Just then, there came the sounds of a train approaching and people making ready on the platform, and the customers behind her were making nervous noises about getting their tickets in time to board. Realizing that desperate measures were required, Lucy indelicately made reference to needing to get to a sister in London “nearing her time.” The station master went quite white, and terrified that this untidy female was about to launch into lurid descriptions of childbirth in his station, he grabbed the note she had been waving and threw at her a third–class ticket and a few coins of change. Lucy ran from the window and down the platform just as the train started to board.
Lucy had never ridden in such a poor compartment, which was crowded with soot–coated miners, who eyed her rudely, and downtrodden women with sick and crying babies. It was hot and airless inside the crowded car, and nearly nine hours to London. Afraid to lose the half–seat she had claimed, Lucy was unable to get any food or drink except during one stop at midday when she had traded through the window a few coins for a bun and drink of stale water from a dirty tin ladle.
Now she was finally in London, but she hadn’t had enough money for a hansom cab, and she probably couldn’t have convinced one to take her in her disheveled state. So she had been forced to walk all the way from Victoria Station.
Lucy took stock of herself as she limped up the steps of her great-uncle’s home. Her face and hands were dirty. Her hair was beyond untidy. Her skirts were ripped and soiled, she had no hat or handbag and she’d lost part of the heel of one boot.
It was no wonder the maid looked so shocked when she opened the door.
“Oh! Miss Lucy! Is that truly you?” she cried with a start. Turning back into the house, the maid called out, “Mrs. Graham! Mrs. Graham! Come quick. It’s Miss Lucy and something terrible musta happened!”
Lucy was given hot tea with sugar, and then a bath and a simple meal, and put right to bed with caring and kindness. But the next morning, her uncle was firm. Lucy must return to Gorham Hall. He had already sent a message to Lord Tazewell informing him of Lucy whereabouts, and stating most clearly that he had no intention to shelter her from her husband.
“You have neither fortune nor family to fall back on,” her uncle said for the tenth time. “We’re too old to keep you, Lucy girl. You had no prospects before this marriage, and you will certainly find none now, not now that you’ve…”
The old man went red in the face, unable to continue. But Lucy knew what he was intimating. He meant that no man would have a woman with a reputation, particularly now that it was obvious, by the fact of her marriage, that she’d lain in another man’s bed.
Lucy hung her head, defeated. She had tried but been unable to tell her aunt and uncle the truth. It shamed her that she was a month married and still untouched. She had even been unable to speak to them even of the spankings, or the public humiliations she’d suffered, let alone the unmentionable things that had been done to her most intimate of intimate parts. No, it was quite impossible for Lucy to utter any of this to anyone.
In any case, the truth didn’t matter. No one would believe it possible that she had spent a month with that man yet remained a virgin. And what would they think of her if they knew? They would naturally conclude that there must be something terribly wrong with her. The last bit of fight drained out of Lucy, and she nodded dejectedly to her uncle, for once accepting and conceding that he knew best. Then she went to her room to wait.
** ** **
It was mid afternoon the next day when Lord Tazewell arrived to fetch Lucy back. When he alighted from his carriage, he had in his right hand a fresh rod made that morning of a dozen whippy branches of green birch. He carried it in plain sight, as clear a statement as any that this was a man who would brook no nonsense from any female, and least of all from his own wife. The neighbors were thus treated to the odd spectacle of an impeccably dressed earl marching up the steps of a London house with an implement of discipline in his hand.
Among them was a Mrs. Arbinger, the widow who lived at Number 19. As the next–door neighbor to the Grahams, Mrs. Arbinger was unusually well informed about Lucy’s scandalous past behavior, and had been one of the leading purveyors of gossip concerning the escapade that had ruined her. Naturally Mrs. Arbinger had been as affronted and displeased as the rest of London when the unworthy little strumpet had, against all reason, managed to marry exceedingly well. And with her habit of spying at the upstairs window, Mrs. Arbinger had been the very first to know when Lucy suddenly reappeared on her uncle’s doorstep, completely disheveled and without a chaperone of any of kind!
Now, seeing the earl on the same doorstep with a birch rod in his hand, Mrs. Arbinger turned triumphantly from the window.
“He’s here for her, Mabel!” she crowed to her sister. “And it appears the impudent little runaway is to be well birched before he even gets her home!” Her sister hurried to the window just in time to catch sight of the earl at the top of the steps, rapping on the door. Later, she and her sister would spread the titillating details of all they had seen and heard that afternoon, going so far as to imitate the desperate cries of the deserving young lady as her husband delivered a good long lesson across her backside.
Lucy, too, had witnessed Lord Tazewell’s arrival, having positioned herself at her bedroom window to watch for his carriage. Although Lucy’s aunt had fussed that perhaps he wasn’t coming, not after what Lucy had done, Lucy knew that Edward Tazewell was not a man who would allow his bride to run away from him. Of course he would come for her. And of course he would exact retribution for her attempt to escape.
But even so, the sight of the birching rod in his hand came as a shock to poor Lucy.
Yet never in her most fevered imaginings had she considered that he might discipline her in her uncle’s home. She couldn’t bear the thought of others learning how this man humbled her. She clung to the curtain, distraught and frightened, quite unable to face the thought of the humiliation, not to speak of the nearly unbearable pain she knew, from the taste of birch she had received the other day, it was possible to inflict with that cruel rod. And so she remained at the window, sick and trembling, as the door downstairs was opened to admit for the second time Lord Tazewell, the Earl of Chiltenham.
For one desperate moment, Lucy looked frantically about the room, searching for a place where she might hide herself. She heard steps on the stairs, and clutched the curtain. When the door opened, Lucy looked over to see her aunt in the doorway, wringing her hands, and then, sweeping around the old woman into the bedroom, Edward Tazewell, the dashing Earl of Chiltenham, birch in hand.
“Leave us, please, Mrs. Graham,” he said, and the old woman retreated immediately. She couldn’t even look at Lucy, not having understood, by the implement in his hand, what the man intended to do.
When they were alone, Lucy forced herself to look at him. Her eyes met his, beseeching, and she sensed immediately there was something different about him, something different between them. And she felt convinced, by something she saw in his eyes but could not identify, that he must be feeling it too. But when Lord Tazewell addressed her his voice was cold.
“I believe I made it quite clear to you that you were not to leave my estate unless by my express permission, and only if you were accompanied by myself or my agent.”
Lucy dropped her eyes to the floor, crushed.
“Yet at a time when my attention was directed to matters of pressing urgency, you ran away, on my horse, thus requiring me not only to send a man to recover the animal but myself make a trip to London to retrieve you at a time when my presence on the estate can hardly be spared.”
These were charges Lucy could not refute, and she stood silent, eyes down, her face turning red.
“You will pack whatever you need and we will return to Gorham Hall. But first, I will punish you. Present yourself for discipline.”
Lucy knew from bitter experience that it was useless to plead with this man, but she could not stop herself, so hor
rified was she by the idea of being birched in this house.
“Please,” she begged. “Not here. Not in my aunt and uncle’s home.”
“Bend over the end of the bed with your skirts well up and the sides of your drawers parted for my rod.”
“Please,” Lucy tried again, more desperate now. “Please let this wait until we are away from here!”
“There will be no discussion about this, Lucy. Prepare yourself at once!”
Lucy began to sob but she gathered up her skirts and bent for him, her pulse pounding in her head, fearfully awaiting the first fall of the birch. Seconds passed, although they felt like hours to poor Lucy. Oh, she wanted this over with! Why didn’t he start?
From behind her, there was the sound of him clearing his throat.
“I have reconsidered.”
Lucy heard these words with a leaping heart, glad in his mercy to spare her the humiliation of a birching in her aunt and uncle’s home. She rose to face him, ready to fall to his feet with humble words, but as soon as she saw his face, she realized it had been a false hope.
“In fact, I have decided you will remove you underthings completely, for I will have your thighs well apart as I birch you this time. Get your drawers down and off, and fold them. You may set them on the coverlet so you can retrieve them easily when I’ve finished with you.”
As she hurried to obey, he went to the end of the bed, feeling the smooth, rounded wood and satisfying himself that there were no sharp edges or splinters.
“Set those on the bed. Come now, hurry and get those skirts up. Be quick before you anger me any further.”
The footboard was quite high, requiring Lucy to rise on the tips of her boots to get herself over it. She felt the cool wood against her naked belly as she eased her upper body onto the bed. As best she could, she settled her head, arms and bosom against the mattress. The footboard raised her bottom so high that her toes were barely able to reach the floor. Oh, what an unbearable position to be in, and with a stern man behind her with a rod in his hand!
“Please, I beg of you. Not hard. They’ll hear.”
“That’s no concern of mine. Legs well apart, Lucy. This time, I will not permit you to shelter any of your flesh from the birch. Point your toes in,” he added, an adjustment he would insist upon from now on because it forced her thighs open such that the full oval of her sex would be exposed while he punished her.
When Lucy’s legs were well apart, he put his hand between her legs and stroked her where he had never before touched her, lightly yet proprietarily. First on the tender white skin of her thighs, then gently over the light curls that fringed her cunny. The touch was so tender, and so at odds with the cold, hard demeanor of the man himself, that it rocked Lucy completely off balance.
But then Lord Tazewell removed his hand, stepped back and brought the birch down sharply across Lucy’s bottom cheeks. She jerked and pulled the coverlet into her fists but did not cry out. The very instant of the stroke, the creamy white flesh of her bottom transformed, suddenly suffused with pink streaks where the birch had struck. He placed the second and third strokes higher, spreading the color and with it her agony. By the fourth stroke, Lucy was unable to stay silent and let out an anguished moan.
“Oh, pleeease,” she pleaded, pressing her face into the coverlets. “I can’t bear it!”
By way of answer, Lord Tazewell aimed the next stroke such that the birch caught her on both thighs and the pouting flesh between. She squealed and brought her legs together, attempting to rise.
He strode over quickly and pressed her back into position with a firm hand across the small of her back.
“Down! And legs well apart.”
He kept his hand on her then, shifting to the side in order to wield the rod at closer range. He brought the birch down again, whipping her full across her bottom, then along the side of her hips, and up and down both thighs. Her entire bottom was a blaze of agony, and Lucy could no longer stifle her screams. Her pained cries rang through the house, clearly audible in the sitting room one floor below where Mr. and Mrs. Graham sat in stunned silence, listening to each fall of the birch and the cries it elicited, and nearly as clearly next door, where the two spinster ladies listened with sadistic eagerness as the little chippy got her due.
By now, Lucy’s behind was crosshatched with thin pink and purple lines where the supple switches had bitten into her skin, and the coverlet under her face was wet with tears. She wagged her bottom desperately under his restraining hand, twisting atop the bed rail.
Then Lord Tazewell took away his hand, warning her to hold still and not to attempt to rise again, or he would tie her and begin once again from the beginning. Lucy gasped for air and pleaded with him to end her torment.
“No more! Please, I beg of you! I’m on fire!”
“Ten more strokes,” he announced, ignoring her wail of distress at this unwelcome news. “And I shall take my time with these. We will discuss your behaviour as you receive them.”
He adjusted his position so the rod would fall where he most wanted it, raised his arm, and brought the birch down sharply across the very crest of her proffered bottom.
“Agghh,” she wailed, wriggling from side to side across the rail.
“Are you to leave my estate?”
“No, no!” she sobbed.
“No, you’re not,” he agreed, bringing the rod down again.
Lucy groaned through clenched teeth, and pressed up on her arms so she could look back.
“Please stop! I beg of you. You’ll cut me to pieces!”
“Nonsense. You will have eight more strokes of the birch –– seven after this one,” he said, swishing the birch painfully across the back of her thighs and eliciting another scream. “Are you going to run away again?”
“No! No! I swear!”
Lord Tazewell brought the birch down again, angling the rod carefully so the tips of the twigs caught her in the crease between her buttocks, scoring her bottom hole. She cried out in anguish, buckling her bottom open and closed in a most lewd fashion, such that he could quite clearly see the red lines rising across her little pucker.
“Open your legs,” he ordered, for she had unconsciously brought them together, and as soon as she had done so, he delivered two stinging blows in rapid succession, striping the tender inner skin of her thighs. For the final three strokes, he stood to her side, each time placing the birch against her bottom for a long moment so she could feel the sticks on her itching, burning skin, then raising the rod high to deliver each of the smart, swift blows.
“That is all for now,” he said, setting down the birch on the bed by her tear–streaked face where she could see the instrument of her correction, “but remain as you are.” It gave him satisfaction to see his little whipped runaway bent for him, sobbing, her legs splayed open.
She would take much more before he would consider the matter closed, but the rest of her discipline would be administered at Gorham Hall. To that purpose, he had left instructions at the estate that certain preparations be made in his absence. Lord Tazewell intended to deal with Lucy harshly, to subjugate her so completely that it would never again occur to her to try and run away him.
He reached to help her up.
“Come. We are leaving now.”
She took his hand, and when she was on her feet, if shakily, she looked up at his face. An unreadable expression flashed in his eyes, and suddenly his stern features softened into a countenance of unguarded honesty.
“You beautiful, foolish girl,” he said, his voice strange and tight. And for the first time, Lord Tazewell took Lucy into his arms. He kissed her with such a fierce passion that her lips were crushed beneath his own, and she nearly lost herself in unfamiliar sensations of his moist, insistent mouth upon hers. Their first embrace, and through it he held her so tightly that she was quite breathless when she was at last released. She stood before him, gasping for air, her hair and eyes wild.
His voice was oddly hoarse when a
t last he spoke. “Straighten your skirts, woman,” he commanded. “And gather your things. We are returning to Gorham Hall immediately.”
Chapter 9
The return journey to Chiltenham was an uncomfortable one, particularly for Lucy, who quite naturally found it difficult to sit upon a bottom so recently birched. She tried her best to find a comfortable position, shifting her weight in tiny increments to the left or right so as not to draw attention to herself for fidgeting. But Lord Tazewell had been thorough in his discipline, and the small adjustments she was able to make in the cramped seat of the carriage failed to provide relief. Yet as much as the skin on her bottom burned and itched, Lucy was far more pained by the unyielding silence inside the carriage.
Hadn’t this man just taken her into his arms and kissed her passionately? Had she been so mistaken in believing this embrace might at last move them into a new understanding in which each might shed their prickly artifice in order to forge a life together? How could he, having tasted of her sweet mouth, now ignore her in this cold manner? She had been so sure that at any moment he would turn to her in true remorse, gather her in those strong arms and beg her forgiveness for having punished her so harshly.
But Lord Tazewell remained still and erect, his face turned stonily to the window as the bricks of London gave way to more rural views. He made no move to address her, even after an hour in the carriage, and Lucy was, for once, hesitant to speak. It was not only because he still had the birch rod close at hand, now laid across his knees. It was also that Lucy Farquhar was suddenly unsure of herself, her emotions roiling in new and unfamiliar directions. So she sat unhappily beside him, this man who was supposedly her husband, the physical space that separated them so small that she could feel the warmth emanating from his body. Yet the gulf between them was huge.
The miles rolled by, and with them the distance between man and wife seemed to grow, until at last Lucy felt an evil chill creep back into her insides, her pride and resentment welling into the space so recently drained by the vigorous application of his rod and her own contrition. Lucy turned her face away from him, looking glumly out the window, in no way glad to be returning to Gorham Hall.
The Harlot Bride Page 10