by Fiona Monroe
"Half a dozen good red stripes on that pretty, white bottom," he said thoughtfully. "I think half a dozen more on the bare should give you something to remember and to think about when you sit down tomorrow."
She gulped, but she knew there was nothing to be gained by crying or pleading. It was quite impossible, however, to endure six hard lashes from the sword belt on her naked bottom and thighs without screaming out loud as each one fell. Lord John raised his arm high above his head and seemed to put his full strength into every stroke, breathing heavily, pausing for an agonizing interval between each, so that the pain of the one before reached its peak and she had time to dread the next. The sixth and final lash seemed especially hard, and Margaret started to sob without restraint. She lay still in position, not daring to get up or move, hardly daring to hope that the punishment was over.
She felt him ease the fabric of her skirt down again then half-lift her up with one arm.
"I really am sorry," she gasped.
"I know." He drew her against him.
"Oh! That hurt; that hurt so much."
He kissed her forehead then rolled her onto the bed and onto her stomach and rubbed gently at her backside. "You won't forget the lesson in a hurry, at any rate."
"No! I won't, I promise. Ohhh." The massaging motion of his hand on her tender bottom was beginning to ease the fierceness of the sting. "Thank you."
"For what, for disciplining you?"
"For rescuing me. For taking care of me." The rhythmic stroking was now beginning to feel positively pleasant.
He lay down beside her on the bed, took her fully into his arms, and kissed her commandingly. "I need to take care of you in more way than one," he murmured.
Very soon, pain was subsumed in the most exquisite pleasure.
"So, my love, we have a personal invitation to the coronation of King Leopold and Queen Lucia of Swabia. In Swabia, in August. Shall we go, or is our calendar too full?"
Lord John made this announcement in the parlour the next morning, while Margaret stood impatiently by the window looking out for Lady Crieff's carriage. They were to set off for Dunwoodie House in Aberdeenshire within the hour and to hope that her ladyship was not brought to bed on the road.
Margaret knew little of such things, but she knew from what had been said the evening before that everyone had advised Lady Crieff not to stir herself again until after her confinement, and that her ladyship was quite determined to return home nevertheless. Margaret was very happy with the plan to spend a few weeks getting to know her new husband's family and enjoy the comforts of one of Scotland's finest stately homes. She was less excited about the prospect of a lengthy carriage drive, jolting for hours on a bottom that was very tender that morning.
"Might we travel?" she asked.
"We will have to travel, if we hope to arrive in Swabia."
"No! I mean, around Europe, before the coronation and afterward. You know that is what I mean."
"I should think we might. It had not occurred to me. I don't have to cower in Scotland any more. Hurrah! Yes, my love, you and I shall explore the continent to your heart's content."
Margaret smiled happily then turned to the window again as she heard their own door-knocker rapping. "There is no carriage." The door had already opened to admit the visitor, so she could not see who it was.
"And it is only half past eight," said her husband, laying down a forkful of kipper and consulting his pocket watch. "Far too early for a visitor in the normal course of things. I fear it must be a messenger from Charlotte Square, telling us that our journey will not be happening today."
"Oh dear." Margaret's relaxed, joyous mood evaporated, and she felt a prickle of apprehension all over her body. She sat back down at the table, too quickly, and squirmed.
She knew that Lord John was waiting tensely, too, listening to the voices on the stairs and the steady clump of someone being admitted to the house, until Paterson opened the door and said, "Excuse me, my lady. Mr. and Mrs. Cochrane, my lady."
Their visitor had indeed come from Charlotte Square, but not from the Dunwoodie town house. It was her uncle, her beloved uncle come in person, when she had almost given up the hope even of getting a friendly line in reply to her olive branch.
Margaret leapt to her feet and ran to throw her arms around him, almost knocking him off his feet. "Uncle! Oh, Uncle, you have come to see me!"
"Well, my dear. Well. There, there." Her uncle patted her on the back.
Lord John stood, bowed, and said, "I am honoured, sir, to receive you in my home. And you, madam."
Mrs. Cochrane had come in behind her husband. She looked, Margaret thought immediately, rather subdued. She was used to seeing her aunt take possession of every room she entered and look down her long nose at every one of whom she disapproved, which was most people. Now, she was carrying herself with a more sedate step and keeping her eyes downcast. Instead of fixing Lord John with a gimlet glare, she curtsied in his direction and said in a much more civil tone than Margaret had ever heard from her, "The honour is all mine, Lord John."
Margaret was amazed.
"Well, please do join us for breakfast," said Lord John. "Surely, I can tempt you with a kipper?"
Margaret realised belatedly that it was her role, as mistress of the house, to offer their unexpected visitors to hospitality. She repeated Lord John's invitation, and her uncle and his wife took the two empty seats at the table. Paterson brought place settings for them and fresh tea, and she managed not to drop the sugar-tongs in the teapot or shatter a plate.
When the servant had gone, Uncle Cochrane came straight to the point. "I got your letter, Margaret. I was glad to get it. I am sorry I did not reply to it immediately. Things reached something of a crisis in Charlotte Square." He gave his wife a long look. "Mrs. Cochrane and I had a conversation, and we have come to a better understanding. Have not we, Mrs. Cochrane?"
"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Cochrane, with a touch of her old firmness. There were spots of colour on her pale cheeks, which made her look handsomer than Margaret had ever thought her. Her demeanour had softened. Margaret could even see, now, why her uncle might have found her pleasing.
"Mrs. Cochrane now understands that it is not a wife's place to dictate to her husband in his own home on certain matters, particularly to do with family. If I wish to forgive my niece for marrying without my blessing, it is her duty to fall in with my wishes. Eh?"
"Yes, sir. Margaret—Lord John—I wish you every happiness in your life together."
"Thank you, Aunt," said Margaret, still astonished.
It seemed that Mrs. Cochrane was blushing and smiling bashfully.
Could it be—surely not—but could it be that her indulgent, lazy uncle had taken his shrewish wife in hand? Could he possibly have turned Mrs. Cochrane over his lap, lifted her skirts, and walloped her bare behind until she was sore, sorry, and ready to be a better wife? Suddenly, Margaret was convinced that this must have happened, and not so long ago, either. Mrs. Cochrane had the unmistakable subdued yet contented air of a wife who had been firmly taken in hand, soundly disciplined, and very probably, afterward, thoroughly satisfied.
"We have other news." Her uncle continued, still keeping a beady eye on his wife. "Your cousin, Charity, has eloped."
"Eloped!" Margaret exclaimed.
"I am afraid so. We awoke yesterday morning to find her bed empty and a letter informing us that she and Mr. Obidiah Carluke were running off to be married at the first church they could find on the road, and thence to travel on to Africa to work in the missions. So it seems, does it not, that all the careful upbringing in the world cannot entirely subdue the impetuousness and waywardness of young ladies? Hey?"
"No, sir," said Mrs. Cochrane with perfect meekness.
"It is not such a bad match," her uncle said, "though, Mr. Carluke senior will be angry, simply because he feels himself ill-used, cheated of Margaret's fortune for his elder son. I am sure the young people will do perfectly well together, as long as young Obid
iah takes care not to let that strong will get the upper hand. I always thought there was a hidden wilfulness in that girl."
Margaret was delighted. She hoped that her note of encouragement to Charity had been the catalyst for the elopement, but she found that she agreed with her uncle. Charity had always had the resolve to seize her own happiness.
The distinctive sounds of hooves slowing, reins clinking, and wheels rattling to a halt in the street outside told her that a carriage had drawn up in front of their house, and a quick glance reassured her that it was the magnificent, emblazoned equipage of the Marquess of Crieff. The Dowager Marchioness was well, and all was set fair for their journey into Aberdeenshire.
Margaret kissed her uncle and her aunt, too, farewell, with a heart light and singing. It was a glorious spring morning, she had her own, lawful husband by her side, and they were setting out on a new journey together. If she recalled the night before at every jolt on the road, it was a tender memory in more ways than one.
Chapter 22
They stood by the hedge, which was as far along the road as it was now safe to walk, and watched as the army of workmen shovelled spadesful of earth directly into barrows. Every few minutes, another man would wheel one of the barrows along the crisscross network of planks that now covered the field of mud, where once there had been a meadow.
"You cannot say they have not made progress while we have been away," said Lord John, his arm around her shoulder. "They have dug a great number of holes."
They had arrived back in Edinburgh the night before, after three delightful months at Dunwoodie. They had only a few days to prepare before they were due to set off on their long journey across Europe. But the very first thing that Margaret had wanted to do, as soon as they had finished their first breakfast back in their Princes Street rooms, was to walk with Lord John out beyond Charlotte Square to see how far along their house was.
Not very, was the rather disappointing answer. There was no sign now of the little copse nor the lodge cottage, and they could see an outline of where the wide sweeping cobbled street leading into the development would be laid. But apart from that, everything was muddy chaos, felled trees, and blue, shimmering skies.
It was the beginning of a blazingly lovely June day, not yet too hot. Margaret took hold of Lord John's hand as she watched a corncrake hop, lost-looking, over a churned mud bank, dart its little head back and forth, then fly off into the distance.
"Perhaps when we return from Swabia, they will have started on our side of the terrace," she said. "I think our plot is over there, perhaps." She pointed helplessly into the indeterminate mud bath. "It was certainly very generous of the king to buy us the house as a reward for your service to him."
"Mmm. Thank heavens he wasn't able to make me Grand Duke of somewhere I couldn't pronounce, instead. The Moray Feu, this whole place will be known as, the agent was telling me. That's quite enough to get my tongue around."
Margaret rested her head against his shoulder, enjoying the smell of freshly-turned earth, the warmth of the sun on her face, and even the distant shouts of the workmen. Dunwoodie park and the Aberdeenshire countryside had been gracious and restful, but she thought that the Moray Feu—even once the streets were laid and the grand houses built—would be a peaceful and pleasant place to live, on the edge of the capital city, though it was. A perfect place to bring up children, should they be blessed with them by and by. She was not going to worry that, though they had been married for four months now, there was as yet no sign of one. At Dunwoodie, she had seen something of what her sister-in-law had endured to bring a beautiful little girl into the world, and though little Lady Alicia was the sweetest and most perfect baby ever born, Margaret was not in a great hurry to try the experiment, herself.
She was happy, for now, just to be standing here with the husband she had never imagined she would come to love so much, gazing at the place where their future home would be, and looking forward to the incredible journey that was to come first. To be welcomed into the court of a German kingdom, however small, to stay in a fairy tale castle—she had seen engravings and paintings of Leonberg Schloss, and it was all turrets and towers atop a high, wooded hill—was the stuff of her childhood dreams.
Childhood dreams, which had become grown-up reality. She smiled and tucked her hand closer around her husband's arm, and they set off home to prepare for the great adventure.
The End
Fiona Monroe
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