On the Bare (8 page)

My uncle sliced the crop through the air, making a fearsome sound.

The maid looked pointedly at the floor.

‘Right, Polly. Let’s get this over with, girl.’ He tapped the table with the end of the crop. Immediately she stretched out along it, clutching the edges for support. It did look like a position she was familiar with.

‘Raise your skirt. And unfasten your drawers.’

She gasped and glanced up at the captain, but it was only a moment’s hesitation. With a resigned expression, she obeyed.

The captain stood to one side, watching. My uncle wasted no time. He brought the crop down sharply across her bare bottom, making her wince. I stood up and rushed behind her to get a view of her bottom as the second stroke landed. It did look terribly painful, but I had little sympathy. It was no more than she was accustomed to. Certainly no more than she should expect, given her lowly station.

‘She’s remarkably stoic,’ the captain observed.

Polly did her best to be brave as the riding crop bit into her cheeks twice more. I was struck by the sight of the four livid wheals the leather tip had raised on her fair skin and
I
wished for it to go on until her entire posterior was scarlet. The whole event was over far too quickly.

When my uncle allowed her up, I studied her face. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone with tears. Nonetheless, she looked oddly relaxed to me. The captain praised her stoicism again and I could have sworn I saw her smile with something like pride. It was most peculiar.

‘You may adjust your clothing,’ my uncle said, and the girl hurriedly obeyed.

As Polly adjusted her dress, my uncle gave her a warning glance and told her to fetch the dessert. She left the room, wiping her eyes on the edge of her pinafore.

‘A fascinating exercise, sir,’ the captain remarked, raising his glass. ‘And what did you think, Miss Angelina?’

I felt a little flushed and fanned myself, replaying the spectacle again in my mind as I returned to my seat.

‘As you say, sir – fascinating. But we’ll have to see whether her performance improves. I have my doubts.’ Then, as he raised his water glass to his lips I added, ‘Of course, I suppose there are those who might proclaim the benefits of such an exercise merely for a peek at a girl’s naked bottom.’

‘Angelina,’ my uncle said warningly.

‘Oh? And what will you do, Uncle – ask our guest to thrash me for my indiscretion?’ If he didn’t want me to simper and flirt, he shouldn’t inflict suitors on me. To his credit, the captain hadn’t batted an eye.

Polly appeared very soon to refill the wine glasses, this time before they were empty. It seemed she’d learnt something after all.

‘Tell me, Polly,’ I said. ‘Was it awfully painful?’

A rueful expression flickered across her features. ‘Painful enough, miss.’

‘Well, don’t feel too bad. My uncle does drink a lot. It’s a wonder anyone can keep up.’

‘Angelina,’ my uncle said under his breath. ‘That will be quite enough.’

I winked conspiratorially at the captain, but he didn’t seem amused.

Polly served the crème brulée and when she had gone Captain Hawksley turned to my uncle. ‘I wonder, sir, if I might take your niece up on her offer.’

I blinked. Offer?

My uncle nodded slowly, looking at me sternly. ‘Yes, I think that might be salutary.’

Suddenly, I understood. ‘You will do no such thing!’

But before I knew it, the captain had come round to my side of the table to help me up from my seat. I backed away, glaring at him. He moved to take my arm and my eyes flashed.

‘Take your hands off me!’ I hissed.

But he reached for my arm again and I slapped his face.

‘You, sir, are no gentleman!’

A look of calm cold fury shone in his eyes and I knew at once my situation was hopeless. He and my uncle each took me by one arm and hauled me across the end of the table where Polly had been whipped. The girl was in the kitchen now, but I was sure she could hear everything. More than that, I was sure she was
listening
.

I shrieked at the effrontery as they raised my skirts and my petticoats, exposing my drawers.

‘Why, Miss Angelina,’ said the captain with exaggerated surprise. ‘I didn’t realise you’d been to Paris.’

‘The devil take your tongue, sir! How dare you!’ I turned to my uncle with a pleading look.

But he only shook his head and offered the crop to Captain Hawksley. ‘I think she should get the same as the maid,’ he said.

‘Very good, sir.’

‘I will never forgive you for this, Uncle!’ I cried, tears springing to my eyes.

‘Or perhaps double?’

I gasped. Eight strokes! But Sir James wasn’t finished.

‘I also think she should count,’ he said, studying my face.

The humiliation was not to be borne!

But the villain agreed. ‘Yes, that’s a splendid idea. Miss Angelina? Be so good as to take down your drawers.’

My cold silence only prompted him to offer to take them down himself. I obeyed hurriedly, trembling with embarrassment and fury.

‘Say “Thank you, Captain” after each one, please.’

Before I could protest again, I heard the now-familiar slicing sound and my bottom came alive with agony. I howled at the pain, the indignity and the unfairness of it all, gasping for breath. The room was silent but for my outraged panting. I drummed my feet on the floor and glared up at my uncle, determined to hate him till the day I died.

He stared impassively at me and addressed Captain Hawksley. ‘Perhaps you didn’t make your point strongly enough. It seems only to have provoked another tantrum.’

‘Pity,’ said the captain, and he immediately brought the crop down even harder.

The shocking pain tore the very breath from my throat. I froze, staring down the length of the table at the candle flames. They grew blurry as tears of hot shame filled my eyes.

The captain’s voice startled me out of my misery.

‘I trust she felt that one. If not I’ll have to make the next one even harder.’

‘Two,’ I said at once. Then I gritted my teeth to steel myself for the rest. ‘Thank you, Captain.’

‘No, Miss Angelina,’ he said with mock sympathy. ‘It was not even one, since you did not count it correctly. This, perhaps, will be one.’

Again the leather cracked down across my helpless bottom. I writhed like a wounded animal over the table, wishing I had the stoicism of a martyr. But I didn’t. I didn’t even have the brave resignation of a reformatory girl, accustomed to such treatment and expecting no better.

I lowered my head to the cool wood and whimpered, ‘One, thank you, Captain.’

Another stroke. Another pitiable yelp and I counted. My tight-laced corset wouldn’t allow me to fill my lungs completely and I panted shallowly, afraid that I would faint. But if I did at least they might realise what brutes they had been. To treat a lady so!

‘Ahh! Two, thank you, Captain.’

On and on it went. I had never known eight of anything to last so long. I kicked and struggled, but my uncle held me firmly. And the captain was merciless, whipping me as though I were a horse. Rides his fillies hard indeed!

I was determined not to give him the satisfaction of another sound from me and I hissed through my teeth as another stroke slashed into my bottom.

‘Six,’ I growled, drawing strength from the injustice. ‘Thank you, Captain.’

I heard the scoundrel laugh and the seventh stroke was harder. I bit back a wild cry and remembered Polly’s composure. If she could do it, so could I. I kept my wits about me as I counted.

The crop sliced through the air once more and this time I did cry out, cursing myself silently. But my voice was steady as I spoke the hateful words for the final time. ‘Eight, thank you, Captain.’

‘You may return to your place, Angelina,’ said my uncle. ‘And finish your dessert.’

I stood forlornly at the end of the table, helpless to replace my underthings. I couldn’t bend to reach them.

‘I think perhaps the young lady needs her maid,’ the captain said, his tone exaggeratedly sympathetic.

I grimaced at him and nodded helplessly to my uncle.

He rang the bell and Polly appeared meekly at the door.

‘Polly, please help Miss Angelina,’ he said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for me to be standing in the dining room with my Parisian scanties around my ankles and my ill-treated bottom on display.

I burned with shame as I knew she could see the stripes painted on my skin. But her hands were cool and gentle as she helped me adjust my drawers and smooth down my petticoats. And I was astonished when she offered me a brave little smile. It vexed me. Had I been brought down to her level or had she been raised to mine?

I returned to my place and tried to avoid the men’s eyes. I seated myself gingerly, for my bottom was dreadfully sore. Still, I wouldn’t give them the pleasure of seeing me
wince
with the pain. I scowled at my dessert plate and pushed it away pointedly.

‘Sir,’ the captain said coolly, ‘if Miss Angelina is going to sulk, perhaps she should be sent to her room while we discuss her marriage portion.’

I tried hard not to react, though my face fairly blazed with fury. Never would I consent to such a match – never!

But my uncle nodded. ‘Very well. Angelina, you may retire. Go to bed and think about your behaviour tonight.’

Both humiliated and relieved, I pushed my chair back and got to my feet. Affecting a conciliatory tone I asked, ‘May I take Polly with me? I can’t undress without her help.’

‘That does look awful sore, miss,’ the maid said with genuine sympathy.

I was still surprised at her kindness and I replayed the entire evening in my mind as she unlaced my corset and helped me into my nightgown. I had all but engineered her own whipping. Why did she not hate me? Instead she helped me into my bed with sisterly affection. I winced as I crawled beneath the blankets.

‘How ever do you stand it, Polly?’

She shrugged. ‘It clears the air, miss. Means I can get on with things without worrying any more. And really, truth be told, miss – when it’s over it actually feels rather warm and pleasant.’

‘But the shame!’

‘It’s not so bad really, miss. I mean, there’s worse things. Like being hungry and cold and not having nowhere to sleep.’

‘There are indeed worse things,’ I said bitterly. ‘Like Captain Hawksley.’

The maid pursed her lips, a peculiar expression which I marked at once.

‘What, Polly?’

She took a breath and looked me right in the eye. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, miss, I think perhaps it ain’t such a bad match.’

I opened my mouth to curse the villain’s name, but stopped myself.

‘He’s a handsome one,’ she continued quickly. ‘Young too. Not like them old gentlemen what we had round here last month. And … he does seem able to … well, I ain’t exactly sure how to say it, miss.’

I finished her thought. ‘Handle me.’

Polly blushed and looked away.

I was silent for a long time, considering. My bottom hurt terribly and the indignity had been awful. But now that it was over I did feel calmer. And Polly was right; the sensation now wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

‘Well, good night, miss,’ she said, turning to go.

‘Good night, Polly.’

But as she closed the door I called her back. She was at my side in an instant.

‘Yes, miss?’

‘If my uncle does insist on this marriage,’ I said, choosing my words carefully, ‘I’ll need a ladies’ maid. One who … understands.’

‘Certainly, miss!’

Polly beamed and kissed me impulsively on the cheek, a familiarity that might have enraged me before tonight. Now it made me smile.

Old-Fashioned Solutions

ERICA STARED UP
at the building, checking the address. Pebbledash post-war houses bracketed the nondescript brick façade, as though vouching for the normality of whatever went on inside. She’d walked past it twice before locating the tiny brass number 17 on the wall, partly obscured by ivy. She glanced at the business card again, worrying it between her fingers.

Modern problems, old-fashioned solutions

Ranks of butter-yellow tulips stood to attention either side of the path leading to the windowless door. Not exactly inviting, but somehow – enticing? Was that the word?

Behaviour modification

Conscience clearing

Below that was an address. No phone number, no website. No clue to what the business was.

A few days ago she’d been flipping desultorily through a rack of business cards at the supermarket. Taking two cards that promised to help consolidate her debts, she’d blinked as the words ‘old-fashioned’ and ‘behaviour’ jumped out at her from another card. The cryptic phrases gave her a funny feeling inside. And Erica knew instinctively that this place offered exactly what she needed.

She made her way up the path and stood nervously before the door. There was no bell and the idea of knocking filled her with unease. It seemed too self-assured, too decisive, when she was anything but. Indeed, what was she supposed to say when someone answered?

All her life Erica had been quiet and unassuming. Still single at thirty-five, she had never done anything that could be called adventurous. She lived with four golden retrievers in the seaside cottage where she’d grown up and she made a tidy living designing wedding cakes. But she had one serious vice: eBay.

She spent countless hours online, searching for obscure treasures – antiques, old photographs, vintage clothing. The ease of Internet shopping had been her downfall, catering as it did to impulsive and often reckless behaviour. She’d even found one of the dogs on eBay.

It wasn’t just the money she spent, though. Online auctions brought out an aggressive streak in Erica. As soon as she found something she wanted, she considered it hers. She was outraged and affronted if someone dared to bid against her. The anonymity gave her courage she didn’t have in the real world. She was a proper keyboard-warrior when she felt wronged, telling off sellers for items that had been poorly packaged or weren’t exactly as they’d been described.