by Frank Martinet
I arrived at the DeMarcco mansion in late August. Summer was already fading into fall as winter comes early in such a northern province. I found the castle cold and dark and foreboding, despite the presence of the Master, who was young and handsome and extremely wealthy. He and his pretty bride were renowned for their lavish parties and generosity, and anyone in the country, including the Duke of Kennington, was always pleased to receive an invitation.
I viewed my change of employers as a tremendous advancement, for a recommendation by the DeMarcco's would secure me a position anywhere I wanted. I felt eminently grateful to dear Molly Wells for recommending me, our childhood disagreements forgotten and forgiven with this single generous gesture. Had I known the true nature of her generosity, however, I would have rewarded her face with a slap from my palm.
On just the third day in my new position I had the opportunity to witness for myself the situation I had instilled myself into. It was a cold, blustery morning, with a touch of fog settling over the hills. I had started a fire in the kitchen before dawn and was helping the cook prepare the breakfast when I heard a shriek of pain and horribly angry voice shouting.
I glanced at the cook but she continued her work unabated, and I looked nervously behind me as the sounds came closer. The door burst open and to my surprise it was the Mistress herself who entered, her sleeping garments covered with a thick robe, cruelly dragging a weeping, red-faced girl by the earlobe. I recognized the girl as one of the chambermaids, Mary, by name. She was rather vapid and dense, if I recalled her correctly, and smitten with one of the groomsmen.
The Mistress strode angrily into the kitchen and ordered the cook to fetch "the strap and be quick about it!" The cook obeyed instantly, heading across the room, while the pitiful girl began to wail and beg for mercy.
"Shut your mouth you lazy whore!" scolded the petite lady, her black eyes flashing brightly with arrogance and fury. "How dare you enter your Mistress' quarters without knocking!"
"But I did knock, Ma'am," sobbed the girl. "I knocked three times, and loudly, too, you must 'ave 'eard!"
"The impertinence!" screamed the Mistress, her mouth shaping into a snarl that distorted her graceful lips into something quite repulsive. "How dare you call me a liar! You shall get the cane for that! Cook! Bring me the cane instead of the strap! This sorry thing needs a taste of real discipline."
The cook obeyed, replacing the just removed strap back on its hook and returning with a long, white, crock-handled cane, slightly bent from years of use. I watched, petrified with terror, as the cook handed this terrible instrument of punishment to the furious lady who took it in her hands with a look of relish that frightened me beyond motion or thought.
I'd never been beaten by an employer before, though I knew it was an accepted practice. My last Master had been an old gentleman in Furth, and while once, when I was much younger and wilder, he had he threatened me with a dose of the leather, I had never given him cause to use it. As I child, of course, I'd had my share of whippings, and I had seen children in school take the cane, it had always frightened me beyond belief. I watched helplessly as the Mistress took the weeping girl and bodily shoved her across a counter and lifted the girl's skirts up and took down her knickers.
The caning was mercifully brief but unendurably cruel. The Mistress must have delivered a dozen cuts across the backs of poor Mary's legs and half that again across her bared bum. None drew blood but many came close, leaving huge red weals that looked fit to burst at any moment.
"Now go stand in the parlor until after the noon meal!" ordered the Mistress, licking her lips and panting, and I watched with horror as the sobbing girl lifted herself and awkwardly managed to walk out of the kitchen, tightly clutching her skirts up to keep her backside on display. I was later to discover that she was to stand like that, buttocks and legs bared, during the entire course of the noon meal, so the Master and his guests (there were some at almost every meal) and any passing servants could witness the girl's disgrace and humiliation.
"And just what work are you contemplating so intently?"
I awoke from my stupor to discover the white tip of the cane pointing at my nose, the snarling face of Mistress DeMarcco glaring at me with undisguised fury.
Gulping with haste I raced back to my duties, performing them with such rapidity and motivation that the Mistress seemed pleased and mollified, and I had never felt such relief as when I heard her order the cook to replace the cane on its peg. My whole backside tingled with feeling as I worked, my heart pounding just at the thought of that cane striping my bottom. It terrified me beyond words. My hands trembled as I worked, tears swelling in my eyes. There was no way I could possibly endure such humiliation. If such was the standard practice at the DeMarcco estate I should have to leave immediately. I resolved to ask the Mistress about it later, when she had calmed down and was in better spirits.
It was a full two days later before I was given the opportunity to talk to the Mistress. In the meantime, I was kept impossibly busy, running errands for the cook and assisting the housekeeper. At the end of the second day I was exhausted. I had never known that I could work so hard and I've been working since I was nine years old. I'd been in charge of an entire household, with a dozen servants at my command, and yet I found it difficult to keep up with even the Mistress' menial laborers, most of whom I discovered had been employed by the DeMarccos for years, and were apparently used to such a pace. I had never seen maids of such energy and stamina. When I mentioned this to the cook, a harsh but well-respected woman, she warned me that my lack of initiative was sure to earn me punishment by the Mistress.
"Surely not!" I cried out in distress. "Have I not performed my duties adequately?"
"Aye," she whispered, her eyes warning me to keep my voice down, "but the Mistress, she don't care for adequate; she demands perfection. She insists her household staff perform beyond the call of duty." I redoubled my efforts at those words, determined to make a good impression on the Mistress, rising first and going to bed last.
Another chambermaid was flogged by the Mistress that evening, for what I never heard, though rumor said it was for the failure to dust beneath a large vase mounted on the Mistress' mantel. Thankfully I was spared the watching of the punishment as I was stationed in the kitchen that night, but I could hear the sound of the lash, and laughter and jeers of the guests mixed with sobs of pain on the part of the punished maid. Terror swept through my soul and I trembled and dropped several pots, earning a thorough scolding and threatening by the cook.
The next day I was ordered to make an appearance before the Mistress.
Though I desired to speak with her regarding my position, I was now terrified. First, I was uncertain as to why she had asked to see me. Had I committed an offense? Was there a grave error on my part that required punishment? Second, I was unsure how to approach the woman and ask to be let go. I had been thinking about this since I had witnessed Mary's caning and resolved to leave, and now I was hesitant to depart. Where would I go? I had no other prospects. Surely I couldn't expect a fair recommendation from Mistress DeMarcco after just three days!
Thus, chewing my lip with nervousness, I approached the Mistress' chamber door with great fear and trepidation, my heart in my throat, the throbbing making it difficult to breathe. I knocked. There was silence. I knocked again. And then a third time. My nervousness was now manifest by physical perspiration. I had overheard Mary, the evening of her caning, whispering and grumbling to another maid that she had indeed knocked many times and very loudly too, but that the Mistress had obviously ignored her specifically to gain an excuse to punish her. Under no circumstances could I open that door of my own accord.
I knocked again and again and waited. The waiting made me frantic, and tears of frustration came to my eyes. This was woefully unfair of the Mistress. How could she be so cruel? Didn't effort and a willingness to serve have any meaning for her?
Suddenly the doorway opened before me, and there stood the Mistress. She was small and dainty, as I have mentioned, and as pretty and pale as a delicate flower. Her long dark hair fell in waves over her shoulders, a select few curls escaping to descend across her face, giving her a wild, unpredictable look. Her face was slightly puffy and round, eyes large and oval, the pupils black and sparkling, her nose thin and narrow and just a shade too pointy. Her lips were beautiful, thick, lush, graceful curves that when they blossomed into a smile melted your heart and brought a blush of inadequacy to your face.
There was something familiar about her face, a haunting feature, something reminiscent of someone I once knew, but I could not place it. I thought at first she resembled my mother, or one of my cousins, but on a closer look I saw those similarities were only superficial, like the color of her hair. There was something deeper, something crucial, but I could not see it, only sense it, and it frustrated me.
Her body overflowed with feminine vitality. Though she was petite, it was only her frame that gave this impression, her slender arms and slight height. Her bosom would have been impressive on a large woman; on her it was magnificent. Her waist was naturally narrow, her hips just as naturally wide and curved. I could not see her legs, but from what I had witnessed of the woman's energy and the way she carried herself, I had no doubt her legs were short and stout and extremely fit, for she was an active woman, always scurrying, always moving.
Undoubtedly the Mistress was a striking and attractive woman. Physically, no doubt, she could arouse any man. But it was equally obvious her personality distorted her features to such an extent as to make the body almost unusable. Even now, as she stood before me, eyes cold and hard like glittering stones, her mouth did not smile but formed an ugly thin line, like the edge of a knife. Her body swelled with the promise of youth and physical pleasure, and yet she marched like a statue, glaring and cold, and silently seated herself before me, watching me with those dark, impenetrable eyes. I trembled, waiting, wondering.
For a long while she said nothing, her eyes staring at me, a tiny curve on the edge of her lip showing me she enjoyed my discomfort, my terror. Then she spoke.
"So, Miss Janey, what excuse do you have for your appalling performance in your duties these past few days?"
The question caught me by surprise. I stared in astonishment. I opened my mouth but no sound emerged. I was silent.
"No excuse, eh?" she growled. "Good. I abhor excuses. They mean nothing and excuse nothing. Performance is what counts, my dear."
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