“Answer me, girl. How many times have you punished children for your same misdeeds?” Martha demanded, relentlessly whacking the heavy spoon across every inch of Eliza’s already bruised rear end. Tears exploded as Eliza raised her voice in a painful cry, holding nothing back as Martha unleashed her strength with determination to teach this spoiled, arrogant, mean-spirited young lady a valuable lesson.
“Only… a few…” Eliza sobbed, twisting as she tried to avoid the wicked strokes, screaming as several caught the insides of her thighs. “I don’t know!”
“You don’t know,” Martha repeated with a sneer in her voice, “What did you use to punish them, Eliza?” the woman demanded, aiming for the crease between the thighs and lower bottom.
“A crop or a cane!” Eliza bellowed, sagging over the chair in defeat. “I’m sooo sorrrry.”
“Did you have any idea how much it hurt them?” Martha snapped, pausing for a moment to inspect her spoon.
“I… I didn’t care…” Eliza sobbed, a puddle of her tears collecting on the seat of the chair, “They were ungrateful little brats. They deserved to be hurt.”
“Like you, Eliza? Do you think you deserve to be hurt, too?” Martha asked, releasing the weeping woman and watching her sag to the floor.
“Yes, yes… I deserve to be hurt. I’m an ungrateful parasite of a human being,” Eliza cried.
Martha frowned, sitting in the rocking chair. “Come here, child. Come to your nanny and let me care for you,” she ordered softly. Eliza slowly stood, her face red and wet from tears, her entire body quivering from pain. She allowed Martha to fold her in her arms and hold her as she cried, rocking gently. “There, my sweet. Why do you call yourself that?”
“Mother and Father said I was,” the woman wept. “They said I had no reason to live except to take food out of the mouths of my brothers, and that I was too ugly to ever be married. They forced me to leave because they did not want to finance my survival without any chance of a suitor.” Eliza sniffed, leaning into the woman’s large arms and allowing herself to be comforted.
“You have the makings of being a very lovely young lady, Eliza. You hide yourself under ugly clothing and a scowling face.”
“I have no hope of a family or love,” Eliza continued to cry, her voice melting to that belonging to a lost, forlorn child, “I’m too ugly, too smart, and too strong.”
“You must learn to see yourself in a different light, dear. Shhh…it’s okay to cry. Let out your pain. You’ve never cried like this before, have you? My poor, poor baby,” Martha cooed, holding her tightly as she slowly rocked in the chair. Moments passed as Eliza unleashed her sorrow and loneliness through her gushing tears.
“M-my own mother never held me like this,” she confessed, secure in the large woman’s strong arms.
“You have a nanny now, and I will help you grow up to be a happy young lady. And your new Papa will teach you everything he can about how valuable and loved you can be. He’s a good Papa, Eliza. Let him open your heart and take away all these years of anger and hurt.”
“Men frighten me, Martha. They are cruel, cold creatures.”
“Not all of them are like that. Papa is not, I promise. Has any man ever caught your interest, child?” Martha asked quietly, soothing the woman’s hair. Eliza was again surprised about how comfortable she felt being held and cared for by the stout, grandmotherly woman.
“One. But he would never consider me. I am far too independent for a man such as he. It is Headmaster Stewart.”
“Perhaps when you’re training is complete, he will be able to see you as you are supposed to be, and not this defiant, rude shell you have been living in.”
“Do you think so?” Eliza’s voice held an innocent quality.
Martha kissed her forehead, hugging her, “Yes, darling. But you have many changes you need to make. I don’t like having to force them upon you either, nor does the master. These changes need to come from you. Reforming, in the view of Lord Remington, means starting over in the beginning, where things began to make you who you are. In your case, it’s a very little, lonely, neglected girl.”
“But I’m a woman grown,” Eliza said quietly, sagging against the woman’s large chest. “I can’t be a little girl again, Martha. It’s too late for me.”
“I am telling you that you are here to start over, child. Put the grown woman away and allow yourself to experience life as a little one. Let us raise you in the way you were meant to be, with love, guidance, purpose, and discipline. Can you try to do that?”
“It’s embarrassing,” Eliza whispered.
“It’s between your reformer, his assistants, and you. The earl will not allow anything to be hidden from him. And you will learn to trust him with your vulnerability. Can you try this, Eliza?” Martha asked gently, her arms holding the limp woman.
“Yes, ma’am. I will try.”
“Good girl. Now, start by calling me Nanny. What would you like to do?”
“I’m really hungry. Do I still have to finish that dreadful porridge?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Very well. Nanny?” Eliza forced out, “Thank you. And I’m sorry I was so difficult.”
“You will be fine, my girl. Now, let’s get some food in your tummy. And after, we can take out some toys from the box. Does that sound enjoyable?”
Eliza sniffed, and a small smile skimmed over her lips. Actually, it did!
* * *
Ryan sighed as Aryanna struggled over reading the book he had given her. It was a simple child’s story, yet her ability to form the words was overtly difficult. She looked up at him tearfully.
“Ary…”
“I,” he corrected.
Aryanna nodded, closing the book. “Yes. I read bad. Understand words but cannot speak them.”
“Your sentence structure is improving, so smile, my dove,” Ryan praised with a gentle pat on the hand. He thought for a moment. “Do you like music?”
“Yes! Ary—I sing better than Lord Ryan draws butterfly,” Aryanna grinned, seizing the opportunity to tease. She was rewarded by him shaking a finger at her.
“You are quite the brat. Let’s try this,” Ryan suggested, holding his hand out for her. She followed him into the conservatory and sat next to him at the piano. She touched the keys tentatively, looking at him with eagerness.
“Lord Ryan? Teach me to play?”
“I would love to. My mother is a much more accomplished musician than I am, but I can teach you the basics. Let’s start with a simple song. Slowly read the words. Follow them with your finger as I sing them to you,” he said, putting out music before her. He began to sing in a soft, low voice, slowly so that she could follow the words. When he finished, he started again, joined by Aryanna’s delicate soprano. To his surprise, she harmonized with him.
“That was beautiful,” Ryan whispered, turning towards her. Her lips beckoned to him, and, without thinking, he drew his mouth to hers. Aryanna did not protest, allowing him to boldly explore her with his tongue and pressing her body into his. The angry clinking of the keys jolted Ryan back to the present.
“I’m sorry, Ary. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m your reformer, not your lover,” he whispered, his fingertips touching her swollen lower lip.
“I am not sorry. Lord Ryan is good reformer,” Aryanna stated. “Kiss tastes better than candy.”
“You little fox. Very well, let’s try this again, and maybe I will give you another kiss,” Ryan grinned, his guilt melting away under the bright blue gaze of her affection. He wondered if his parents’ love began the same way.
* * *
Brigit patiently waited in the parlor for Gerard’s arrival, thinking of her beginnings with him. A smile lit her face as she sipped her tea, wondering how her son was faring with that sweet, darling girl.
Brigit had been very young, just turned eighteen-years-old, when she had found herself in the control of a man nearly twice her age. Her English was poor at the time, and she was unce
rtain of the expectations he held. He was referred to as a reformer, but she did not know the meaning behind the word, or the position. Would he demand her innocence as payment for rescuing her from the jails? She had trembled at the thought, knowing very little of what occurred between men and women, except that it was an unpleasant, painful, and dirty occurrence. However, this Lord Gerard was very pleasing to the eye and did not stink. That, at least, was a minor blessing in the midst of her grave situation.
She was covered with soot, dressed in torn, dirty clothing and well-worn boots. It had been weeks since she had bathed or had a warm meal in her stomach. Lord Gerard eyed her gravely and pointed to the carriage, ordering her inside. His manner demanded no nonsense, and Brigit found herself reluctantly obeying. He had the dignity not to cover his nose as they sat across from each other on the silent journey to his home in the country where she would be trained. Brigit felt hopelessness envelope her as they drove far from civilization and any chance of escape. Upon their arrival, a tall, husky woman in a severe bun and high-buttoned dress met them at the doorway. She was introduced as Mrs. Stiller.
“I want her scrubbed down and fed. Then bring her to my study,” Gerard ordered. Brigit followed the woman, confused and frightened by the overwhelming immensity of the home and the cold, indifferent tone used by the reformer. Had she already displeased him? She looked at Martha with uncertainty, hoping to draw some sympathy from the stark-faced woman. Her disapproval was evident, and Brigit felt her heart sink. She suddenly found herself missing Mum and Da, and she broke down in a torrent of wails that were heard clear downstairs.
Gerard raced to her side, seeing the girl in a lump on the floor with her knees brought to her chest as she cried out. “That girl’s got lungs like a banshee,” he said, plugging his ears. “What happened, Martha?”
“I don’t know, sir. We were walking, and then she suddenly collapsed in this heap,” Martha stated, hands on her hips. “Did you bring one prone to hysterics?”
“No, I don’t believe so. I think she might be a bit taken in by her events. Go prepare her bath, please. I will calm her.”
“Lord Remington, it isn’t proper that you be left unchaperoned—”
“Martha, we are entering a new age of propriety. As a reformer, I must feel free to do my task without concern for the social gossip. I made this clear when I hired you for this position. I promise you, the girl’s virtue will remain intact, although her dignity may not.”
“Yes, sir. As you see fit.” Martha bowed her head in deference.
“Very good. Now go prepare her bath. I will tend to her. Ah, no arguments, Martha. This is how it will be unless I say otherwise.”
Brigit was unaware of the conversation that occurred over her head as she clutched her knees and sobbed furiously, overwrought with despair and fear. She felt strong arms lifting her off the ground and a warm, soothing voice in her ear as she was taken into the bathing area. Through her blurred tears, she saw the outline of the large man as he sat her upon a stool and slowly rolled up his sleeves. Her eyes grew wide and a scream escaped her mouth. He was going to beat her!
Gerard squatted in front of her, placing a finger over her lips. “Shhh, little Brigit. I’m not going to harm you. I will give you a bath, though. You reek to high heaven, and I would love to see the real color of what I believe to be red hair.”
Brigit stiffened as he lifted her from the stool, clothes and all, and settled her in the tub of steaming, hot water. She closed her eyes as he began to scrub the dirt from her hair and face, talking soothingly the entire time. She did not realize that he slowly, piece by piece, removed her soiled clothing until she sat naked in the murky water. He ignored the tsking of Martha’s tongue as more water was brought to the tub as it was drained of the old.
“There now, sweet child. Papa isn’t going to hurt you,” Gerard cooed in Brigit’s ear as he rinsed her naked body with clean water and scrubbed her with lavender scented soaps. She closed her eyes tightly, fearfully waiting for the man to press himself upon her. But he did not. She frowned, momentarily wondering if perhaps he did not prefer women. She opened her emerald green eyes to look at him. No, his expression eliminated that concern, as did the bulge in his trousers. Yet, he bathed her with respect and dignity, and her nakedness was soon forgotten under his tender care.
Gerard swallowed his longing as the beauty of the girl unfurled before him. Her deep copper hair cascaded down the length of her back, and her eyes were as lush as a green pasture. Her body was soft, supple, and as pale as the moon. His eyes strayed to the dark pink nipples that hardened under his gaze and the thatch of red between her legs. He then noticed several bruises along her back and legs, as well as an angry, broken welt upon her right forearm. A whip?
“I will never use a whip upon you, Brigit. I promise,” he said, gently holding her arm and softly kissing the wound. Brigit stared at him in disbelief, confused even more by his gentleness.
It was his gentleness that won her over. Even when he had to discipline her, she always found solace in his arms after a trip across his broad lap. Oddly, she began to look forward to those times that she found herself face to the floor, bottom bared, for a heated spanking delivered by either his hand or a strap. Her body responded to him when she was like this, helpless and vulnerable. She trusted him with her life and, with that, her body.
Gerard found himself falling in love with the impetuous little Irish girl. He suspected that the majority of mischief she got herself into was intentional, for he did not miss the glistening wetness of her cunny as she lay prone and bared for his discipline. His ears picked up the murmurs of wanting in her throat as he slowly sent his hand across her pale posterior, nor did he miss the lustful glances in his direction as she squirmed uncomfortably in the hard chair in the corner.
He also noticed that somewhere along the line, she had stopped calling him Papa and started calling him Gerard. Martha disapproved greatly of the familiar manner in which the girl spoke to him, but Gerard loved the sound of his name upon her lips. With a Gaelic accent, she sounded as though she were casting spells of love over him. And, indeed, she was. She had come to love her reformer with all of her heart. But what of he to her?
When her training was complete, Gerard felt it was time for her to be reintroduced into the world. She had learned to read and write, play the piano and sing, and was able to present herself at a table, or in the court, as a woman of dignity. He had personally dressed her in a velvet forest-green gown with pearl buttons, her copper hair cascading in long, luxurious waves down her back. Snuggled in an ermine muff and cape, Brigit was issued into the carriage, followed by her reformer.
“Where are we going?” she asked quietly.
“My father is having a winter ball, and you will be my escort.”
“I have met your father. He owns the millhouse where I worked.”
“Yes, and he was quite taken with you then. He was the one who gave you the opportunity to try reform. I believe he will be very pleased with your development.”
“I see. Gerard? What is going to happen with me now that my training is done?”
Gerard stared out the window at the snow-lined fields and icicled trees, watching as the snow fell softly around them. “What would you like to do? Speak up, Brigit. You know I don’t waste time with games,” he ordered, seeing her struggle.
“I wish to stay with you. I… I love you,” Brigit admitted shamefully, staring at the ground. She lifted her chin as Gerard touched her, staring into his warm, brown eyes. He looked…happy? Relieved?
“I wish you to stay as well. I love you, Brigit O’Ryan, Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” he spontaneously asked her, holding her right hand and kissing her knuckles.
Brigit leaned back in her chair, gazing out the window as she remembered one of the happiest days of her life. It was the beginning to her own personal fairy-tale.
“Lady Remington? The earl’s carriage has arrived,” a servant stated from the doorway
. Brigit smiled, squeezing the young woman’s hand with thanks and then departed the room, eager to see her husband. She felt the little girl in her erupt as his large, solid frame exited the carriage, and she ran, squealing, to jump into his waiting arms. He twirled her around, crushing her lips in a passionate embrace.
“I think you are shocking your staff and the students, Brigit,” he whispered into her hair, not letting her down.
“I don’t care. I missed you.”
“I’ve only been away for two weeks. How are you going to survive when it is an entire month?”
“With much difficulty and emptiness. May we go home now?”
“Patience, dearest. I need to stretch a bit and speak with the headmaster first. What news do you have about the state of the school?”
With a frustrated sigh, Brigit shared her observations, careful to study the grim look on her handsome husband’s face. He was not a happy man.
Chapter Eight
Aryanna scowled, closing the book in her hand. The day was too pretty to spend inside learning to read in a language that failed to interest her. Ryan had left her alone so that he could help a tenant with a roof repair, instructing her to finish the chapter and then write what she thought it was about. Frankly, she did not care. There were more interesting things to learn than reading.
Silently, the girl slipped out of the house and began walking towards the vast meadow that was studded in bright, fragrant wildflowers that wilted slightly in the heat. She picked a handful, inhaling their delicate scent deeply, before walking down the long, tree-lined dirt road that led to the tiny farm village which was part of Ryan’s holdings. Yarlshire knew of the status that their earl and his family held as reformers, and it was easy to deduce that the girl was one of those chosen to be trained by the masters themselves. She was greeted with warm smiles and offers of hot tea and biscuits, which she gratefully accepted.
The Reformer Page 9