Back in Service (15 page)

At that moment, Miss Cosham enquired loudly across the table, ‘And how do you find Longton after Paris, Mrs Carstairs? A dull old place, I will be bound.’

‘It suits me well enough,’ Hetty responded civilly.

‘Ah yes, there is no place like home,’ Lady Cosham observed pointedly, ‘especially when one may live there free from the worries of subsistence.’

‘Yes, mamma,’ her daughter put in tartly, ‘but some of us should like to see a little more of the world some day.’

The barbed small talk continued. Hetty would once have found it amusing, but after being made aware of Jane’s ordeal she had other matters on her mind. In the past, it had been Sir Victor’s habit to arrange some form of obscene entertainment for his guests after dinner, and she imagined he had a similar plan brewing tonight. Once upon a time, he would not have hesitated to involve her and Leo in his bawdy revels, but she guessed he would not have the nerve to suggest such a thing any more. His evil eye had clearly fallen on poor innocent Jane instead. She was marked out as entertainment for him and his disgusting friends, and the mere thought was enough to give Hetty indigestion.

As she toyed with the main course of baked calf’s tongue, she made her plans. She would keep a close watch on Jane, both during and after the meal. If she was ordered to stay behind and serve the port or to attend the guests in the summerhouse, she must find a way to spy on the proceedings and ensure her friend remained unharmed. She was determined not to let the girl down.

The meal dragged on, the trivial talk between Lady Alice and Lady Cosham almost driving her mad with boredom. She would have preferred to join in the conversation her husband was having with the parson. The reverend gentleman had been a missionary in India and had some fascinating tales to tell, but she only caught teasing snatches of his stories, for she was constantly being asked for her opinion on whether muslin or silk was cooler in hot weather, or whether camphor, cedar wood or tobacco was the best preservative against the ravages of moths.

At last the dessert of fresh and candied fruits, mixed nuts and macaroons, came to an end and the ladies rose to leave the table. Hetty lingered, her eye on Jane, who was clearing away the dishes. Then Nanny Baines, at a signal from her master, wheeled his chair over to the window.

‘It is a pleasant night, so I think we shall take our port in the summerhouse,’ Sir Victor announced. His tone was casual, as if he had only just thought of the idea, but Hetty guessed he had planned it all along. She watched with growing anxiety as he propelled himself towards the end table where Jane was collecting the cutlery, and she quickly made for the door as if to leave the room, which brought her closer to where Jane was standing, and able to eavesdrop.

‘When you have finished here, bring port, cigars and nuts to the summerhouse,’ Sir Victor requested pleasantly.

Hetty knew now that she must get to the summerhouse first and conceal herself so she might spy on the proceedings and, if necessary, intervene when they became intolerable for poor Jane. For a moment she considered letting Leo in on her plan, but then deemed it unwise, so following her husband across the hall she caught his sleeve. ‘Leo, I think I shall go to the library for a book to read. I have some letters to write as well and the light is better in there.’

‘Should you not wait until morning, my dear? You will harm your eyes if you strain them too much.’

‘I shall sit right by the lamp, do not worry, Leo.’ She felt bad lying to him, but it was Jane she cared most about right now, and the sooner she could conceal herself in the summerhouse, the better. Fortunately, Leo did not question her further, but merely placed a loving kiss on her forehead.

Hastily, she slipped out of the house through a side door and made her way to the summerhouse through the kitchen garden to remain unobserved, taking a circuitous route towards the octagonal building. She knew a spare key to the padlock was kept under a stone near the door, and it was only a moment’s work to unlock it and enter. Then she slipped her hand through a side window and snapped the padlock shut again.

Looking around the dim interior, Hetty realised her best vantage point would be behind the decorative screen in the corner, since it had narrow gaps between the hinges through which she could see. It was by no means a secure position, but she could think of no reason why anyone would want to move the screen or step behind it. All the same, she decided to take further precautions. She found Leo’s easel in another corner – stored there to use out of doors for landscape painting – dragged it behind the screen and draped a peacock-blue cloth from a chaise lounge over it. In an emergency, she could hide behind that, too.

Scarcely had she finished her preparations when there came a rattling at the door, and peering round the screen she made out the dim shape of a man in evening dress. Behind him followed the other male guests, and as the door was thrown open, Sir Victor was wheeled in by Nanny Baines, who was giving orders to the servants behind them to light the candles and the oil lamps.

‘We shall have some sport tonight, gentlemen,’ their host declared with a jovial laugh. ‘The
filles de joie
will be here soon and our revels shall begin. But first, where is the girl with the port? I warrant we shall have some sport with her, too, before the night is out.’

‘Not if I can help it,’ Hetty muttered to herself.

There was an atmosphere of intense excitement in the summerhouse. Hetty was seated on a stool behind the screen squinting through a crack at the party of gentlemen, which included, much to her surprise, Mr Dawkins, the curate. She thought that he, at least, would have been excluded by Sir Victor on some spurious grounds, but he was there with the others and showed no particular disquiet about the prospect of a night of debauchery.

There was a knock at the door and Jane was let in bearing a silver tray on which the port decanter, glasses and cigars were arranged. It was a heavy tray for her to carry so far, and she placed it on a low table in front of one of the sofas with an audible groan of relief. Hetty could see she also looked apprehensive; she kept her gaze averted from all eyes staring in her direction, and would obviously have hurried out again at once were it not for Sir Victor wheeling himself up to her side and barring her way.

‘Now, my dear,’ he said in a peremptory tone, ‘your task is to perform an act of circumcision for each of my gentleman guests.’

Hetty was astonished. What on earth did the dirty lecher mean by that? The mere thought made her blench. It was soon apparent, however, the reference was only a little joke as he handed Jane a silver cigar cutter and demonstrated how she should snip the end of each man’s cigar in turn before handing it to him.

Jane looked relieved, but only just a little. Hetty could see her fingers trembling as she selected a cigar from the box, wielded the alien implement, and then approached Sir Anthony, the guest closest to her. He gave her an evil smile as she handed him the cigar, and instructed her to place it between his lips.

‘I think she may require a little lubrication of the lips first, Sir Anthony,’ Mr Reid commented, and the other gentlemen guffawed.

‘Let it slip in nicely, my dear,’ Reid continued, ‘and then get it all fired up and ready to go.’

The laughter rang out louder and Hetty could see Jane was frightened of the filthy chuckles. She obviously knew they were teasing her, playing with her innocence as cats play with a mouse.

There was another knock at the door, loud and peremptory, and four ladies in extremely low-cut gowns entered the summerhouse. Their heavily made-up eyes flashed in the dim light, their flesh had a translucent appearance from all the powder coating it, and their lips were red as cherries.

‘Ladies, welcome all,’ Sir Victor said cheerfully. ‘I want you to meet young Jane, my wife’s personal maid. Pretty little thing, is she not?’

The women crowded around Jane, stroking her hair and examining her figure closely. Hetty could see the girl was acutely embarrassed by their attentions and by their comments on her slim waist and firm breasts. One woman rubbed the flat of her palm over Jane’s buttocks, and then gave them an experimental slap.

‘Now, Helena, you must wait your turn,’ Sir Victor scolded her. ‘All things will come to she who waits, my dear. Is that not right, Baines?’

The nanny nodded, but her gaze was impassive. If she derived any secret pleasure from her master’s lascivious games, no trace of it was allowed to appear on her forbidding countenance.

Sir Victor had the new arrivals line up before him then he wheeled himself slowly down the row, inspecting each woman in the manner of a military general. His gnarled hand reached for the first prostitute’s bulging bosom, he groped the second between the thighs through her skirt, and he made the third turn around and lift her skirt so he could caress her ample buttocks. When he came to the last lady of the night, he paused as if deep in thought then said, ‘Dorothea, I choose you to give a lesson in submission to young Jane here. First choose your master and then the means of your subjugation. This shall be an object lesson in voluntary surrender to the will of another. It may teach her to be more obedient in future.’

‘Oh yeth, thir Victor,’ her lisp was so exaggerated it was clearly an affectation, a perverse parody of youth and innocence, ‘if it be thy deethire.’

‘It
is
my desire.’

Dorothea chose Reid as her master.

‘It is for you to choose the implement of your punishment,’ Sir Victor reminded her. ‘You know where they are kept.’

‘Yeth, thir, thank you, thir.’ She sashayed towards the cupboard with a provocative swaying of her hips.

From her expression, it was obvious Jane was terrified. Hetty felt truly sorry for her, but it was not yet time to intervene.

Dorothea reached into the cupboard, brought out a short-handled riding whip with a long braided lash, and paraded back to the centre of the room with it.

‘Ah, the Longton Quirt.’ Sir Victor nodded his approval as Dorothea posed with the whip in both hands, holding it high above her head, her bosom heaving. ‘Well chosen, my dear. You have selected the instrument often used to protect the honour of my family.’

‘What is the story behind it, Carstairs?’ asked Sir Anthony, obviously torn between curiosity about the legend behind the whip and eagerness to witness the flogging.

Sensing the impatience of the company for some action, Sir Victor promised to tell the story later and turned towards the man who had been chosen to chastise the fair Dorothea. ‘Now, Mr Reid, if you will do the honours we shall all be very gratified.’

Reid took the whip from Dorothea, who stood motionless, her head bowed. At once her master took up a superior attitude, looking down his nose at her in a haughty fashion. ‘Wretched girl, are you prepared to admit to the shameful deed you were discovered performing last night? Speak true, wench, or cries of agony will be wrung from your flesh.’

‘It ith true, I am a wicked, shameleth creature, mathter.’

‘Confess to your disgusting sin at once.’

‘I am tho ashamed…’

Reid seized her roughly and pulled her red satin gown down, revealing full breasts spilling over the cups of her black corset. He snatched at the laces, and amidst her faint and false cries of protest succeeded at last in fully exposing the creamy mounds with their pert pink nipples cresting to hard peaks. ‘Now you need not be ashamed,’ he told her, ‘for you stand almost naked before me. I have deprived you of your modesty, so you may speak freely of your secret sin without the taint of shame. Tell me and these other gentlemen what act you performed last night under cover of darkness.’

Dorothea put on a further show of bashfulness, hanging her head and blushing in a most convincing manner. ‘I – I touched mythelf,’ she whispered.

‘You touched yourself
where?
’ he demanded. ‘Speak up, girl. Pretend you are in a court of law and the penalty for whispering is a sound whipping.’

‘I touched mythelf in a private plathe, thir, a plathe no chathe woman would ever think of touching.’

‘And where might that be?’ His tone was threatening.

Still cowering from him quite convincingly, her hand fluttered vaguely between her thighs. ‘Here, thir.’

‘Show us. Pull up your skirt and show us precisely where you touched yourself.’

With excruciating slowness, Dorothea raised first her scarlet skirt and then her black petticoat to reveal she was not wearing drawers. Her dark, curly bush was exposed for all to see and Hetty’s eyes flew to Jane’s face. The girl looked increasingly horrified and dumbstruck by the vulgar behaviour she was being forced to witness.

‘Here, thir,’ Dorothea repeated, her forefinger probing between her full labia. ‘Like thith, thir.’ She continued to rub herself slowly, closing her eyes, an expression of blatant enjoyment on her painted face. The men watching began murmuring and making low noises of approval. There was a hiatus in the proceedings, during which Dorothea seemed to be in a world of her own and the men stared at her pleasuring herself as though mesmerised. Even Reid seemed fascinated, temporarily abandoning his pose as master and falling under her thrall. But when her finger gathered speed and she began moaning and swaying with ecstasy, he abruptly remembered his role. ‘Cease this disgraceful act of self-abuse at once!’ he shouted.