by Fiona Monroe
At these words, the sickness in her stomach returned with a terrifying swoop. Margaret's courage almost failed her, and she nearly fell to her knees to beg her aunt not to hurt her. But she wrestled with herself and held onto her pride and her dignity. It could not be so very bad, and it would soon be over. Besides, she knew she deserved it. Her mouth felt so dry that she could not form the words to ask how her aunt meant to punish her, though she tried to speak.
"Mrs. Brown," said her aunt. "Does Miss Margaret have a suitable hairbrush?"
"She does, madam." The housekeeper promptly went to the dressing table and picked up Margaret's own hairbrush, the good one she had bought new in a shop in Princes Street only a year ago. She and Emmeline had chosen it together, giggling over the various brushes proffered by the shop's proprietor, and Margaret had selected this particular one because it was wide and heavy, with thick soft bristles, substantial enough to cope with her long, luxuriant hair, and had a disc of silver embedded in its back. The shop had then, at Margaret's request, arranged for a silversmith to engrave her initials, MCB, onto the disc.
It was one of her nicest possessions and one of the last things she had bought for herself, in company with Emmeline; since then, even going shopping had been something she had to do with Mrs. Cochrane and Charity, and browsing trinkets, jewellery, and bonnets had given way to sober expeditions to purchase sensible dress materials or useful household items.
On the other hand, it was Emmeline's love of finery that had led to her ruin. She doubtless had nice hairbrushes of her own now, to go with her rubies and lace, and where had it brought her?
These thoughts flashed through Margaret's mind as Mrs. Cochrane turned the hairbrush in her hands, as if testing its weight. Then she tapped its back against one palm with a sharp, solid slap, and Margaret knew that she was indeed trying its effect. The brush was made of a dense, lacquered wood—oak, the shopkeeper had claimed—and its solidity was one of the things that Margaret had liked about it. It felt better in her hand than the fancier, more expensive silver-backed brushes that the shopkeeper had tried to sell her.
Now she wished she had bought the lightest, daintiest brush in the shop, for it was clear that her aunt meant to use her prized possession as an instrument of correction.
She unglued her tongue from the roof of her mouth, trying once more to speak. Nothing came out but a kind of half-sob.
Her aunt ignored her. She was frowning at the back of the hairbrush. "A monogrammed brush," she said in flinty tones. "With a silver inlay, no less. Was this a gift?"
Margaret tried again to speak then shook her head.
"Miss Margaret bought it herself," said Mrs. Brown. "Just past a year ago, before you were married, madam."
"Indeed. It must have cost—what—a guinea, at least? When a simple shilling brush, such as I bought for Charity from a street pedlar, would keep your hair neat and modest just as well. You have been sadly indulged, Margaret. I thought as much—this whole room is full of the evidence of your extravagance—and when I tasked your uncle with it, he told me that it is your own money you spend, not his. All the worse, is what I say. If a young lady has a fortune, she ought not to have the command of it. I thank God that Charity has only three thousand pounds left to her by her dear father and that she never thinks of touching a penny of her income. The sooner you are married and your fortune is safely under the management of your husband, the better. If you had not money of your own, you would not have come to such a pass."
Margaret's heart and spirit rose in rebellion at this nonsense. What business of Mrs. Cochrane's was it what she did with her own money? Why should not she have an income? She had always been glad that she had never had to live upon her uncle's beneficence, nor ask him for money to buy anything she wished. The income on her twenty thousand pounds was quite enough to keep her in as many gowns and dancing shoes as she had ever wanted, and more importantly to Margaret, it had given her a means of purchasing whatever books and magazines she desired. The thought of having to go to such as Mrs. Cochrane and begging to be allowed a few shillings to buy the latest novel or volume of poetry was horrifying. Margaret knew that Mrs. Cochrane did not approve the more advanced literary output of the present age and would probably try to censor her reading if she had control of her purse.
In the heat of these thoughts, she found her voice at last. "If I had not money of my own, I would be a burden on my uncle. I have never been that!"
Mrs. Cochrane looked outraged. "Hold your tongue, child. I will not be spoken back to. It is another deplorable habit your uncle has allowed you to develop. I will not enter into a debate with a rude and defiant young lady. You ought to be on your knees begging our forgiveness, not attempting to justify yourself. But I will say this—you are a burden on your uncle, a burden of shame, a burden of anxiety, a burden of disappointment. I made a vow when I came into this house that I would relieve him of that burden and act as the guardian you have long needed. It is not your fault that you were deprived at a young age of your parents' guidance. A firm and loving hand is never applied too late."
She emphasised her point by slapping the brush into her hand twice, three times, with an ominous crack.
Margaret quailed, a feeling of unreality sweeping over her once again. If she were really to have her bottom tanned like a little girl, she wished that her aunt would just get it over with. What did she intend to do, put her over her knee? Margaret was as tall as she was and probably stronger. Perhaps the brush would sting a little, but the humiliation would be worse. Her courage rose desperately, and she cried, "Beat me, then! I am sorry, I never meant to cause my uncle or you distress. And I knew nothing about Mrs. Douglas's situation. But I was wrong and…and I deserve punishment. Please just do it."
"I'm glad to find you contrite." Mrs. Cochrane rolled up one sleeve of her dress, revealing a thin but wiry arm. "Kneel by the bed and lean over it."
In her heart, Margaret had half expected that to be the end of it. That the pantomime of the wielding of the hairbrush, the threat of it, would be the punishment. She looked in distress at the housekeeper, who was still standing impassively next to the dressing table, hands folded in front of her as if awaiting her next order. The expression on Mrs. Brown's face was composed, almost satisfied, and Margaret had a horrible feeling that she thought that Miss Margaret's lesson had been a long time coming, and she was pleased to witness it. There was nothing Margaret could do to have Mrs. Brown removed from the room, but it was an extra humiliation to have the housekeeper witness her punishment.
With trembling knees, Margaret knelt against the bed as if in prayer. She could do no more. She was startled when Mrs. Cochrane put a firm hand on her shoulders and pushed her none too gently, face down onto the counterpane. She was aware that her bottom was now jutting out as the height of the bed was exactly level with her waist.
"It has always been my habit," said Mrs. Cochrane, speaking very composedly, "to make sure that my daughter knows exactly what she is being punished for, so she will be truly repentant. Margaret, do you know why you are to be punished?"
For several moments, Margaret scarcely realised that she was supposed to speak. Now that she was in this very vulnerable position, now that the infliction of that hairbrush seemed absolutely inevitable and nothing was going to prevent it and no one was going to rescue her, she was fairly paralysed by terror.
Without warning, Mrs. Cochrane whipped up her arm to its full extent and brought the solid wooden back of the brush down upon Margaret's upturned bottom. The blow fell across the cotton of her nightgown and struck the flesh below with such ferocity that Margaret could not imagine the fabric offered any protection; the sting was vicious and immediate, and she howled in surprise and fury and jerked upright.
"Hold your position!" Mrs. Cochrane snapped.
Margaret rubbed at where the brush had hit, wincing at the tender spot. She had never felt a pain like it in her life.
Her aunt's hand was between her shoulder blades ag
ain, and again, she was pushed forward and her backside was raised.
"When I tell you to do something, you will do it," said Mrs. Cochrane. "You will tell me why you deserve this punishment!"
"I-I went out at night without your permission."
"Aye, more than that, in direct disobedience. You were refused permission to go."
"Yes, I know. I'm sorry, Aunt."
"What else?"
She sought frantically for another crime. "I met with Mrs. Douglas, when you had told me I was not to see her again."
"What else?"
"I-I don't know. I'm sorry, Aunt. I don't know what you want me to say."
"Well, then. That will do to be going on with. Perhaps a sore backside will improve your memory. This is for your disobedience."
Out of the corner of her eye, Margaret saw her aunt raise her arm again, and she quickly squeezed her eyes shut. The blow struck against the right bottom cheek, the opposite side from before, shocking her breathless with the pain. She tightened her throat and set her teeth, determined not to let another sound escape her. She would not give her aunt, or especially the housekeeper, the satisfaction of seeing her howl or cry. She would act as if it did not hurt, particularly, and hold fast to her dignity.
The next stroke fell on top of the last, before the first searing burst of pain had subsided, and Margaret's resolution faltered. She tried to catch her breath before the next blow but gasped as her aunt brought the brush hard down upon the other side of her bottom. Her fists grasped bunches of the counterpane, and she pressed her face down into its softness to bury her expression as the smooth heavy back of the hairbrush landed again with cruel force on one buttock and then the other.
Her aunt wielded the instrument with slow deliberation, pausing and inhaling breaths between strokes, and taking her time to aim and put her full strength behind each.
The sixth stroke caught the tender underside of her bottom with agonising precision, and Margaret's endurance broke all at once. She let go of the quilt, jumped to her feet, and screamed.
"Get back into position!" Mrs. Cochrane snapped.
Margaret scrabbled frantically at her aching, stinging bottom and shook her head. "No! I will not; I cannot! It hurts! It hurts too much! I won't let you hit me again!"
"Margaret Bell, get back into position over that bed and take your well-deserved punishment, or so help me, I will have Mrs. Brown hold you down. Mrs. Brown?"
Mrs. Brown took a step toward her, and with a sob, Margaret collapsed back down over the bed. She could not bear the humiliation of being restrained by a servant.
"Get your hands out of the way," Mrs. Cochrane ordered coolly.
Margaret was still trying to rub the smart from her backside, but the spots where the hairbrush had landed were beginning to throb with a deeper ache. Surely, there would be bruises.
"I've given you a scarce half dozen strokes," Mrs. Cochrane continued, clicking her tongue. "When I was a girl, last time I was chastised—for speaking defiantly to my mother—it was my father who did it, and I can tell you, I knew all about it. This is naught but a wee skelping compared to that. You're getting another half dozen for your disobedience, but two on top of that…" And with shocking suddenness and speed as she was speaking, she cracked the hairbrush down first on one side, then the other, "…for moving from position."
Margaret wailed as the blows hit but somehow managed to stay where she was.
"Oh, wheest," said her aunt. She was sounding more and more as if she belonged to the Old Town, with an older, less fashionable mode of speaking. Scots had been her first language, Margaret realised. "Charity got worse than this over my knee when she was ten years old and could hold her noise like a big girl. Move again until I've finished, and you'll get another two."
Margaret clamped her teeth down and balled her fists. Half a dozen more, and then it would be over. She could, she would, endure that without making a fuss.
She heard the whistle of the hairbrush as it swished through the air half a second before the next stroke fell on the fleshy top of her right buttock and then squarely across the middle of both with a sickening crack. She jerked involuntarily but managed to keep any sound from escaping. She found that if she clenched her bottom cheeks tight together, it somehow lessened the immediate sting of the stroke. Four more. The next landed on the tender underside of her bottom, and this time, she could not help but moan.
She closed her eyes tighter, feeling the tears leak onto her face. The next two blows struck the outer side of each buttock in turn, where the clenching trick had no effect, and she let out a short, "Oooh," at each.
There was a pause, and for a moment, Margaret hoped desperately that perhaps Mrs. Cochrane had miscounted or had decided to spare her the final stroke.
But her aunt had merely been gathering her strength and purpose to make the last one count. Margaret made the mistake of lifting her head slightly and looking round and, therefore, saw her aunt stretching her arm to its fullest extent behind her back. She buried her face in the pillow again before her aunt brought the hairbrush down harder than ever right across the top of her thighs, not on her bottom at all.
Margaret threw back her head and screamed out loud then started to heave with sobs. She put her hands behind her and rubbed and rubbed at her injured backside and got slowly to her feet.
"I didn't say you could get up."
Terrified at the expression on her aunt's face, Margaret let her shaking legs fold under her, and she knelt at her feet. Her nether region felt as if it was on fire, and the pain seemed to be building, not diminishing. "Please, Aunt. I'm very sorry for my bad behaviour. Please, may I go to bed now?"
"By no means. Not until you have thoroughly learned your lesson."
"I have learned it! I promise, I'm sorry. I'm ashamed of myself; I will never leave the house without permission again—"
"Wheest and listen, Margaret. That dozen licks was for your disobedience. There's still the matter of you putting yourself in danger, walking the streets at night with a man, unchaperoned."
"I did not! I went alone. I should not have done that; I know that. I'm sorry, but Lord John followed me, I could not help it—"
"You exposed yourself to danger and the danger of disgrace, through your own reckless folly. Do you also have the bare-faced cheek to argue about it?"
"N-no, madam. I am truly, deeply sorry."
"Not as sorry as you will be shortly. Back over the bed."
"No!"
Margaret spoke and acted without thought. She cried out her protest and jumped to her feet, ignoring the throb of pain in her backside, and was halfway in a dash to the door before her better sense intervened. She stopped and sagged in despair.
Mrs. Brown was standing before the door, at any rate, grim-faced and clearly quite prepared to catch her and carry her bodily back to face her punishment if need be.
Beyond that door, somewhere, was her uncle, listening sadly to his niece being dealt the correction that he had always been too soft-hearted and idle to administer. And somewhere nearby, too, was Charity, also listening—probably with enjoyment—to her step-cousin making a fuss over a well-deserved hiding. She could not bear to make her uncle more ashamed of her or give her cousin greater satisfaction.
She turned back toward her aunt, slowly, feeling that her feet were weighed down with lead. Her backside burned and throbbed. The thought that the hairbrush resting against her aunt's palm could strike there again was unendurable.
"Please, Aunt," she said in a shaky voice. Her pride had vanished, scoured all away by the pain of the chastisement. "Please do not, please, no more of the hairbrush. I could not bear it. It hurts too much."
"It's meant to hurt. That is how you learn. You have also to pay for hitting me in the face and kicking me, mind."
"Oh, Aunt, no, please forgive me." She had temporarily forgotten about her vicious outburst of temper. Her face flooded with hot shame, and she knew, with sickening certainty, that she could not esca
pe this further punishment.
Almost meekly, she knelt down and lay over the bed again. She held her breath and told herself that it would soon be over.
She could hardly believe it when she felt Mrs. Cochrane's brisk hands lifting up the long skirt of her nightdress and laying it across her back. A chill air blew around her legs and her hot, smarting bottom, and she knew she was exposed.
"No!" she said feebly.
"Aye. You get the rest on the bare behind. I want you to remember this lesson well. You'll sit uneasy at table tomorrow. Why do you deserve this, Margaret?"
"I hit you and walked the streets alone at night—"
"What else?"
"Lord John, but, Aunt, that was not my fault, he—" Her protest choked off abruptly into an anguished yell as the back of the hairbrush struck the bare flesh of her right buttock with a crack that sounded like a pistol shot.
It was a degree of biting pain beyond the smart of the brush across the protection of the cotton fabric. It was a raw, excruciating burn, and Margaret knew at once that she could not possibly endure another eleven such strokes.
"No!" she cried. "No, no more, oh, please, Aunt. I can't stand it. I cannot; I will die."
"Whit nonsense, girl. Naebody ever died of a tanned hide. That one was for arguing. If you will not repent and accept blame, then we can do this all night until you do."
"I do! I do accept blame! Oh, I'm so sorry—"
"Sorry. Aye, you're fond of that word now."
"But I am! Oh, please do not—"
"For the last time, Margaret Bell, wheest your noise! Any more whining and greeting, and I'll get really angry. Take your punishment in humility, and then I'll believe you're truly sorry. You're getting a dozen good hard licks on the bare behind for your shameful behaviour, and you'll take them with a good grace, or so help me, I'll give you a dozen more. Now hold still."
Margaret really tried. Her terror of adding to her punishment was so great that she gripped handfuls of the quilt as tightly as she could and hid her face in an open, silent scream of anguish as the cruel brush landed over and over with bright, scalding lashes against her already blazing backside and thighs. But when the edge of the brush caught the soft underside of her buttocks, unprotected now, her endurance broke, and she launched upward with an involuntary roar of anguish.