by Lucy Wild
“It could do with being a little hotter,” she replied, swirling her hand through the depths.
“It is injurious to a good lady’s health to bathe in hot or cold,” he replied. “Warm is recommended by the best physicians.”
“Is it? Well then, warm will have to do.”
It still didn’t feel real. Even with the heat sinking into her arm as it remained in the water, none of this seemed real. It was all too good to be true.
She had slept in the carriage until they’d arrived at the home of Sir Charles Doyle, only awakening when the brakes were applied to the wheels and they jerked to a halt, the horses keen to keep going, as if they could smell the oats waiting for them in the stables.
James descended to the ground first, holding the door open for her to follow. She had marvelled at the sheer scale of the building before her, having never seen anything like it in her life. Built of red brick, six broad steps rose up towards a set of double doors with glass panes covering the top halves of each. The rain bounced off them and down to the ground, as if afraid of getting too close to such a beautiful building lest it damage the architecture. Either side of the door were sets of four huge windows, each divided into smaller panes. Symmetry must have been in the mind of the builder, for the left and right side of the frontage were perfectly mirrored. There were two more floors of windows above, the top set smallest, sitting below a pan tiled roof where crows called out from each corner.
Lizzie blinked as she looked up, the rain hitting her eyes whilst James walked up the steps, bidding her to follow him inside. She was shown into a library and left to await the arrival of the master of the house. When the master walked in, Lizzie had been taken aback. He seemed taller than last time she had seen him, more upright, a stern expression on his face.
He had given her the framed scripture quotation back and she had been glad, holding it close to her heart and feeling the protection of her mother guarding her, shielding her from the gaze of that domineering man as he talked her through his ideas for her. To think, she would be allowed to live in this house. She had to be dreaming.
She took the tour of the house in a daze, hardly taking anything in. “Who lives here?” she asked as they ascended to the first floor.
“Sir Doyle,” James replied. “And you, now, apparently.”
“Yes, but who else?”
“There is no one but him and the staff.”
“A place this large and all for just one man. How many bedrooms are there?”
“Twelve in all.”
“Twelve bedrooms for one man. Does he use one a night?”
“Through here is your room,” James said, ignoring her question and unlocking a door. “And if you go through there, you will find a dressing room.”
“This would be my room?” Lizzie marvelled at the sight before her, missing the butler’s response. The room was rectangular in shape. A roaring fire was in the wall nearest her, heating the space more than she thought possible. Already she felt warm and she had barely stepped inside. It was a wonderful feeling.
Opposite the fireplace was a huge four poster bed, heavy green curtains draped around it. She prodded the mattress through the blankets. “Horsehair,” James said. “Softer than you’d think.”
“Better than straw,” she replied, running her eyes over the rest of the room. It was too much to take in. The paintings, the ornaments, the chairs, the drawers, the vases, the rugs, more in this single room than she had owned in her life, more than she thought possible for someone to own. “How rich is he?” she asked, following James back onto the landing.
“Not as rich as you would think, at least, not at the moment.”
“What does that mean?”
“Through here is the bathroom. I have had the maids prepare the bath for you. If you’d like to undress behind the screen, I will bring you some fresh clothing for when you are done.”
After testing the temperature of the water, Lizzie walked behind the Oriental screen in the corner of the blue and white tiled bathroom. She felt dirtier just being in such a clean space. “Why are there so many baths in here?” she asked, poking her head back out. “How many does one man need?”
“That is a foot bath,” James said, pointing to his left. “That is a hip or sitz bath, that is for the shower which is being installed next month and that is not a bath, that is a toilet.”
“You have a toilet inside the house? Where does the, you know, go?”
“Flushed away by water.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“Deadly.”
“I see.” She moved back behind the screen, sitting on the chair and undoing the frayed, mud covered, laces on her boots, glad to get them off and free her feet from their constraints. Removing the rest of her clothes felt both freeing and worrying. She felt as if she were removing evidence of a life that although hard, was at least familiar, to be replaced by something unknown and unknowable. The idea excited and troubled her. Once her clothes were piled on the floor, she looked down at herself. Her skin was pale, it was clear from a glance that she was underweight, the sight disgusted her and she was glad to hide it behind a towel which she took down from the hook on the wall beside her.
With the towel wrapped around her, she stepped out, glad that James had gone, the door closed after him. She climbed into the water and allowed it to wash over her. It might not have been boiling hot but it was warmer than any water she’d ever been in and the sensation of it washing over her aching limbs was simply delightful. “I could get used to this,” she said out loud, picking up a glass bottle from a shelf beside the bath. “Morrison’s Effervescent Formula,” she said, pulling out the cork and sniffing the contents. “I wonder what you do?”
She poured a few drops of the viscous pale pink liquid into the water, watching as it at once began to foam and bubble. “Oh my, how amusing,” she said, pouring in half the bottle and giggling to herself as the water began to erupt around her. She couldn’t help but laugh as the constantly erupting bubbles tickled her skin, a fragrance of roses filling the air.
There was a knock at the door a second later and she yelped in surprise. “Who is it?”
“I have the dress for you, Miss Wilkinson.”
“Don’t come in.”
But he was already opening the door. Lizzie swiftly covered her chest with her hands, glad of the foaming bubbles for hiding the rest of her from view. “I told you not to come in!”
“You are to change into this dress once you are done in the bath,” James replied, draping the outfit over the back of a wicker chair. “Sir Doyle will be waiting for you in the library when you are done. He is impatient for a decision so I suggest you not dally too long.”
“What if I don’t want to wear that?”
“You must get used to doing without clothes such as those,” he replied, motioning towards the screen. “Ring the bell if you need anything.” Then he was gone again.
Lizzie wanted to be cross with him for entering without her permission but something else was niggling at her. What was it that he had said? She would have to get used to doing without clothes. Was that his way of hinting that Sir Doyle planned to strip her after all? It was, of course it was. How could she have been so stupid? He was just like all the other men. “Well, you won’t catch me with my eyes closed,” she said, climbing out of the bath and running behind the screen, slipping on the wet tiles and almost falling. She caught her hand on the screen and sent it tumbling over in her efforts to maintain her balance.
Ignoring the noise of its fall, she grabbed her clothes from underneath the screen, dressing swiftly whilst shivering as the wetness of her skin made her damp clothes even damper.
She took a single look at the dress on the back of the chair. A necklace had been left with it. She grabbed the necklace and shoved it into her pocket. It would be worth a fair few meals once she was back in the city. Sitting on the chair, she pulled on her boots, tying them loosely, wanting only to be gone. She ran over
to the door and pulled it open, looking out for any sign of life.
Spotting no one, she tiptoed to the stairs, descending them as quietly as she could, listening hard for any noise, any hint that someone would see her. The door to outside seemed miles away, but after several deep breaths, she braved the gap, crossing to it and easing it open. The rain had lessened, slowing at last though the wind seemed to have picked up the slack in response and become ever more ferocious, threatening to knock her over as she made her way along the drive to the lane beyond.
An hour later, she was passing through the town of Neesbury, searching for the high street and a few minutes after that she was inside a jeweller’s, doing her best to convince the proprietor to take the necklace off her hands. “It was my mother’s,” she said, trying a different tactic.
“I don’t care who it belonged to,” the man behind the counter said, his arms folded as he leaned back on his stool. “I want to know where it came from.”
“I inherited it.”
“Course you did. Woman in rags like yourself probably has rooms full of jewellery at home. Crowns and tiaras too, the odd gold carriage perhaps?”
“If you won’t buy it, someone else will.”
“You want to know what I think?”
“I want you to buy this necklace. These are genuine pearls, you know?”
“I think it’s stolen and that’s why you want rid of it so desperately.”
“How dare you, Sir? I have not stolen a thing in my life.”
“Course you haven’t. Ah, would you look at that?” He pointed out of his window. “Constable! Would you mind coming in here a moment?”
Lizzie’s heart sank as she saw the door open and a constable duck inside, lowering his head to avoid scraping it as he entered. He loomed over Lizzie, suspicion etched in his features as if he’d already arrested her. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so, Constable,” she replied, pushing past him for the door.
“Hold on,” he said, reaching for her arm but she was already outside, running as fast as she could, the wind pushing her along. She sprinted down one street after another, the constable chasing her, gaining ground with every passing minute. A carriage rolled by as she skidded to her right and she leapt on the back, the constable yelling after her as she rolled out of the town. She closed her eyes, her chest heaving as a dizzy spell washed over her. Opening her eyes again, she cursed at the sight of the constable still giving chase.
The pursuit lasted far longer than she would have liked. It ended when the guard of the carriage happened to glance down and spot her, calling out for the driver to stop. “Off!” the guard yelled, pointing down at her. “This is for fee paying passengers only, not leapupons.”
“Please,” Lizzie begged, seeing the constable appear on the horizon. “I can give you this necklace if you’ll take me onwards.”
“Cash,” the guard replied.
“I don’t have cash on me.”
“Then you don’t carry on with us. On you go, Bill.”
He reached down with his foot and caught the side of Lizzie’s head with his toes, sending her splashing down into the mud as the carriage rolled away. Getting to her feet, she spotted the constable gaining ground. Cursing her luck, she realised where she was, Sir Doyle’s estate was just around the corner.
Hoping to hide in his grounds, she ran to her left, the mud pulling at her boots, slowing her down. Her legs ached by the time she made it to the gatehouse. She squeezed between the railings, running up the drive as the gatekeeper called out at her to stop.
She ignored him, her lungs burning as she approached the house. Looking behind her, she saw the gatekeeper letting the constable in, and as she muttered, “Oh no,” her dress caught on her heel and she stumbled, landing heavily at the foot of the steps of the house. She was still getting to her feet when the constable reached her, her leg throbbing from the fall, too painful for her to run any further.
“Good afternoon,” she said, forcing a smile onto her face. “Can I help you at all, Constable?”
“Why’d you run?” the constable asked, panting a little as he stopped a few feet from her.
“I was desperate to get home, that’s all.”
“Home? Where’s home?”
“Why this is my home,” she said, waving behind her.
“This is your home? You’re telling me you live here?”
“Don’t you believe me?”
“Well, let’s see about that shall we? But if you’re lying, I’m going to do you for wasting police time.”
Better than necklace theft, Lizzie thought, watching as he walked up the steps to the front door. He yanked at the door pull, watching her the entire time. She wanted to run but her leg hurt too much and she knew he’d catch her within seconds. All she could do was watch as the door opened and James appeared on the doorstep. “Yes?” he asked, glancing past the constable at Lizzie.
“Excuse me for troubling you but might I speak to the master of the house?”
“One moment.”
Lizzie took a tentative step backwards and almost collapsed, her legs feeling like jelly.
Sir Doyle appeared in the doorway a moment later. “Good day, Constable,” he said. “May I help you? Ah, Lizzie, there you are. We were wondering where you’d got to.”
The constable blinked as he looked from Charles to Lizzie and back again. “Are you telling me she lives here?”
“Of course she does. Now in you come, my girl. You’ll catch your death out here in this wind.”
Lizzie limped up the steps, passing the constable by who just stared at her with his mouth open. She winked at him as she walked by, allowing Doyle to take her by the arm and lead her inside. The door closed on the constable’s bewildered face and as soon as it did, Doyle’s face changed, fury flashing across it. He turned to Lizzie. “You’re in quite a lot of trouble,” he said, his grip tightening on her arm. “You better brace yourself for your first spanking, you bad girl.”
Chapter 10
Charles was furious but he did his best not to let it show on his face. It wasn’t easy. The audacity of her running off like that. Not only running off but then coming crawling back at the first sign of trouble, expecting him to save her. Well, he had a surprise in store for her. He would save her, but at a price.
“You do not get second chances around here,” he said, dragging her through the house to his study, ignoring her whining protest that he was hurting her arm. She had to know how serious this was, everything he had read told him it had to be this way. Not only that, he was genuinely angry that she had brought the constabulary to his door, threatening to lower his reputation amongst the whispering classes if they were to find out, and find out they would. They always did.
“Stand there,” he said, pointing at the space directly in front of his desk. He watched as she opened her mouth to reply but then she closed it, rubbing her arm where he’d grabbed her. He told himself he would give her the count of five to move but she did it at two, dragging her feet somewhat, but at least she did it. She moved to where he told her to go.
He had to resist smiling at the sight. She was naturally submissive, given the right circumstances. It made things simpler, especially for what he had planned for her. Walking slowly, he moved around the desk and sank into his chair, the slight creak it made as he sat was the only sound other than Lizzie’s laboured breathing. She had clearly been running for some time, lowering her natural suspicion in her tiredness. She couldn’t even look at him, instead staring down at her feet.
“Stand up straight,” he snapped, gratified to see she did as he asked. “You behaved appallingly just now and I will not have it from you or anyone else. I am here to be obeyed, is that clear?”
She didn’t answer, looking across at him with fear evident in her eyes, her fingers fumbling with the front of her dress.
“Arms by your side. And keep still, I can’t stand you fidgeting like that. I will ask you once more and once only. W
ill you obey me?”
Lizzie looked torn, her face contorting into the strangest shapes before tears began to flow down her cheeks. “I am sorry,” she said. “I will obey you.”
“Without question?”
“Without question.”
“You understand that I cannot let this transgression go without punishment?”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Don’t whine, it is not becoming. Anyone can be sorry. True contrition is manifested in the ability to accept discipline from one’s betters.” He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in before taking the step that would prove whether or not he would win his wager, saying the one word that would test both of them. He took a deep breath before saying it, making sure his voice was neutral, the anger set aside. Emotions were not helpful at a moment like this, he needed to be cold, clinical in fact. Nothing else would do. She looked like she was about to say something when he said the word. He watched her closely to see just how she would cope with his demand. “Strip.”
“Wh…what?” she stuttered, shrinking before him.
“I will not have those filthy covered rags in my home for a moment longer. You will take them off now and they will be disposed of.”
“But…” Her voice trailed away as he fixed her in an intense stare. She wilted before it, he was gratified to see the conflict in her face as she did so.
It was clear she was struggling to decide what to do. Her modesty told her she could not obey him but her need to submit could not be ignored. “I am waiting,” he said, bringing her attention back to him from her own inner turmoil. “I will give you five seconds to begin or I will remove your clothes for you and I will not be gentle.”
Lizzie reached up to the shoulder of her shawl, her hand hovering above it. “May I have some privacy?”
“No, you may not. You lost the right to that privilege when you broke my rules. Strip. Now.”