After half an hour, he had called a halt. Blossom had gasped as Dick sponged her down by the courtyard pump. She steeled herself for the inevitable curry-comb, but the inevitable had inexplicably not come. Instead he took her back to her stall and gave her carrots, his rough hand stroking and patting her naked body as she chewed.
‘That’s it. Good girl, good girl, Blossom, easy girl, that’s it, get down there now.’
Dick pushed her down onto the straw and she caught a glimpse of his hand unbuttoning his flies. He made her face the back wall of the stall, kneeling on all fours. Blossom bit her lip as she felt his fingers probing, exploring the wetness of her sex.
‘Well, well, seems like this mare is in season.’ There was amusement in the boy’s voice but it did not trouble Blossom. It was as if, treated as something less than human, she no longer felt a human sense of shame. She closed her eyes as she felt his cock slide into her. Soon, she was moaning with pleasure as he took her in the cool of the stable-block. The moan became a groan as his hand reached round and began to massage her clitoris. Soon both Blossom and Dick were crying out as they reached their climax together.
‘I’m going to have to rub you down again,’ Dick said ruefully as he stroked her perspiring back. Blossom followed her groom back out to the pump and let him sponge the cool water over her again. Then he let her drink and took her back.
‘I had better be going, girl.’
For some reason she did not want to be left alone in the empty stable. Blossom did not dare speak, but she stepped towards him and looked at him with wide, pleading eyes. Dick gave her a grin.
‘Oh, no, you stay here, sweetheart. Believe me, you do not want to come with me!’
Sadly, she watched him leave. Alone, she listened for sounds of people in the courtyard. There was nothing, nothing but the noises of the horses in their stalls. No gruff laughter, no squeals of pain, no sound of hobnailed boots or high-heeled shoes clattering on the cobbles. Where was everyone? she wondered as she sat back in the straw and let her fingers rest between her legs. Part of her liked the peace. Part of her wondered what was happening to Emma, what she was missing, stuck there in the stables all alone.
‘Six!’ Amelia was aghast. ‘Surely they won’t need six?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Lucy said, though the apprehension on her own face was plain now. ‘I’ve never seen six used on one girl. They like to have plenty of spare rods made up and to hand… just in case.’
Amelia was not entirely reassured, but there was little option but to take the six freshly prepared rods and place them in the tray that Lucy had brought over to her. To her horror, she read her own name inscribed in the white enamel.
‘When – when did this come?’ she asked. The name ‘Amelia’ had been written in fine copperplate handwriting, in black against the white of the enamel. Something about it sent a shiver down her spine, perhaps because it seemed a terribly permanent sort of object.
‘Oh,’ Kitty said brightly, as she watched Clara put her own rods in a similar tray bearing the blonde girl’s name. ‘They came last month. They have to order them weeks in advance. Emma will have to make do with a plain one, for the time being.’
Amelia felt her ears burn with indignation. Proof positive that her humiliation had been long-planned. Why this should upset her so, she did not know, but she felt a renewed sense of outrage burning in her breast. The pretty ribbons around the handles of the birch rods, the delicate nosegays decorating the switches, her name in the enamel tray: all these details seemed especially terrible to her.
‘I hope you are all ready.’
Mrs Pritchard’s voice startled her; she had been so bound up in her furious contemplation of the rods that she had not heard the woman enter.
‘Now girls, in your places – Amelia then Clara, Emma at the end. Pick up your trays now and follow me.’
No funeral procession was ever more solemn than the file of girls who followed Mrs Pritchard along the corridor to their appointment with pain. The big enamel tray weighed heavily in Amelia’s hands, but not so heavy as the feeling in the pit of her stomach. Footsteps from seven pairs of high heels clacked crisply on the parquet, echoing mournfully around the cheerless corridor.
The big book and its lectern were gone from the end of the corridor. Amelia noted its absence with a little pang of terror. Then she turned, took a deep breath, and followed the housekeeper into the Whippery.
Lord Alex, Lady Alicia, Jamie, the grooms, and several people whom Amelia did not know were seated on the benches facing the little stage. The buzz of conversation ceased abruptly as the girls made their entrance. The worthies, who were gathered to witness justice done, turned towards the miscreants and stared.
Mrs Pritchard indicated to Amelia where to place her tray. She put it at one end of the edge of the stage, with her name facing the audience. The housekeeper indicated the wooden stage-side seat known as the Miscreants’ Bench, and Amelia went and sat in her place. Clara placed her tray of rods next to her cousin’s, and joined Amelia, beside her on the bench. Kitty followed suit, then Lucy, then Betsy. Blinking nervously, little Emma brought up the rear.
Amelia stared at the floor. She did not want to look at the equipment on the stage, nor the stock of waiting birch rods, and she dared not raise her eyes to the audience. The conversation had begun again, however, and she could not close her ears.
‘My, don’t they look glum!’ Lady Alicia’s voice brimmed with merriment. ‘Six such solemn little souls, all awaiting their desserts.’
‘A damned pretty little parade, though, what!’ Lord Alex put in. ‘Six on the bench is a bit more like a Sunday Service than we have had of late.’
‘The Revered Dawes expressed an interest in bringing over his little class, once it begins in September,’ Jamie drawled. The very enunciation of that name sent a cold shiver down Amelia’s spine.
‘Did he now? Capital idea. Half a dozen, is it?’ Lord Alex demanded.
‘Yes, six, I believe.’
‘By God, then we might get a round dozen of bums in need of birching. What would you say to that, Mrs Pritchard? Like the old days, what?’
‘It would certainly be a pleasure to see more of these facilities put to use, sir,’ the housekeeper replied.
‘Well, I expect we had better get on with the job.’
Amelia felt her heart lurch at these words, for while she wished fervently for the ordeal to be over, that did not mean she felt ready for it to begin. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to raise her head and look up.
The lectern had been set up in front of the centre of the seats, facing the stage, and the big book had been set up on this. Lord Alex stood in front of it, waiting for silence, his usually languid expression serious and grave.
‘It has long been the tradition,’ he intoned in sepulchral tones, ‘for the sins of the wicked to be paid off on the Sabbath day, in this place.’ He swept a hand towards the girls waiting on the bench. ‘The miscreants await their fate in the appointed place.’ He gestured towards the stage. ‘The instruments of their correction and instruction have been prepared according to established custom.’ He turned to the book before him. ‘It is time to deal with their several crimes. Emma Swift.’
He turned from the book to the kitchen-maid. Although she was at the other end of the bench, Amelia heard a frightened little gasp. The tension in the air was terrible now. It almost felt as if the air was too thick with fear to breathe. Lord Alex turned back solemnly to the big book. Then his eyes widened with astonishment. He rubbed his chin in puzzlement and then turned to the other members of the audience with a rueful grin.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Something remarkable seems to have occurred. This new kitchen-maid, Emma Swift, arrived earlier this week, yet it seems that no black marks have been entered against her name.’
There was a rumble of astonishment amon
gst the audience. Mrs Pritchard glared at the girl and gave a disappointed hiss. Lady Alicia clapped her hands together delightedly and laughed aloud at this absurdity.
‘But, Alex,’ she said brightly, ‘if the girl has no marks in the big book, she surely must have been either good, or already punished for her sins. Surely she must be released from the bench?’
‘No new girl is that good!’ Mrs Pritchard said furiously. ‘It must be an – an oversight. Simply a mistake! Look at the little trollop. If ever there was a girl who needed to be thrashed—’
‘Yes, quite, but,’ Lord Alex said with an amused smile as he regarded the seething housekeeper with evident amusement, ‘you must own, Mrs Pritchard, the oversight is ours and not the maid’s. Now, everyone knows you as a stickler for tradition. If there are no black marks in the big book, what does custom dictate?’
Mrs Pritchard’s mouth set in a thin line. She looked at Emma and then back at Lord Alex and gave a defeated sigh.
‘The girl must be released,’ she said.
‘My dear!’ Lady Alicia beckoned Emma and patted the upholstered bench beside her. ‘Come over here to watch the show, and sit with me.’
Uncertainly, Emma left her place on the Miscreants’ Bench and trotted over to sit beside her mistress. Lady Alicia immediately put one arm around her shoulders and with her other hand patted the girl’s knee.
‘You will get a good view from her, my pretty little darling,’ Lady Alicia said. ‘You will be able to watch that which will certainly be coming your way next week!’
This observation seemed to calm Mrs Pritchard, for she finally stopped glowering at the girl, like a grizzled cat regarding escaped prey.
Lord Alex, who had seemed hugely amused by the whole unprecedented procedure, turned back to the book with a wry smile. ‘Well, after that, one wonders if this outbreak of obedience has proved catching. Perhaps our treasured nursery-maid has been behaving herself, too?’
The laughter that Emma’s escape had provoked had lightened the oppressive atmosphere in the chamber for a moment. Amelia felt the ambience curdle again as miscreants and audience awaited in tense, anticipatory silence.
‘Alas, no.’ Lord Alex sighed a sigh of palpably hypocritical regret. ‘Betsy Billings has three black marks against her name. Mrs Pritchard, we have newcomers to Sunday Service today. What does tradition demand in way of reparation?’
The housekeeper drew herself up to her full height, her chest swelling proudly. She seemed to Amelia like some great black looming crow. ‘Hope Hall tradition demands a minimum of one dozen strokes of the birch for every cross. The imposition of further penalties is customary, though not mandatory, after two.’
‘Well, well.’ Lord Alex turned his gaze on Betsy. ‘Betsy Billings, stand out, girl.’
The nursery-maid stood, and walked to stand facing Lord Alex and the company. Between her judge and the little stage a sort of portable dock had been placed, consisting of a small platform and a rail. Betsy stepped onto this and gripped the rail until her knuckles whitened. Her usually ruddy complexion had turned pale.
‘Customary but not mandatory. Well, Betsy, what do you say to that? Will three dozen do you, do you think, or should we make it four?’
There was an awful, heart-stopping silence. For a few moments, Amelia wondered if Betsy had completely lost the power of speech.
‘Please, sir.’ The maid’s voice was a desperate supplicatory whisper. ‘Have mercy. Please have mercy on me, sir…’
‘Give her four, Alex. That fat arse of hers will take it easily!’ Lady Alicia put in helpfully.
Alicia noticed that the Marchioness’s hand had travelled up Emma’s leg, and was now gripping the girl’s bare thigh above the stocking-top.
‘It is true, my Lord. The girl can take a good count. She is sturdy and can take a real thrashing without harm.’ Mrs Pritchard interjected.
‘No, I think that three will do it,’ Lord Alex said at last. Amelia observed Betsy’s shoulders sag in relief. ‘But three marks is a poor show.’ The shoulders tensed again as he went on. ‘There are some fine nettles in the deer park,’ Lord Alex remarked, as if remembering something else. ‘You can trot along and fetch some after your thrashing, girl, and I’ll urtify those lovely titties for you, my dear!’
The thought of nettles applied to Betsy’s breasts sent a cold shiver through Amelia, but she did not have long to dwell upon the image.
‘Pick out three rods, Betsy, and go up to the block.’
The nursery-maid obeyed. She picked three birch rods from her enamel tray and mounted the stage, taking up position before the ominous apparatus at the centre of the platform.
‘Do we have a volunteer to administer the sentence?’
There was a silence so profound that, for a long moment, one might have heard a feather fall. Amelia watched Betsy as she bit her bottom lip and stared hopelessly at the floor.
‘Aye, I’ll whip the chit!’ A male voice broke the spell at last, and Mr Blackstock lumbered up onto the stage.
There was a sort of ledge on one side of the block and, in obedience to a gesture from the groom, Betsy placed the three rods there. Clearly, she was used to this procedure, for she clambered onto the block without further instruction.
Fashioned of some ancient black wood, the birching block consisted of a sort of triangle in section, with a ridge positioned at the top. Her thighs were braced against one side of the triangle, which was close to vertical. Her upper body followed the gentler slope which descended on the far side of the ridge. There was a shelf for Betsy’s knees, and a handle the far side for her hands. There were also straps, heavy leather straps that Amelia thought looked worn with use and age.
Mr Blackstock first undid the lower two bows of Betsy’s flogging-frock. The garment instantly fell back on either side, exposing her buttocks and thighs. A broad leather strap was buckled about her corseted waist, securing it to the more gradual backslope of the block. Wrist-straps followed, then thigh-bands, just above the knee. It was clear to Amelia that Betsy could not now move the target area more than an inch or two. The convulsive clenching and quivering of the nursery-maid’s bottom, suggested that Betsy knew how helpless she was, too.
Although the day had clouded over, the windows and glass cupola of the Whippery lit the scene on the stage extremely well. The audience watched in reverential silence as Mr Blackstock picked up the first birch rod.
‘Lay on, Mr Blackstock,’ Lord Alex exhorted. ‘She can take it, I assure you!’ He took a seat next to Lady Alicia and gestured for the groom to begin.
The Sunday Service
The birch rod that Betsy had prepared was still wet from its steeping, and the big groom tapped it against the side of the block a few times, scattering droplets of the pickling fluid on the floor. The whispery sound of twigs impacting on the wood sent a frisson of fear coursing through Amelia’s belly. The rubber bloomers seemed even tighter, as she sat there, and it took a real effort of will not to fiddle with them, to try to make herself more comfortable. Somehow she resisted the temptation. It would be futile. She had learned that much. No quick and furtive fingering could assuage that itch, any more than it would relieve her need. Instead she bit her lip hard, to provide a distraction, and concentrated on the compelling little drama being played out on the stage.
Mr Blackstock rolled up his shirt-sleeve, revealing a forearm almost as big as Clara’s thigh, but a great deal hairier and tanned a deep brown. His biceps were still covered by his sleeve, but the bulge in this material looked ominous for Betsy. For all her own fear, Amelia could not help a smile of sheer vindictive pleasure coming to her lips. The groom looked the man to put the nursery-maid in her place all right, she thought, excitedly.
‘Are you ready to receive correction, madam?’
The groom’s tone was not sarcastic, and Amelia concluded that it must be a part of the ceremony, anoth
er archaic ritual of the hall. There was a pause.
‘Y-yes, sir,’ Betsy sobbed at last and, almost before she finished speaking, the birch rod came down and lashed across her bottom-cheeks.
Amelia’s stomach clenched in sympathy again. The twigs made a nasty, diffuse sound, halfway between a hiss and a crackle, as they kissed the nursery-maid’s bare bottom. Betsy remained silent; the only sign that the birch had achieved its purpose was an increase in the convulsive clenching of those great white rounds.
Mr Blackstock took a half-step back, adjusting his stance now that he had found the range of the rod. He raised his powerful arm again.
The birch twigs whistled as they cut through the air and hissed into the girl’s bare behind again. This time the sound of impact was a little louder, harsher, fiercer. Betsy gave a low, strangulated moan in response.
‘She felt that one, I suspect.’
Amelia glanced over at the speaker. Lady Alicia was leaning forward intently, her dark eyes so bright that they seemed to be glistening. Emma was no longer on the seat beside her but was now kneeling on the floor with a frightened expression on her face, Lady Alicia’s hand gripping the nape of the delicate girl’s neck.
Another sickening whistle brought Amelia’s attention back to the birching-block. By the time she had turned, the stroke had been delivered, but Betsy’s magnificent bottom-cheeks were still quivering from the impact. The creamy flesh of her buttocks was laced with an angry tracery of welts now, and the nursery-maid was groaning with pain and tossing her head from side to side. She had taken off her shoes before mounting the block, and Amelia watched with horrified fascination as her stockinged toes curled and uncurled convulsively. Amelia could only see one of the maid’s hands, where she gripped the bar on the far side of the block, but she could see that Betsy grasped this so hard that her knuckles were white.
Hall of Infamy Page 17