Hall of Infamy (20 page)

‘What are those garments?' she asked, without disguising her astonishment.

‘What a question, coming from such a fashionable young lady!' Kitty, the blonde maid, retorted sharply.

‘She only asked.' The brunette girl, Lucy, seemed less hostile. ‘These,' she fingered the hem of her little gown, the hint of a blush on her pretty cheek, ‘these are our flogging frocks. Have you never seen them before?'

Amelia shook her head and Lucy smiled wanly in reply.

‘Emma,' she instructed, ‘come over here.'

The small girl blushed much more obviously, but did as she was bid. Amelia stared. The smock was clearly fine cotton, rather than silk, and it was a little longer than the cousins' garments, falling to about halfway down the girl's slender thighs. She also wore black silk stockings, gartered just above the knee, and a band of bare flesh was thus left visible, despite the longer hemline. If the other maids were used to this exposure, Emma clearly was not, and she hung her head and fingered the hem of the garment distractedly.

‘They are very practical, you see.' Lucy favoured Amelia with a bleak little smile. ‘Turn round, Emma.'

The kitchen-maid did as she was told and Amelia watched intently. The flogging frock opened at the back and was secured by three pink ribbons, one at the neckline, one in the middle and one along the hem. Each of these had been secured with pretty bows. Lucy pulled the bottom ribbon and undid the bow, then did the same to the middle tie.

‘Bend over, girl,' she ordered. Emma glanced around anxiously, but obeyed, and Amelia understood how clever the little frocks were. Secured at the back now only by the top ribbon, the garment fell away to either side as the girl bent over.

Emma wore no drawers. The welts had gone from her chubby little bottom, and it was proffered invitingly by her posture. Despite her situation, Amelia could not help but smile at so inviting a sight. As the flogging smock had fallen away, it had revealed a tight little waspie of black satin and lace. Lucy patted the straining laces of the stays ruefully.

‘And this is a flogging corset. Short, you see.' She indicated the expanse of bare flesh which the girl's clothes and posture had exposed, from the small of her back to just above the knee. ‘So as to allow the greatest target area.' She gave Emma's bottom a sharp slap and the girl squeaked in response. ‘All right, we had better get you done up, and get on with the task in hand.'

Preparing a birch rod, Amelia had thought, was a simple matter. One lashes the bases of several limbs together with cord to form a handle and then, if necessary, secures the twigs in the middle of the rod to prevent too much splaying. At least, that was how Amelia had learnt at finishing school.

‘No, no – it won't do. You must make a neater job than that, or you will get another dozen, if not two!'

Lucy sighed in exasperation. Kitty had deigned to instruct Clara and Betsy had taken little Emma in hand, but it was Amelia who was having the greatest difficulty.

‘For heaven's sake, what does it matter?' she said crossly. ‘It won't hurt a jot more or less if the handle is braided prettily.'

Lucy untied the pale blue ribbon from the handle of the rod.

‘The patterns are traditional,' she said patiently, as if explaining to an obstinate child. ‘It is the Hope Hall way.'

‘Oh, let her do it her way!' put in Kitty sourly. ‘I'd like to see her catch an extra couple of dozen for poor rod preparation. That will soon teach madam some respect for tradition. It really is not that difficult, Amelia. Clara seems to have picked it up right away.'

Amelia shot the pair a furious glance, thinking how much she detested blondes, before trying to braid the ribbon in the prescribed pattern once again.

‘We had better get our own rods out,' Betsy mumbled. The nursery-maid had been very quiet since entering the room – very quiet and distinctly pale. Amelia watched as Betsy, Kitty and Lucy walked over to the row of barrels. Removing the tops of the casks, the maids each removed half a dozen dripping birch rods, laying them in long white enamel trays. These they brought back to the little ring of stools. Using cloths to dry the ends, they set busily to work, braiding ribbons about the handles.

Amelia watched aghast. There was something worse about these dark damp withies, that had been steeping silently for who knew how long, in their barrels of vinegar and brine. Something appallingly incongruous about the pretty ribbons in their bright colours against the dark, forbidding red of the birch twigs. The maids' fingers worked nimbly, braiding and plaiting with skill that could only have come from much doleful practice in that oppressive chamber. The very thought of it made Amelia shiver. She bit her lip and tried to braid her own handle again.

‘Here you go, girl, a little treat for you.'

Blossom bent, put her lips to Dick's hand, and took the piece of carrot. She stood and chewed, eyeing the stable-lad cautiously. It had been an odd day, the first since her arrival that Lord Alex had not run her through the park. The first day she had not, yet, been flogged unmercifully. It had been a quiet morning. She had heard the church bells ringing and it stirred a memory, but it did not seem to have anything to do with her. She had been left long, undisturbed, to lie in her stall. It was late when Dick had come for her.

Blossom had trembled when she saw the long whip in his hand and an equally long rope bridle coiled there, too.

‘Easy, girl. Just a bit of gentle exercise, my beauty,' he had soothed. The lad had slipped the bridle over her and led her into the meadow beyond the lake. Here he had let out the rope and made her run in circles, flicking her from time to time with the long lunge whip. It had stung, when he snapped it across her bottom or her back, but it had been a sharp, not unpleasant pain. He had been true to his word, too. To begin with, her thighs had shrieked as she ran off the effect of the hard training from the previous days, but he had not run her hard. Around and around she had cantered, naked, first clockwise then anti-clockwise. The bees had buzzed, the sky larks sang as they rose, and the lunge whip had snapped in the midday sun.

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.'