by Geraldine Hillis
"You may rise and dress." Lord Anthony Barrington turned abruptly away from the figure ignominiously stretched over his desk, and stood looking out over the wide expanse of lawns and shrubbery visible from the west window. He waited until the sounds told him that the girl was now presentable, and swung round again to face her. In his hand he still held the heavy leather strap he had used to mark her smooth bottom.
She stood quietly, awaiting his instructions, hands folded demurely over the white apron.
Somehow unsettled by her very silence and passivity, Lord Anthony cleared his throat. "Well, Catherine, I hope you have learned something from this."
Their eyes locked. "Yes, Sir," she replied calmly. "I have learned that you do not approve of housemaids who read Shakespeare."
A muscle clenched in his jaw, and he started towards her. "You do not help yourself with insolence, girl!" he snapped. And yet, he mused, there had been no insolence in her tone ... she had merely stated the facts as she perceived them. He checked his annoyance and spoke quietly. "You were not punished for your taste in reading material, Catherine, but for the theft of a book."
"Indeed, Sir?" The ghost of a smile played about her lips. "I removed the volume from the library, it's true, but since it never left the house, I fail to see ..."
"Enough!" Lord Anthony cut her off sharply, angry with himself for allowing this chit of a girl to get under his skin. "You removed it without permission. In many households you would have been dismissed and turned out without a character. Consider yourself fortunate that I chose to discipline you myself. Now, go about your duties, girl."
With only the briefest of hesitations, the housemaid curtsied and left the study.
Anthony replaced the strap in the desk drawer. Crossing to the sideboard, he unlocked the tantalus, and with hands which were not quite steady, poured himself a generous helping of fine malt.
"Damn it!" he muttered to himself. What was it about that girl which set his nerves on edge? She wasn't beautiful ... certainly not like that luscious little Margie who worked in the kitchens, or the rosy-cheeked Becky from the dairy. But that, he supposed, was the whole point. Catherine was no more like the rest of the servants than a swan was like a flock of starlings. It was more than beauty ... it was a quiet elegance, a poise he had never before encountered in one of her class.
When he had offered her the choice of instant dismissal or a strapping at his hands, she had not reacted with shock or tearful pleas as he had expected. Instead, she had appeared to consider her options thoughtfully, then had matter-of-factly accepted the latter. Her expression had not changed when the strap had been produced, nor had she baulked at laying herself across the desk. There had been no nervous twitch as he had lifted her skirt and bared her, and no sound or movement as the leather had raised ten livid welts on her white skin. Afterwards, she had stood, dry-eyed and apparently unmoved.
Anthony sighed. He had been responsible for the correction of serving-girls for nigh on twenty years, and never before had he been affected in this way. Was it because she did not respond to him? He was accepted as a handsome man ... early forties, tall, green-eyed, dark hair greying at the temples ... yet she had never once looked at him the way most young women did. Most of the maids squealed in embarrassment when he bared their bottoms for the strap; some even giggled nervously as their drawers were pulled down, and all shed copious tears, necessitating his taking them in his arms to provide comfort and forgiveness. All except Catherine. He might have been a block of wood for all the response he inspired in Catherine Ward.
Catherine's Diary
I ache. His Lordship was not harsh with me ... though I cannot really see that borrowing a book was a punishable offence ... but I have suffered more severe correction in the orphanage. No... it is my spirit which aches. His look, his voice, his touch ... excite feelings in me I know to be wicked. But I cannot aspire to such as he. Oh, if I were to let go, allow my emotions to surface, then perhaps I could warm his bed for a while. Margie longs to do so, I know, and Sophie would like nothing more, but I ... I am not like them. I cannot have him honestly, and so I will not have him at all. I will not become his whore!
He thinks me cold and unfeeling. If he could have seen the bitter tears drop on the grates I polished and the tables I scrubbed ... then he would know my heart.
But now to bed. The hour grows late, and we must rise at five.
In the chilly pre-dawn of the attic room they shared, Sophie sat up in bed, hugging her knees. "Was it terrible sore, Cathy?" she asked, her sympathy tempered with an avid desire to hear every last detail. "Did you have to lie across his knee? Did he pull down your drawers and touch your ... you know?"
Catherine shook her head and smiled at the younger girl's eagerness. "No, Sophie. I had to bend over the desk, not over his knee." She resolutely put away a not unpleasant vision of herself being put across Lord Anthony's lap. "Yes, it hurt ... and no, he didn't actually touch my bare bottom. He used a strap. Now, get up ... you've been late twice this week already."
"I know," sighed Sophie dreamily. "I was wondering ... if I made it three times, d'ye think old Roberts might report me to His Lordship, then he'd take me into his study, and ..."
"Sophie!" Catherine was genuinely shocked. "You mustn't even think of such a thing! And it's Mr. Roberts to you. Now ..." She stripped the covers from the bed... "Up!"
Grumbling good-naturedly, Sophie scrambled out of bed and into the uniform of under housemaid, while Catherine obligingly made the beds and tidied the room. Together they crept quietly down the back stairs to begin their day's work.
By seven o'clock, the essential morning chores were completed, and the staff took their places around the scrubbed table to break their fast. Maids and footmen stood respectfully behind their chairs until the housekeeper, Mrs. Parker, had taken her seat, and Mr. Roberts the butler, had asked a blessing.
Catherine winced as she sat down, noting the different reactions of the other servants to her obvious discomfort. Sophie was sympathetic, though openly curious: Margie's was a look of outright envy, while a sly grin from footman Eddie caused Catherine to blush and look down at her plate.
Mrs. Parker grumbled her way through the meal as usual, criticising everything and everyone, reducing the scullery maid to tears. At last, she fixed her gaze on Catherine. "And you, miss ... what does the likes of you want with a book of Shakespeare sonnets, I'd like to know?"
Catherine shifted uncomfortably, feeling all eyes upon her. "I just ... I like the poems, that's all. The words are so lovely ... so full of passion."
The housekeeper snorted derisively. "Passion is it? If you girls did a decent day's work you'd be too tired to think of such things ... when I was your age I knew what hard work was ..."
With a sigh, Catherine tuned out the droning voice, and concentrated instead on her boiled egg. Only the odd phrase penetrated her consciousness. "... passion indeed ..." "... ideas above your station, girl!"
Mr. Roberts' voice broke in, gently admonishing. "Come now, Mrs. Parker, no harm in a girl enjoying the works of the Bard, and you can't say Catherine's not a good worker. Although ..." He looked sternly at Catherine. "You know you should not have taken the Master's book, don't you, lass?"
She nodded, wishing they would leave the subject alone. "Yes, Mr. Roberts," she murmured. "I'm sorry."
"Well, you've paid the price, so we'll say no more about it," replied the butler, with a fatherly pat to her hand, and a pointed look at Mrs. Parker.
Catherine smiled shyly, grateful for his intervention, and the conversation turned to more general matters. At half past seven, the kitchen girls began to clear the long table. As Margie reached over for a plate, her elbow knocked against a cup, sending the hot liquid cascading down the front of Catherine's skirt. Catherine yelped and shot to her feet, while the kitchen maid started back with an innocent expression. Catherine glared at her, almost certain the action had been deliberate, and for a few seconds the girls stared at each other in mutual dislike.
The situation was defused by Mrs. Parker's scolding voice. "Well, don't just stand there dripping on the floor, girl! Go and get changed at once ... you're going to be all behind in your work now!"
Catherine turned and ran up the stairs, but not before she noticed the faint triumphant smile on Margie's face. She changed quickly, but Mrs. Parker had been right ... the time lost could not be made up, which was why she was still on her knees laying the morning-room fire when his Lordship entered.
He frowned. "A little late this morning, Catherine," he said heavily.
"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry." She kept her eyes firmly on her task and did not turn, lest he should see the effect his presence had upon her.
Lord Anthony, himself disconcerted by her nearness, forced himself to speak sternly. "I demand punctuality in my staff, Catherine. Any further infractions will be punished. Understood?"
Chafing against the injustice of the admonition, Catherine merely nodded and again muttered an apology. She could not, even then, bring herself to place the blame where it belonged ... on the shoulders of Margie, the jealous little kitchen maid. Hurriedly, she finished her task and left.
His Lordship watched her retreating back, and shook his head to clear away the disquieting thoughts the memory of her ... bare and acquiescent ... excited in him.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and it was a thankful Catherine who trudged wearily up to her bedroom at midnight.
Catherine's Diary
Margie hates me ... yet I have never done anything to harm her. And yet ... how do I feel about her? Am I jealous of the fact that she is pretty and plump and vivacious, all the things I am not? That he looks at her with desire in his eyes, while he seldom looks at me at all? Perhaps ... yet if he were to show an interest in me, which he never will ... I would not succumb. I will not be his plaything, and I can never be more than that ... such is the difference in our ranks. Does Margie think I provoked his punishment on purpose ... to attract his attention? And did I? I do not know.
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