Catherine's Letters (3 page)

Chapter Three

My dearest Connie,

It has been so long since I have written to you. I really must offer a thousand apologies, but my new tutor has been working me so hard I simply have not had the time to pick up my pen for anything other than Latin or Greek!

Father says he has engaged Miss Prior as a last resort. He says my chances of making a good marriage are fast disappearing. Already 19 and still unwed! He believes my only chance is to find a respectable young clergyman, and for a man of the cloth I must be educated. Not to be his equal you understand, but to be able to converse politely and intelligently. Oh, how I wish I could go up to university like my brothers! But it is not for us, sweet cousin. The gentle sex must play its natural role.

So Miss Prior arrived a month ago. She is a handsome woman, not yet 35 but so well-travelled and learned. In many ways I would aspire to be like her. But she is also a woman of hidden depths.

For the first fortnight she was like any other governess or teacher. She set me tests to find the extent of my skills and knowledge, and I began to rediscover the joy of learning I know we shared as children when we schooled together. However, she declared herself unhappy with my efforts and told me that stricter methods would be applied from then on. I little knew just how strict she would be!

At the start of our third week I entered the library which serves as my school room at eight, as was my custom. Miss Prior was there as usual, but today she carried more than her text books. Imagine my horror when I saw in her hands a cane! Yes, Connie, a long, thin cane, just as is used on errant children! I was too shocked to speak for some moments but finally found my voice. I demanded to know what she intended doing with the beastly object. She replied that from today it was to encourage me in my studies, a system advocated by all educationalists since the beginning of civilisation. I replied by telling her I was a grown woman and not a child. I would certainly not be beaten!

My words seemed to wash off her like water. She told me she had Father’s express permission for this course of action. For far too long, she said, I had been spared the rod. Shaken to my core, I began to sob but my tears left her unmoved. She merely ordered me to stand in front of my desk.

I did so, my tears still falling and my legs shaking, and was then told to bend forward in the traditional fashion for punishment. Thus presented, I gripped the far edge of my desk and prepared myself. I felt the cane tap the seat of my dress and I closed my eyes in terror. Then the cane was drawn back, there was a pause and a whistle and the most incredible pain I have ever known. I tell you, Connie, I had forgotten how excruciating the cane is. I cried out, my sobs coming unabated now, but Miss Prior gave me little time to recover before landing the second, then the third.

And what do you think then? Was my humiliation complete? Not for Miss Prior! I was preparing myself for the next stroke when I heard her move behind me. Thinking I was to be spared further mistreatment, I looked over my shoulder to see my tutor, with the cane tucked under her arm, taking hold of the hem of my dress. I called her to ask what she thought she was doing and was curtly told that I could not expect the whole of the caning to be given over such a thick muslin garment. The skirt was raised, exposing my drawers and stockings and I made to stand, but was rewarded with a sharp slap across my buttocks from Miss Prior’s free hand. She told me not to move on pain of extra strokes. The first three had been given on my protected bottom; now only the thin material of drawers was to be allowed to stay in place.

Bending forward once more, I held my breath before the cane sliced into me. Oh Connie, it was agony! I screamed so loudly I expected the whole household to come running to see what was amiss, but they did not, and Miss Prior seemed to know they would not. She simply delivered two more burning strokes of the hateful cane before passing her left hand over my cheeks, no doubt feeling their heat even through my underclothes. She told me I could now stand and cover myself before sitting down and commencing with my Latin lesson as normal. For my part I sat somewhat carefully, still crying pitifully for some minutes, my eyes fixed on the cane which she left across the top of her own desk, a deliberate ploy to frighten me, I believe.

But what do you think? After such a humiliating and painful ordeal, was I downcast and terrified? Indeed, but only for a time. So concerned was I with escaping further punishment that I concentrated extra hard on my verbs, making only three errors of conjugation all morning. Later, when alone in my room preparing for bed, I lifted my nightdress and examined myself in the dressing mirror. Even by the light of a single candle the lines left by the cane were clearly visible. The pain and fear had long since gone, but something else had replaced it.

Connie, my cousin, can you keep a secret? Oh, I know you can! Ever since last summer when you came to stay and we had to share a bed for lack of space. You will remember how we talked of what a man and wife would do when they were abed, and showed each other our private spots. And the stickiness which grew there when we allowed our fingers to linger too long? Well, Connie, as I examined my bottom for damage I began to feel the strangest sensation in my spot. The slightest touch of my forefinger, on lifting my nightdress, revealed a moistness far greater than any you witnessed!

What has caused these strange feelings, Connie? As I write to you I am awaiting Miss Prior’s arrival for my afternoon lesson. She gave me this morning to myself as she wanted to fetch a parcel from the village post office, but at the conclusion of our class yesterday she promised me three strokes of the cane at the commencement of our work today, one for each of my mistakes yesterday. Yet in my heart there is nothing like the fear I know I should have.

I know not what Miss Prior has planned for me over the coming weeks, but will continue to write to you so that you may share my adventures and feelings. I long for the day when we will meet again. Until then, adieu.

From your dearest friend and cousin, Catherine.

‘I don’t care what you did at university, that is not real!’ Rachel was the first to break the silence. ‘Even today I wouldn’t tell you if I got my kicks from something as kinky as being caned. And I certainly wouldn’t put it in a letter where anyone could read it.’

‘No, you’d text me on your mobile, email me, Twitter me, or post it on your blog. Not all Victorians were clichés from a Gothic novel. It rings true to me. Besides, if someone went to all the trouble of faking this stuff, why hide it in the writing case?’

Rachel snorted. ‘To make some gullible idiot like you believe it’s genuine?’

‘And since when were you an expert on Victorian literature? This speaks to me. It tells me about a girl just coming to terms with being a woman, and a woman ahead of her time.’

‘And a woman who seems to have a thing for other women, if it is true. Lesbianism doesn’t sound like the kind of thing respectable 19th-century girls got up to. Had they even invented it by then?’

‘Come on, Rachel, our generation didn’t invent weird sex!’

‘I just don’t think she’d have written so explicitly about being a lezzy. She’d have been ashamed, surely?’

‘Maybe she didn’t think she was a lesbian. She thought she and Connie were just playing.’

‘They were. With each other. Very naughty. If you ask me, they both deserved to be thrashed. Anyway, I’ve got to go. What are you going to do with all this stuff? Hold on to it till
The Antiques Road Show
hits town?’

‘I don’t think they’d consider these suitable for teatime broadcasting. No, I’m going to read them, of course. Then I’ll decide what to do.’

‘Mind if I pop round for a look every now and then, babe?’

‘Of course you can, even if you don’t think they’re real. But where are you off to in such a hurry?’

‘Last-minute shopping, something for the date I’ve got tonight.’

‘Who’s this with? I thought you weren’t going to see Numbers One and Two again?’

‘I’m not. This is a date I made last week. A chap called Mike; I met him in the bar of the sports club after my aerobics class. He’d been playing squash. Come to think of it, his partner was pretty tasty too. Shall I ask …?’

‘No!’ said Adrienne emphatically.

‘OK, I’ll leave you to your bodice ripper. I’m not sure I’d give up a night out with a real man for a night in with a kinky Victorian pussy-licker, but each to her own.’

‘It’s called educating yourself. I’ll call tomorrow,’ said Adrienne, following Rachel into the hall. ‘Good hunting.’

‘He’s as good as fucked!’ Rachel giggled, giving her friend a kiss on each cheek before she disappeared. ‘Bye, babe!’

After closing the door on her hyperactive best friend, Adrienne returned to her lounge and picked up the next letter.

My dearest Connie,

Having promised to keep writing to you I am now at something of a loss as to where I should begin. The events of yesterday are still fresh in my memory, as are the strange feelings my caning inspired in me. Vivid as they are, I shall not describe them again: Today has given me enough to write about.

I arrived in the school room before Miss Prior. I shudder when I think of what might happen if I am ever late for a lesson. She was carrying the cane I knew would be used on me before long, and I could not suppress the fluttering in my belly as I laid eyes on it. She set it down on her desk, then ordered me to stand.

I rose to unsteady feet, my hands clutched desperately in front of me. Miss Prior gave me a short lecture about how she regretted having to use such extreme measures to teach me, but that if I refused to learn my verbs properly I would feel the results on my bottom. By the time she told me to turn around and gather up my skirts, tears were prickling my eyes.

I bared my drawers to her satisfaction and was told to bend forward. As I did so I felt my cheeks poking through the slit. I flushed with embarrassment as I felt the cold air tickle my spot. But I also felt a tinge of excitement as I realised Miss Prior would certainly be looking at me down there. I wondered what she would see. A few of the hairs which nature provides for my womanly modesty? Or perhaps even the slight pouting of my nether lips?

My reverie was interrupted by her hands. I felt them first on my drawers, then they rudely pulled the garment further apart. I wriggled and gasped but made no attempt to stand as Miss Prior told me to keep still and not make a fuss. Evidently she intended to make sure the cane landed on far more of my naked flesh than it had last time. My fear and trepidation rose, but so, in equal measure, did my anticipation.

The cane was laid across my bottom and I gripped the edge of the desk, tensing my muscles. Miss Prior spoke again. Three verbs incorrectly conjugated, she said, meant three strokes of the cane. She drew her arm back. The first stroke landed, a line of fire across my seat, eliciting a fierce yell from me. I sniffed back my tears and waited for the second. It was not long in coming. My bottom was scorched again, slightly below the first stroke. I screamed my agony, the very act of doing so a release for all the emotions trapped within me. Then the third stroke was delivered and I cried again as it crossed skin already damaged by the first two.

My tears flowed fast as I realised my punishment was over, for today at least. As she had done yesterday, Miss Prior put down the cane and ran her fingers over my behind. My head was still a maelstrom of pain, but I could swear she lingered just a little longer today, before telling me to stand and make myself decent. Our lesson resumed, today with some success – tonight, Connie, as I sit here writing this letter I need have no fear of tomorrow. My diction and conjugation were perfect and invoked no penalties. Even so I feel somewhat empty at that prospect, and wonder if I shall perform as well in class without the sting of the cane on my bottom. I shall write again soon and tell you of any further adventures.

Until then I remain your loving and loyal cousin, Catherine.

Adrienne looked up from the letter. Her heart was pounding, her breathing heavy. Just the effect of making such an important historical discovery, she told herself. But still she could not get the images conjured up by the writing out of her head.

She had already given the author a face. A pretty one, with shining green eyes and a delicate button nose. Her hair hung in brown ringlets and her trim figure was hidden under the voluminous layers of her Victorian costume. Adrienne imagined it being exposed at the orders of Miss Prior, a prim but handsome woman with her hair in a bun and a simple black dress. She could even imagine the sadistic smile on the older woman’s face as she humiliated her young victim. And those feelings Catherine described – what a strange reaction to such a dreadful experience!

Adrienne walked to the window. Looking out into the darkening streets, she wondered whether life was easier for women then. Your family more or less chose your husband, so there was no playing the dating game, which sometimes felt like a war of attrition. Women did not have careers, so there was no pressure to succeed. Now you were expected to do something with your life, and because it was still a man’s world, succeeding was twice as hard. If you do, she reflected, it’s at the expense of any kind of home life, yet you are still considered weird if you don’t have a husband and babies by your mid-30s.

But at least I have the freedom to microwave myself a meal, she thought. She plodded into the kitchen and selected a “serves one” lasagne from the freezer.

An hour and a half later she was still feeling low. Saturday night television on all 40 channels was dreadful; surely a conspiracy between breweries and TV executives to drive people to drink. Once that thought was in her head there was no shifting it.

There was a small pub a couple of streets away. She had been there once or twice with Rachel. For a moment, she baulked at the idea of going alone, but she thought of Catherine and how it would have been impossible for her to contemplate even leaving her father’s house without a chaperone. Over a hundred years later, Adrienne was not going to bind herself with the same restrictions.