than maids in the finest country estates. Maids, he added, who were not subject to such chastisement.

  I was intrigued. Naturally, no one had ever raised a hand to me, but I found myself fascinated by the prospect of seeing the maid under discipline. The captain made no secret of his interest either. He really was quite handsome, I decided.

  Several minutes had passed without Polly arriving to refill our wine glasses and I felt myself growing warm at the thought of getting the girl into trouble. I lifted my empty glass to my lips and then affected a blush, as though surprised to find myself suddenly with nothing to drink.

  Frowning, Sir James pushed his chair back and strode to the far end of the table to get the decanter and refill our glasses. He left his own empty, however. He rang the bell and within seconds Polly was at his side.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I have served wine to my guests,’ he said in a simmering voice. ‘I do not care to serve wine to myself.’

  The girl looked forlornly at his empty glass and grabbed the decanter with unsteady hands, just managing to pour the wine without spilling it.

  ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Go and fetch my riding crop from the hall.’

  Polly whispered, ‘Yes, sir’ and couldn’t leave the room fast enough.

  I giggled and covered my mouth with my hand. The evening had finally taken an interesting turn.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Captain,’ my uncle said. ‘I must apologise for the deplorable service.’

  Captain Hawksley shook his head. ‘It’s quite all right, sir,’ he said. ‘Your hospitality is certainly not at fault. And I must say I’m interested to see how your little experiment turns out.’

  ‘Well, it is high time for a practical demonstration.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The nervous maid arrived and stood to attention in front of the table. She clutched the riding crop in her hands, which I could see were shaking.

  Sir James pushed back his chair and got slowly to his feet. He held out his hand and Polly relinquished the crop to him, seeming both relieved to be rid of it and reluctant to progress to the obvious next stage.

  My uncle sliced the crop through the air, making a fearsome sound.

  The maid looked pointedly at the floor.

 
; ‘Right, Polly. Let’s get this over with, girl.’ He tapped the table with the end of the crop. Immediately she stretched out along it, clutching the edges for support. It did look like a position she was familiar with.

  ‘Raise your skirt. And unfasten your drawers.’

  She gasped and glanced up at the captain, but it was only a moment’s hesitation. With a resigned expression, she obeyed.

  The captain stood to one side, watching. My uncle wasted no time. He brought the crop down sharply across her bare bottom, making her wince. I stood up and rushed behind her to get a view of her bottom as the second stroke landed. It did look terribly painful, but I had little sympathy. It was no more than she was accustomed to. Certainly no more than she should expect, given her lowly station.

  ‘She’s remarkably stoic,’ the captain observed.

  Polly did her best to be brave as the riding crop bit into her cheeks twice more. I was struck by the sight of the four livid wheals the leather tip had raised on her fair skin and I wished for it to go on until her entire posterior was scarlet. The whole event was over far too quickly.

  When my uncle allowed her up, I studied her face. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone with tears. Nonetheless, she looked oddly relaxed to me. The captain praised her stoicism again and I could have sworn I saw her smile with something like pride. It was most peculiar.

  ‘You may adjust your clothing,’ my uncle said, and the girl hurriedly obeyed.

  As Polly adjusted her dress, my uncle gave her a warning glance and told her to fetch the dessert. She left the room, wiping her eyes on the edge of her pinafore.

  ‘A fascinating exercise, sir,’ the captain remarked, raising his glass. ‘And what did you think, Miss Angelina?’

  I felt a little flushed and fanned myself, replaying the spectacle again in my mind as I returned to my seat.

  ‘As you say, sir – fascinating. But we’ll have to see whether her performance improves. I have my doubts.’ Then, as he raised his water glass to his lips I added, ‘Of course, I suppose there are those who might proclaim the benefits of such an exercise merely for a peek at a girl’s naked bottom.’

  ‘Angelina,’ my uncle said warningly.

  ‘Oh? And what will you do, Uncle – ask our guest to thrash me for my indiscretion?’ If he didn’t want me to simper and flirt, he shouldn’t inflict suitors on me. To his credit, the captain hadn’t batted an eye.

  Polly appeared very soon to refill the wine glasses, this time before they were empty. It seemed she’d learnt something after all.

  ‘Tell me, Polly,’ I said. ‘Was it awfully painful?’

  A rueful expression flickered across her features. ‘Painful enough, miss.’

  ‘Well, don’t feel too bad. My uncle does drink a lot. It’s a wonder anyone can keep up.’

  ‘Angelina,’ my uncle said under his breath. ‘That will be quite enough.’

  I winked conspiratorially at the captain, but he didn’t seem amused.

  Polly served the crème brulée and when she had gone Captain Hawksley turned to my uncle. ‘I wonder, sir, if I might take your niece up on her offer.’

  I blinked. Offer?

  My uncle nodded slowly, looking at me sternly. ‘Yes, I think that might be salutary.’

  Suddenly, I understood. ‘You will do no such thing!’

  But before I knew it, the captain had come round to my side of the table to help me up from my seat. I backed away, glaring at him. He moved to take my arm and my eyes flashed.

  ‘Take your hands off me!’ I hissed.

  But he reached for my arm again and I slapped his face.

  ‘You, sir, are no gentleman!’

  A look of calm cold fury shone in his eyes and I knew at once my situation was hopeless. He and my uncle each took me by one arm and hauled me across the end of the table where Polly had been whipped. The girl was in the kitchen now, but I was sure she could hear everything. More than that, I was sure she was listening.

  I shrieked at the effrontery as they raised my skirts and my petticoats, exposing my drawers.

  ‘Why, Miss Angelina,’ said the captain with exaggerated surprise. ‘I didn’t realise you’d been to Paris.’

  ‘The devil take your tongue, sir! How dare you!’ I turned to my uncle with a pleading look.

  But he only shook his head and offered the crop to Captain Hawksley. ‘I think she should get the same as the maid,’ he said.

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘I will never forgive you for this, Uncle!’ I cried, tears springing to my eyes.

  ‘Or perhaps double?’

  I gasped. Eight strokes! But Sir James wasn’t finished.

  ‘I also think she should count,’ he said, studying my face.

  The humiliation was not to be borne!

  But the villain agreed. ‘Yes, that’s a splendid idea. Miss Angelina? Be so good as to take down your drawers.’

  My cold silence only prompted him to offer to take them down himself. I obeyed hurriedly, trembling with embarrassment and fury.

  ‘Say “Thank you, Captain” after each one, please.’

  Before I could protest again, I heard the now-familiar slicing sound and my bottom came alive with agony. I howled at the pain, the indignity and the unfairness of it all, gasping for breath. The room was silent but for my outraged panting. I drummed my feet on the floor and glared up at my uncle, determined to hate him till the day I died.

  He stared impassively at me and addressed Captain Hawksley. ‘Perhaps you didn’t make your point strongly enough. It seems only to have provoked another tantrum.’

  ‘Pity,’ said the captain, and he immediately brought the crop down even harder.

  The shocking pain tore the very breath from my throat. I froze, staring down the length of the table at the candle flames. They grew blurry as tears of hot shame filled my eyes.

  The captain’s voice startled me out of my misery.

  ‘I trust she felt that one. If not I’ll have to make the next one even harder.’

  ‘Two,’ I said at once. Then I gritted my teeth to steel myself for the rest. ‘Thank you, Captain.’

  ‘No, Miss Angelina,’ he said with mock sympathy. ‘It was not even one, since you did not count it correctly. This, perhaps, will be one.’

  Again the leather cracked down across my helpless bottom. I writhed like a wounded animal over the table, wishing I had the stoicism of a martyr. But I didn’t. I didn’t even have the brave resignation of a reformatory girl, accustomed to such treatment and expecting no better.

  I lowered my head to the cool wood and whimpered, ‘One, thank you, Captain.’

  Another stroke. Another pitiable yelp and I counted. My tight-laced corset wouldn’t allow me to fill my lungs completely and I panted shallowly, afraid that I would faint. But if I did at least they might realise what brutes they had been. To treat a lady so!

  ‘Ahh! Two, thank you, Captain.’

  On and on it went. I had never known eight of anything to last so long. I kicked and struggled, but my uncle held me firmly. And the captain was merciless, whipping me as though I were a horse. Rides his fillies hard indeed!

  I was determined not to give him the satisfaction of another sound from me and I hissed through my teeth as another stroke slashed into my bottom.

  ‘Six,’ I growled, drawing strength from the injustice. ‘Thank you, Captain.’

  I heard the scoundrel laugh and the seventh stroke was harder. I bit back a wild cry and remembered Polly’s composure. If she could do it, so could I. I kept my wits about me as I counted.

  The crop sliced through the air once more and this time I did cry out, cursing myself silently. But my voice was steady as I spoke the hateful words for the final time. ‘Eight, thank you, Captain.’

  ‘You may return to your place, Angelina,’ said my uncle. ‘And finish your dessert.’

  I stood forlornly at the end of the table, helpless to replace my underthings. I couldn’t bend to reach them.
/>   ‘I think perhaps the young lady needs her maid,’ the captain said, his tone exaggeratedly sympathetic.

  I grimaced at him and nodded helplessly to my uncle.

  He rang the bell and Polly appeared meekly at the door.

  ‘Polly, please help Miss Angelina,’ he said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for me to be standing in the dining room with my Parisian scanties around my ankles and my ill-treated bottom on display.

  I burned with shame as I knew she could see the stripes painted on my skin. But her hands were cool and gentle as she helped me adjust my drawers and smooth down my petticoats. And I was astonished when she offered me a brave little smile. It vexed me. Had I been brought down to her level or had she been raised to mine?

  I returned to my place and tried to avoid the men’s eyes. I seated myself gingerly, for my bottom was dreadfully sore. Still, I wouldn’t give them the pleasure of seeing me wince with the pain. I scowled at my dessert plate and pushed it away pointedly.

  ‘Sir,’ the captain said coolly, ‘if Miss Angelina is going to sulk, perhaps she should be sent to her room while we discuss her marriage portion.’

  I tried hard not to react, though my face fairly blazed with fury. Never would I consent to such a match – never!

  But my uncle nodded. ‘Very well. Angelina, you may retire. Go to bed and think about your behaviour tonight.’

  Both humiliated and relieved, I pushed my chair back and got to my feet. Affecting a conciliatory tone I asked, ‘May I take Polly with me? I can’t undress without her help.’

  ‘That does look awful sore, miss,’ the maid said with genuine sympathy.

  I was still surprised at her kindness and I replayed the entire evening in my mind as she unlaced my corset and helped me into my nightgown. I had all but engineered her own whipping. Why did she not hate me? Instead she helped me into my bed with sisterly affection. I winced as I crawled beneath the blankets.

  ‘How ever do you stand it, Polly?’

  She shrugged. ‘It clears the air, miss. Means I can get on with things without worrying any more. And really, truth be told, miss – when it’s over it actually feels rather warm and pleasant.’